CHAP. I. How the Emperour Nero sent to demand the daughters of Camil­lo for his Concubines, and what happened thereupon.

IN the famous City of Mantua, at that time that Nero (whose cruelty hath made the world to admire his manners) was Emperor of Rome, dwelt an old Knight named Camillo, no lesse adorned with vertue then favoured of for­tune: who being about thréescore and ten years old, was forced to lead a single life, his wife Paulina paying na­ture her due. This Camillo being thus dispossessed of his most wel-beloved Lady, with no lesse grief bewailed her death, then with pleasure he injoyed her presence whilest she yet lived. But time the medicine of all sorrow diminished his grief, the [Page] sooner by means of the unspeakable pleasure which he took in viewing the perfections of his son Perierio, and his two daugh­ters Euphilia and Perina; which Gentlewomen for their singu­lar vertues and extream beauty, were of the Citizens of Man­tua worthily termed the sepulchres and tombs of their mother Paulinas graces and perfections, all Mantua judging that all the gifts both of fortune, nature, & the mind, wherewith Pau­lina was indued in her life time, were buried and intombed in her two daughters: neither was Perierio lesse famous in res­pect of vertuous conditions then his sisters, he being adorned with most excellent qualities, and inferiour to no man both in perfection of body and subtilty of wit.

Thus Camillo rejoycing that he was the father of such children, therein thinking himself to be most happy, lived with as great contentment as any man might do. But For­tune (whose favors are but seldome continuall) grudging at his felicity, intended to try whether he could as patiently suf­fer adversity in his latter years, as he being younger had ver­tuously behaved himself in prosperity.

For Nero the Emperour, being informed of his wicked companions, in whose flattery he took pleasure, that Camillo had two daughters in beauty surpassing natures cunning, and in perfection of body resembling the Goddesse Venus, inconti­nently sent a Letter unto old Camillo, by two of his Noble­men, being written after this manner.

This letter was with all spéed by the said said Noblemen delivered unto Camillo, who unclosing the same, and break­ing us the seal, soon read that which was sufficient to break his heart in pieces, and work his death, had not his destinies reserved him to defend his daughters honesty, and frée them­from the tyrants outragious lust, through his sage counsel, and politick deliberation. So that having read the Letters, after he had something meditated upon the contents thereof, he gave the Noblemen answer, that for as much as hee be­ing a widower could not live being separated from his two daughters and his sonne Perierio, he would with his sonne ac­company them to the Court, there doing his Majesty such service as it might please him to command, expecting the day of his departure out of this world, leaving not his daughters onely but his son also at his Majesties pleasure. But to the end that he might take order for the preparation of his jour­ney, and provide such necessaries as were expedient for him, his son and his daughters, he desired them to obtain of his Ma­jesty but the space of one moneth, which expired, he would without all doubt be at the Court with his children. The No­blemen finding old Camillo so ready to pleasure Nero the Emperour, promised him to do what they might, and so depar­ted. But Camillo calling his son Perierio, with his daughters Euphilia and Perina to him sending a world of tears from his eyes, which distilling along his pale chéeks streamed on his silver hairs, and fetching a long sigh from the innermost part his heart said unto them.

Ah Perierio, ah Euphilia, ah Perina, ah my loving children, in whose prosperity consisteth all my hope, yea in whose feli­city my life is harboured, insomuch, that through the increase of your honourable vertues, I have inlarged the term of my life; and now séeing that Fate or Fortune doth threaten your dishonour, I doubt not but that I shall be overcome by grief [Page] to end my aged days, and with a tragical and mournfull death shut up all those happy and blessed hours which the Gods have hitherto granted me. Ye have heard the Tyrants will, ye know his lust, and likewise ye are not ignorant, what shame, what infamy, what dishonour that would be, not onely to you two, Euphilia and Perina, but also unto me, unto your Brother, yea unto all the line and stock of our race and kindred. What answer I have made the Noble-men, is not unknown to any of you. But as I do not mean to be found as good as my word in the least point of all that which I have promised them; so I am of opinion that ye cannot beléeve otherwise, but that my tongue spake further then it had command from my heart, and that my lips pronounced that which was not in my breast concluded. But loving children, where Lust is a Lord, & Ryot ruleth, equity and justice is expelled: and where a Ty­rant governeth, all is Law that he doth like. Wherefore fea­ring lest contradiction and denial might be cause of our dis­grace, I stuffed the Tyrants Messengers with such a pleasing and soothing answer. But to be short, know, loving children, that I had rather that we should all agrée to die one death, then to condiscend unto the Tyrants outragious and lividinous desire.

Perierio having heard his Fathers noble resolution won­dering that such courage harboured in his breast, he being a man of such an aged life, considering that old men are com­monly deprived of natural heat, and so become cold, fearfull, and void of all heroical vertues; amazed therefore at his fa­thers vertue, and rejoycing that he was the son of such a fa­ther, answered him in this mander. Father, the extream sor­row which I conceived by reason of Nero his hainous intent to disgrace us with the spot of infamy, in demanding my sisters to deflower them, and make a prey of their chastities, no doubt had smothered my heart and stopped my sences, not suffering me to utter one word, had not the joy which your noble vertue and valiant courage worketh in me, gotten the superiority, and freed me from the excessive injury of sorrow. Therefore if [Page] it would please the Gods to be so gracious unto us, that we might escape the imminent ruine and fall of our honour, I for my part am ready to resign not onely my liberty, but also my life, and with ransome of the cruellest death that man may ex­cogitate, redéem the honour of our linage and progeny.

Perierio had no sooner declared his readinesse in agréeing to his fathers resolved will, but Euphilia (though by grief com­manded to kéep silence) uttered forth these words.

Father, the Tyrant can rule the body, but not the mind, he may threaten us shame, dishonour, and disgrace, but shall not be able to accomplish or execute the least of his menaces Cow­ards fear the threatnings of those that would flye, were they threatned: but where courage displayeth his Ensigns no mena­ces may approach. And therefore let the Tyrant do what he can; for his power is not sufficient to dishonour our kindred by threatning us disgrace, for that we neither fear him, nor all his torments. For death, which the Gods have appointed, a fearfull token to most men to warn them to leave their world­ly pleasures, and to resign their vital breath is unto us a most swéet and pleasant object, and yéeldeth us comfort, being the onely mean by which we may escape infamy and shame. Death therefore shall frée us from the Tyrants intended villany, and redéem our kindred from disgrace.

Perina, glad that her sister concluded so well to her liking, said.

Father, séeing then that (as my sister hath well declared) death must be our redéemer, I beséech you not to torment your old age with anxietie and grief for us; and you brother, though we die, may passe your youth in pleasing rest. And therefore let my sister and me care for this matter, which toucheth us onely, and fear not that by means of our cowardise ye shall reap any dishonour. And séeing that of two evils the least must be chosen, and the greatest avoided, let me perswade you to look to your selves, and avoid the Tyrants anger, which ye are sure to incur, if you resist his will, and obey not his com­mand, accomplishing your promise made unto his Messen­gers. [Page] Wherefore Father send us, and wring your self from Fortunes wrong: consider your age, which requireth rest: take your delight, comfort your self with the presence of my bro­ther Perierio, in viewing whose vertues and perfections you may easily forget us, though we were Goodesses and not mor­tal maids. So shall both yo [...] and my brother escape danger, and my sister and I g [...]in honour and renown. For we fear not the Tyrant; he may tyr [...]nize where he can, for our hearts (which will never yeeld to vice) are of too noble a disposition to be conquered by him that i [...] overcome by his own lusts and lividinous affections. To be short know that neither the Ty­rant nor all his menaces shall be able to conquer us, séeing that we have death tied at our gi [...]dles, which shall in spight of all the Tyrants of the world ransome us from dishonour.

Old Camillo séeing that his son and both his daughters were endued with such an haughtie and valiant mind, as a man that had forgotten all occasion of sorrow, with a pleasant counte­nance replied.

Most haughtie Euphilia, and couyagious Perina, I have fol­lowed your counsels, and as you see put off all sorrow: Now therefore attentively hear my counsel, and prepare your selves to put it in execution. My intent is such, that if ye die, your brother and I will not live till morn; let us therefore disguise our selves, and to morrow morning depart from Mantua before day. The Gods will favour us, and deliver us from Nero his hands séeing that we (as our consciences witnesse) to free their sacred constitutions from violence, have left our posses­sions, lands, castle and substance, committing our selves to for­tunes mercy, which is meer cruelty. But if our flight be so unhappie that we be overtaken by the Tyrant, then, as we ho­ped all to live can we all but die: and seeing we cannot live the one without the other, let us all live together, or all die to­gether. These hoarie hairs of mine, are messengers of death, and warn me to prepare my self for the grave: but your gol­den locks, and the glory of your youth forbiddeth death to ap­proach, and shall then ye be ready to die, and I that stand with [Page] one foot in my grave flie from him whom I cannot over-run? No no, loving children. I seek not to live but to have you live, and therefore yeeld to my request, and live with me, if ye will not have me die with you,

CHAP. II. How Camillo, with his Son Perierio, and his two daughters, Eu­philia and Perina, fled out of Mantua into Spain, to escape the fury of the Tyrant Nero, where they became shepheards: Also how Perierio became enamoured on a strange Lady,

EUphilia and Perina, hearing that their Father was so desirous to abādon all his livings for their cause, fell down on their knees before his féet, and prayed him to command them to do whatsoever he pleased, and they would be most readie to execute his pleasure. Ca­millo therefore taking them up by the hand, willed them to prepare themselves to depart from Mantua with him and Perierio the next morning, taking their best Iewels with them, and all their readie Gold. Camillo cloa­thed himself like a Shepheard, and Perierio (lest his father should be known) played the Barber, and shaved his beard clean off to the chin: and apparelled himself like a But­chers boy, Euphilia and Perina, (whose beauty and favour was such as could not but be known) scarce able all night to ima­gine how they might disguise themselves in such manner that they might passe unknown, at last concluded to cloath them­selves like Market-women, and séeing the wind blew some­thing strongly, they thereby took occasion to muffle their fa­ces with their handkerchiffs, as if they had the toothach. Thus the old shepheard, young butcher, and muffled Market-wo­men, were so cunningly disguised that no man thought so much as to dream, that they should be Sir Camillo, with his son and his daughters. So that they passed not onely through the City but the Country also, unknown to any man. Nei­ther [Page] did they rest untill they were so far from Mantua that they thought themselves to be out of danger. Yet they durst not stay in any place of Italy, for fear least search being made after them, they might fall into the tyrants hands: and there­fore travelled on daily till they came into Spain, and there in a solitary place where no kind of people but shepheards did resort they built a pretty house, and bought a flock of shéep, determining to live shepheards untill such time as the Gods and their fortune would suffer them to return to their coun­trey.

These shepheards had not dwelt in their new built house the space of six moneths or thereabout, but they had perfect­ly learned to understand and speak the Castilian tongue, in­somuch that the same language was as easie unto them as their own. For there being but little difference betwixt the Italian and Spanish tongues (which are of near affinity,) and these noble shepheards being wonderfull witty and inge­nious, it could not be but that they should in short space apply their Italian tongue to the pronunciation of the Spanish words. For al the shepheards that in those quarters dwelled, as they did marvell at the supernaturall beauty of these strange shepheards, so did they think it a miracle that they had in so short a time learned to talk with the Spanish shepheards, and that so eloquently and with such a grace, that many took plea­sure to talk with them, and few departed from them without bearing away that which was sufficient to instruct them in their own language. In so much that divers of them being more curious then others, when they went to talk with the new shepheards, carried paper books with them to note up such phrases as Perierio and his sisters used in their talk. Be­sides the Castilian tongue, they had also learned to play upon all such rurall and pastorall instruments as were by the shep­heards of that quarter used. On which instruments Perierio played with such dexterity, that the inhabitants thereabouts thought that Orpheus had been raised from hell to fill the air with the agréeing noise of his instrument, and to delight the [Page] shepheards of that Country with his pleasant notes. Euphilia and Perina, not much inferiour unto Perierio in that quality, yet far his superiours in singing a part in musick, by reason that their voices were clearer then his, when they sung unto their brothers instrument, moved the other shepheards to wonder at their celestiall melody, and become so hereticall, that they thought Perierio to be some God, and his sisters two Goddesses, supposing it a thing impossible that mortall crea­tures should be indued with such heavenly and immortall conditions. But whatsoever they were thought to be, they were so beloved of all the Spanish shepheards, that no man thought himself happy y ^t had not perfect friendship & alliance with them. Yea if the least injury in the world had been offe­red to Perierio, his aged father, or his beautifull sisters, they were all ready to revenge it, not as a private quarrel, but as some common and publick wrong done to the whole Coun­try, and all the inhabitants thereof.

Old Camil [...]o, therefore séeing that he and his children were so beloved of all the Country, and taking great delight in the swéetnesse of the air of that climat, began to build farms and to purchase land, so that fortune favouring him, he became in short time wealthy and rich, and of great credit. Perierio his son, took great delight in hunting and fowling, often com­mitting his flock to his sisters care, who kept both his shéep and their own with such diligence, that all men marked that they were not carelesse, but painful and industrious Yea they won such favour and commendation in every mans eye, as their beauty was not onely praised in the Country, but also spoken of in Cities farre from them. And yet was their sub­misse modesty such, that although their praise dayly increa­sed, yet they nothing puffed up with pride, humbled them­selves, and scorned not to kéep company with the basest swain in all the Country. Every day they went forth with their flocks to the field, defending their faces from the heat of the Sun, with no other scarf or vale then a garland made of sundry kinds of flowers, that attire becomming them so [Page] bravely, that they seemed to be daughters unto the Goddesse Flora for their exquisite beauty, marching with their shéep through the pleasant Downs and green fields, more like to some heavenly Nymphs then mortall women. If it chanced there were a meeting of all the Farmers daughters, then were they (I mean Euphilia and Perina) bid thither as the mistresses and chiefest of the feast: Perierio their brother, like­wise missed no feast nor game, being invited by the richest and chiefest farmers sons; whereof many became sutors unto his sisters, and many of their sisters enamoured of his beauti­full and comely disposition, wished themselves married unto him. But he delighting more in tuning his pastorall Harp, rejoyced his companions with a round or twain, whilest that others courted their mistresses, not so much because hee would not debase himself to love a shepheardesse, as for that he shunned so Lordly a Master as Cupid, estéeming his liber­ty and freedome from fancy, the onely cause of all his joy and pleasure. But fortune who thitherto had favoured both Perie­rio and his sisters, began to withdraw her lovely looks from them, and in lieu of a smiling countenance, intended to shew them a lowring face and frowning forehead For not long af­ter, it chanced upon a pleasant morning betimes before Phoe­bus golden lines had gréeted the Southern plains, that Perierio haunting his accustomed hunt in a passing pleasant wood, not far from the place where his sisters fed their flocks, (having left his shéep unto their kéeping as he was wont to do) espi­ed a brave damosell, her beauty being comparable to the co­lour that Venus face is dyed withall; sitting on a hillock, and resting her head on her hand. At the sight whereof, Perie­rio greatly amazed, retired behind a bush, where he not séen, might perfectly both sée her, and hear what she said: for he mar­ked by her countenance that she was in a melancholy mood, and vexed with extraordinary grief. Her words were these be­ing expressed with a lamentable voice, moving the very trées and bushes to yéeld tears.

Ah Fortune, as often as Phoebus appeareth in the woods, [Page] as often as he riseth in his Eastern glory, and as often as his penetrating rayes warn me to leave my restlesse rest, and harnesse my self to my endlesse toil, and never ceasing la­bour; so often thou doest renue my grief and multiply my sorrows. What, Fortune, hast thou made all other women so happy through my mishap, that to make me an instance of the miserablest wight that liveth, thou hast delivered all o­thers from their miseries, to throw them all on me? O most injust doom! O most cruell Goddesse! Though by reason of the excéeding injustice, thou deservest to be crossed out of the catalogue of divine powers. And therewith she rose from the hillock, and looking round about which way she might take, she espied Perierio behind the bush coming towards her, which she marking, staied unill he came near her and saluting him with a most gratious countenance, said. Shepheard (for so much thy apparell betokeneth, though thy beauty be such, as maketh me to mistrust if, and think that thou art but a counterfeit shepheard) pardon me if I be too bold in deman­ding thy name and country; which if it may please thee to tell me, thou shalt bind me to owe thee a good turn. Perierio (whose heart was pierced with Cupids shaft, and on suddain made captive to that Lord whose service he so shunned) so ga­zed on this Lady (for she was no lesse, as you shall hereafter learn) in whose beauty all his desire rested that he could scarce speak one word; at last, plucking up his spirits, answered. Madam (for your exquisite perfections and stately countenance deserves no lesse) where no offence is committed, pardon is craved but in vain; I am an Italian born; called Perierio, the happiest man that ever was named, if occasion were pre­sented wherein I might do any service acceptable vnto you Madam, I thank thée Perierio (replied the young Lady) for this thy undeserved curtesie; and seeing I am not able at this time to make thee any recompence. I can but pray the Gods to grant thee thy hearts desire. And with that shooting into the midst of the woods she was out of Perierios sight, be­fore he thought she was departed. For when she heard by his [Page] name and Country, that he was not the man she doubted of, and gathering by his countenance, that he was suddenly strook in love of her, least he should become troublesome and impor­tunate unto her, hasted thence, supposing that she being out of sight should also be out of the shepheards mind; and that by [...]eason of her absence he should recover his liberty and free­dome which her presence had caused him to loose. But alasse, where she thought by her departure to ease his grief contrari­ly she increased his passions. For he séeing that the sum of his conceived pleasures were fled, and she missing, in whose gol­den locks his soul was intangled, began to cry out with a loud and pittyfull voyce. My soul, my soul, whither art thou fled? Why hast thou left my body, séeing that thou being se­parated from me, I may not live? Ah poor Perierio wretch­ed Perierio! Die: die miserable Perierio. Ah cruell Gods, that have alotted me a life worse than death and a body with­out soul. Ah discurteous Lady, and is this the gratefulnesse you wished to shew me, as a due recompence for my readinesse in doing you pleasure? Is this the thankfulnesse you talked of Is this the good turn you should owe me? To steal away my heart, and carry my soul with thee, imprisoned in the snares of thy alluring looks; leaving my body breathlesse, and so giving me sufficient occasion to accuse them both of theft and murther, considering that thou hast robbed me of my soul, and thereby deprived me of life. For now have I no life of mine own but live onely in thée Ah unhappy man that live, and know not where I live, for I live in that body which is in place as far unknown unto me, as that body [...]t self. So that I live in a body I know not what, which unknown bo­dy is in a place, I know not where. Forgive me Cupid di­vine power and mighty God, I confesse to have offended in contemning and neglecting thy puissance: Which my con­tempt, thou hast punished with a pain the like never heard of before. The dart penetrated into the very inmost part of my heart and forced me to yéeld to love. Séeing then I love and am inroled in the scrowl of those that follow thy bands, as a [Page] true and valerous Captain lead me to the knowledge of that which I love. For I doubt nut but that thou which hast had the puissance to make me love, and that so strangely; art like­wise able to make me know whom I love. Thus Perierio af­ter that he had with many sighs and tears bewailed the losse of his former fréedome, began at length to consider, that the accustomed hour of his returning to dinner was past, and ther­fore least his father should marvell at his long absence, and by reason thereof fall into suspition, least some mischance had be­fallen him (for old men are always carefull of their children, and as often as they be out of sight, so often do they déem them to be lost) he more like a shadow then a man crossed the near­est way homewards. Where he found his aged father sléeping, for the heavinesse he was in by reason of Perierios absence, rocked him a sleep: but as soon as he heard Perierio, he awa­ked, and then they fell closely to their chear, though Perierios mind ran more on his unknown mistresse then his present meat.

Whilest that these two were at dinner, Euphilia and Pe­rina, to shunne the extream heat of Phoebus, mounted in his Meridian pride, went with their sheep towards the Wood side, to take the advantage of the high trees which yeelded a most pleasant shadow: Where they sitting together began to take their Oaten Pipes and sing. Euphilia began in this manner.

What an excellent matter is it (said Euphilia) sister Pe­rina, that we here leading this Country life, and being se­parated from the noise and tempestuous uproars and broyls which commonly are raised in the proud Courts of Prin­ces, should injoy such extream pleasure as we do in these pleasant groves, sometimes being in the shadow, sometimes sitting on the banks of the delectable River, and sometimes walking in the dark groves, where we both fence our faces from Phoebus injury, and delight our ears with the naturall Musick of the singing birds. I promise you truly (quoth Pe­rina) [Page] I am of opinion that the noise which the wind maketh among the trées, doth delight and recreate the hearts of men, more then y ^e fond noise of some people when there is a great assembly. For there the greatest pleasure, is meer grief: proud Majesty and highnesse, nothing else but vanity; feasts and games nothing but troubles and tempests; honour and renown, nothing but blind errours; and most commonly we find, that among them that delight in that kind of life, words and thoughts are different, the tongue pronouncing otherwise then the heart meaneth. But here (said Euphilia) ambition layeth not her bait, neither hath avarice or covetousnesse any place here. The people doth not here aspire to honours nor sue for dignities: but men live free from passions and perturbati­ons in al virtue and simplicity. Here reigneth little or no ma­lice, but all things are ruled by justice. Neither doth the sim­ple shepheard (quoth Perina) séek out new parts of the world nor adventure into strange Countries, committing himself neither to the cruell furious winds, nor unmercifull waves, to enlarge his treasure, or augment his riches. And yet he li­veth as contentedly with that little which he hath, as he that doth abound in rich possessions and great revenues.

CHAP. III. How Marcelio came to the house of Camillo, and of the strange advenutres that befell him in his love ro Alcida.

AS Euphilia and her sister were thus discoursing, they séemed to hear the voice of some distres­sed person, and Euphilia arising, espied a shep­heard resting his back against the trunk of a trée; but she hoping to gather the sum of his grief by the sense of his complaint, steeped immediately applying her ear to the shepheards words, which were not unlike to these.

Ah love, thou canst not invent any worse torment then I feel nor thou fortune canst be more variable and inconstant, [Page] then thou art unto me. And it is impossible to find a heart so bereft of all hope, and yet so content in suffering pain, as mine whereof love is the onely cause; which upholdeth my langui­shing breath, to the end that I may indure the grief which continually vexeth me, But when shall my tears and life take end? when shall my torment cease? when shall my sighs bring forth my heart with them.

And therewith he took his way straight towards the place where Euphilia and Perina sate. Whither he arrived so sor­rowfull, so weary, and so grieved, that it seemed that fortune pittying his case, had purposely sent him to that place to com­fort him and asswage his dolours, n [...]t onely vp means of the clear water which did spring out of the foun [...] in whither the shepheards accustomed to lead their sheep to drink: but al­so by reason of the pleasantnesse of the place the shadow of the trees, and exceeding beauty of these two noble shepheards. In so much that all these things caused him to think that he had received some solace, though the importance of that which he sought, and the desire he had to find the same, gave him no lei­sure to rest in that place. Yet was he, being a stranger so cur­tuously entertained by the two sisters, that he deemed himself not a little happy to have lighted on such company, Wherefore he being intreated by them to go with them to their lodging, to eat something, and to refresh himself with such dainties as their country manner afforded, could not but grant their re­quest, and so followed them unto their fathers house. Where he was received of aged Camillo and his son, not as a stranger, but as one that had been of their near kindred and affinity. For they marking his singular beauty and perfection of body his excellent grace in speaking, his sharp wit; and his comely, behaviour, thought him worthy of all the curtesie they could i­magine to shew him. Supper being done, old Camillo took his leave of the strange shepheard, and went to his rest. But Peri­erio and his sisters keeping the shepheard company, led him into the Orchard to take the evening air, after that Phoebus had shut up his light in the Western parts. And Euphilia de­sirous [Page] to know what sinister chance had brought the shep­heard into such a Chaos of cares and world of sorrows, began thus to be inquisitive of his fortune.

Gentle shepheard, séeing that the night is no time to tra­vell and you are so tired that you are like to fall in great dan­ger of some sore disease, unlesse you look to your self and rest your weary limbs, I heartily pray y ^u to stay with us this night, and you shall have no worse bed then where my brother lieth on, nor worse bed-fellow then himself. And for as much as the pleasantnesse of this cool air is such, that it inticeth and provoketh us to recreate our selves therein: if that you will whilest we expect the coming of the dark night, unfold the cause of this your wandring journey unto us, and make us pertakers of your evill and adverse fortune, we shall think us to be great­ly beholding unto you. The shepheard would not be long in­treated by such excellent persons, but walking with them in a pleasant arbour of Eglentine, began to discourse after this manner.

Gentle shepheards, the manifold benefits which it hath pleased you to heap on me being a meer stranger, unworthy by my deserts of the least courtesie in the world, bind me to yéeld to whatsoever you can demand of me, as far as my simple power stretcheth, And therefore although my evill be of such nature that it cannot be communicated unto all kinds of per­sons, yet the opinion which I conceive of your deserts, and the valor which your beauty bewrayeth, constraineth me to make an open rehearsall of all my forepast life, if I may term that life which I would willingly counterpoise and change with death. Know therefore gentle shepheards that I am called Marcelio, and that my vocation and estate is far contrary to that which my co [...]t [...]heweth. I was born at Soldine, the prin­cipall and chief Cit [...] of the Province of Vandalia, and my pa­rents were of great authority abounding in wealth & riches; I have béen brought up even from my childhood in the Court of the Lusitan King, where I was much made of, and dearly beloved, not of the principal Peers onely, but also of the King [Page] himself. Insomuch that he would not suffer me to part from his Court, until that time that he had comitted his Garisons in the borders of Affrick unto my charge. Where I remain­ed a long time chief and general Governour of all the Cities and For tresses which the King there hath; keeping my resi­dence in the City of Cente, where my misfortune and adver­sity took beginning. There was in the same City a certain Knight named Eugerio, who was by the King honoured with the charge and government of the City. This Knight had a son called Polydor, most valiant and couragious in all extre­mities; and two daughters called Alcida and Clenarde, exceed­ing all the Gentlewomen of their Country in beauty. Clenar­de was indued with singular dexterity in handling her bow, but Alcida, who was the eldest surpassed her in beauty. Who hath so enamoured my heart, that she hath been the cause of this hopelesse and desperate life which you see me lead, and of the cruel death which I call and wi [...]h for every hour. Her fa­ther was so carefull and dainty of her, that he would scarce al­low her at any time to absent her self from his presence, which hindred me that I could not let her know the affection which I bore her. But neverthelesse as often as I saw her I signified and bewraied my pain unto her by means of my passionate looks, and the sighs which proceeded from my heart without the consent of my will. At length I found occasion to write unto her and therefore unwilling to neglect such wished oppor­tunity, I sent her a letter the contents whereof were such.

This was the Letter which I wrote unto my Lady, which if it had been so well [...]eaned as it was fortunate. I would be loth to change my [...]bility with the eloquent stile of Tully. The Letter being secretly conveyed into the hands of Alcida, at the first caused her to be offended with my boldnesse, but at last marking the sincerity of my love, and the constancy where­with I not onely remained stedfast, but also patiently indu­red he [...] s [...]rnfull answers and disdainfull looks, her heart was altered, and she moved to reward my love with a pleasant countenance. So that when my luck was to see her, I easily e [...]pted the [...]lteration of her former frowardnesse. For her very eys did warn me to be of good chear, and I might plainly see grace [...]e [...]ted in her forehead. After which time I b [...]gan openly to shew my self to be her superior, oftentime justing, turney­ing, and writing verses poems, and many such other things for her service, remaining in this pain the space of certain years. Which being expired, Eugerio thought me worthy to be his son in law, and by means of some of the chiefest perso­nages of the City he offered me his daughter Alcida in mar­riage. And it was amongst us agreed, that our wedding should [Page] be kept in the City of Lisbone, to the end the King of Portugal might be present at the same. Whereupon we dispatched a Post in all haste to advertise the King of this marriage, & to intreat his Majesty that we commending our charge unto faithfull and trusty persons, might come thither to celebrate our mariage the. The rumor of which marriage was inconti­nently sperad through all the City and the neighbour places thereof and caused such a general joy and applause in all men, as so beautifull a Lady as Alcida, and so faithfull a lover as my self deserved. Vntill that time it séemeth that I was very happy. But fortune that favoured me so highly, afterward cast me down headlong into the depth of these miseries, in which I find my self presently, Know therefore that after my unfortunate marriage was concluded on, and the Kings li­cense granted, Eugerio being a widower, his son Polidor, his daughters Alcida and Clenarde, and unhappy Marcelio, who unfoldeth his mishap unto you, having committed our charge to loyall persons, we embarked at the Haven of Centa, to sail to the noble City of Lisbone, there to celebrate our marriage, as I have before said. The content and pleasure which we conceived of our wished desires, in such manner blinded us, that regarding neither the unmercifull waves nor the boiste­rous winds, and commending our vessel to fortune, the patro­nesse of inconstancy, we went to sea in the worst and danger­ousest time of the year, not considering or perpending the in­conveniencies that at such times are ordinary. But very short­ly thereafter, fortune chastised our temerity and fond rashne: for before night had covered Neptunes face with the curtain of darknesse, the Master of the ship discovered certain tokens of tempests to come. Soon after began the thick and obscure clouds to cover the skies, the angry waves began to murmur, the winds blow variably. Whereupon the master of the ship with a fearful and troubled countenance uttered these words. Ah sorrowfull and fearfull tokens! Ah infortunate bark! What ill luck and miserable adventure is prepared for thée, if the Gods here shew not their deity!

He had no sooner ended these words, but a certain boistreus and furious blast so launced on the mainsail, and in such man­ner whirled into the body of the whole ship, that at that in­stant she was in such danger, that he who held the stern was forced to abandon the government thereof, and so the ship fol­lowing the mighty fury wherewith she was led, & went whi­ther the wind and waves did drive her. The tempest increased more and more and became greater and greater; the furious waves covered with white fome began to augment their anger and to rage more then before. There might we sée a massie rain falling from the element, intermingled with lightening and fearfull thunder. There might we also hear a terrible noise and shaking of the sail yard, the mast, the lines, cords, ca­bles, and tackling of the ship. There might we also hear the lamentable voice both of the passengers and Mariners, which caused us to fear excéedingly. The winds beset the ship on all sides, and the waves battered it in such manner, that the very strongest and best nailed parts thereof burst in pieces. The proud sea sometimes lifted us up to the firmament, and suddenly she carried us down even unto the bottome; yea and (that which was wonderfull) the waves in such manner parted asunder, that we might plainly sée the sand & gravel in y ^e bot­tome of the sea. The men and women that were in the ship la­menting and bewailing their infortunate end, some fetched heavy and grievous sighs from the bottome of their hearts; some offered pittifull vows, others yéelded fountains of tears out of their eys. The master of the ship not knowing what to do against such raging fortune, his cunning being overcome by the fiercenesse and perseverance of the tempest, could no longer conduire le timon.

He knew not the nature nor off-spring of the winds, and in one instant commanded and ordained a thousand different matters. The Mariners troubled and vexed by reason of the agony and perplexity of their present death, could not execute their charge and by reason of the noise and cries of the passen­gers, could not understand what the master prescribed them, [Page] calling as loud as he could for his life. Some of them turned the sail yard; others hales the sale cord; others striked the top-sail; others came to mend the sprit sail; others to save the misen sail; others did take of the bonnet and inlargement of the main-sail; others were occupied with knitting the broken liues together; others looked to the hinder deck tail and ca­stle of the ship; others to the fore deck; others to the hatches; o­thers voided the sea into the sea, casting the water out of the ship. To be short every man did what in him lay to defend and save the miserable vessel from inevitable shipwrack. But all their diligence served to no end, their vows and tears helped not to appease angry and fierce Neptune; but the night approa­ched more and more, and the wind and tempest increased mar­vellously. When the dark night was fallen, the tempest be­ing nothing asswaged, Bugerio hoping for no remedy, with a terrible countenance, representing the very picture of fate and despair, his eys being cast on his son, his daughters, and me his son in law, gave us sufficiently to understand by the heavi­nesse of his looks, what grief he [...]uffered for the death which was prepared for us. Insomuch th [...]t his care and grief did as much hurt, as our own misfortune. T [...] p [...]or old m [...]n invi­roned with sorrow, spake in this order with a lamentable voice the tears running down his f [...]ce

Ah changeable Fortune, enemy of humane welfare hast thou reserved such a wofull disaster for my old days? Oh how happy are they that die in bloudy battels amidst their enemies in their youth, to the end that never attaining to their l [...]tter age, they f [...]ll not into d [...]nger to bewail the pittifull adven­turse & de [...]th of their loving children! oh wonderful mishap! oh sorrowful successe! who ever ended his life with such grief as my self? For whereas I thought to comfort my self at the time of my de [...]th in leaving children in the world, to conserve and kéep the memory and remembrance of my linage and kindred, now I am constrained necessarily to die with those that ought to celebrate my funerals. O loving and dear chil­dren who would have thought that my life and yours, should [Page] have finished at one self same time and instant? Who would have thought that our lives should have taken their and through one and the self-same misfortune? I would willingly comfort you my dear children; but what solace can a sorrow­full father give, whose heart is pestered with so much grief, und who himself is void of all consolation.

Comfort your selves my children, arm your hearts with pa­tience, leave all grief and sorrow unto me, to the end that I dying may suffer as many deaths as ye all must endure.

This, old Eugerio uttered with so many sighs and sobs that he could scarce with much ado speak, embracing us all one af­ter another to take his leave and bid us farewell, before the hour of eminent shipwrack was come. It would be a great en­terprise, and difficult matter for me presently to recount what tears Aloda wept, and what grief I suffered for her sake, and therefore I will onely tell you one thing that nothing so much grieved me as that my life (which I had offered for her ser­vice) could not take end without her death. In the mean time our forlorn ship driven with the force of the angry waves and furious winds (which blew so marvellous strongly) flying all night though the streight of Gilbatan, more swiftly then we wished or served our turn the next day went astray, I know not how many leagues into the large Mediterrean sea.

Where after that we had long wandred hither and thither, the force of the wind and waves driving us up and down for the space of that dry and night, the next morning the tempest séemed to be something asswaged, and the rufull waves aba­ting their courage, Neptune spread a pleasant calm over the sea; wherewith we were not a little cheared.

But fortune not contented to have heaped such a world of calamities upon us, would also take her pleasure in mocking us in the midst of miseries. For on the suddain the wished calm was turned into a worse and greater extream tempest then before: which brought us into such extreamity, that we hoped not for one hour of life. At last one side of the ship be­ing strooken with a great raging whirlwind, the other side lay [Page] flat upon the water, and was in danger to sink presently.

When I saw the manifest danger, I began to ungird my sword, to the end it might not hinder me, and imbracing Alci­da, I leaped with her into the ship boat. Clenarde being a light and nimble Gentlewoman, following us did the same, not leaving behind her bow and arrows, for that she estéemed more of that than of some great and precious treasure. Polidor thrusting his father forwards, thought to have done as much, and to have leaped into the boat as we had done; but the ship-Master, with another Marriner, leaped in before them: And as Polidor with his aged father thought to have followed, the boat was separated from the ship by reason of a mighty wave which was driven by the wind betwixt the ship and the boat, so that they were forced to remain in the ship: the sight where­of in short time we lost, and never since heard any news of her. But I am of opinion, that (all doubt removed) she was swallowed up by Neptunes greedy waves, or that crossing overthwart the Sea, she perished miserably on the coast of Spain.

How Bartophamus the Pylot, by Treason, left Alcida in the Isle Formentaria, and Marcelio in the Isle Juique, and carried a­way Clenarde, and what ensued.

PErierio and his sisters listening to Marcelio's dis­course, he proceeded in this manner. Alcida, Clenarde, and I, being in the boat conducted by the industry and diligent painfulnesse of the Marriners, we went astray up and down the seas for the space of one whole day and night, attending for Death from hour to hour, without hope of any remedy, not knowing where, or in what part of the world we were. This notwithstanding the morning next following, we perceived that we were very near to land, endeavouring to row as near it as we could possibly, At the length, the two Marriners being very cunning in swimming, did not onely [Page] leap into the water to swim to the shore, but also drew us all to that so long desired land. After we were so happily deli­vered from the danger which furious Neptune threatned us. the Marriners fastened their ship-boat to the shore side, and knowing the place where we landed, told us we were in the Isle of Formentera: and wonderfully marvelled that we had run so many miles in so little time. But they had such experi­ence of the wonders that fierce tempests are accustomed to do. that they were not too much amazed at the course of our navi­gation. Yet howsoever the tempest had driven us, we were then assured and out of danger of the menaces wherewith for­tune feared us amidst the inexorable waves. But we were so gréeved for the losse of Eugerio and Polydor, so troubled with wearinesse, and so famished with hunger, that we had none or little cause to rejoice of the life which we had recovered. Nei­ther will I now rehearse what tears Alcida and Clenarde shed because they had lost their father and brother, to the end that I may tell you the sorrowful and unhappy successe, which I had in that desart and solitary Isle. For after that, by rea­son we were arrived in the same, I was delivered from the fury of the sea, love became such an adversary and enemy un­to me, that he séemed to be grieved that my life was saved from the pecil of the tempest, and that he would torment me with a new and more grievous pain, when I thought my self to be in safety. For malicious Cupid wounded the heart of the Pylot (who was called Bartophamus) and rendred him so far in love of the beauty of Clenarde, the sister to Alcida, that to at­tain to the point of his intended desires, he forgot the law of friendship and fidelity, and imagined a strange and wicked treason which he did put in execution. Which was such.

As the two sisters wept, and grievously lamented their fa­thers and brothers miserable death, it happened that Alcida o­vercome with heavinesse and wearinesse, she lay down on the sand and fell a sléep. Whereupon I began to say to the Py­lot: friend Bartophamus if we take not some order to provide for victuals, and if our ill luck be such that we can find [Page] none, we may make account we have not saved our lives, but rather that we have changed the manner and kind of our death: and therefore would I that you and your companion should go to some village or burrough of this Isle, which y ^u may find, to fetch meat for us to eat. Sir Marcelio (answered Barto­phamus) fortune hath done us pleasure enough in bringing us hither, and helping us to arrive at this Isle, though it be de­sart and barren. And you must not think that we shall here find any meat to asswage our hunger, and remedy our necessi­ty; for the country is not inhabited. But I will tell you how we may find means to suffer no hunger: do you sée yonder lit­le Isle that lieth right over against us, in that Isle there is great quantity of Dear, Conies, Hares, and many other beasts. There is also a Hermitage, where the Hermite hath good store of bread and meal. Therefore I am of this advice, that it were good that Clenarde (whose dexterity and cunning in shooting is not unknown unto you) should passe over to that Isle and carry her bow and arrows, which she hath here with her, & kill some Hart or Doe. I and my companion will row her thither, and you sir Marcelio may stay with Alcida. For it may so come to passe, that before she awaketh, we shall return hither with abundance of fresh and savoury provision. This counsell of the Pylot was well liked of me, and Clenar­de, we not thinking of his pretended treason. Neverthelesse Clenarde, would not in any case passe over to the said Isle, un­lesse I went with her; for she durst not trust the Mariners. And although I excused my self not to go with her, saying that it was not convenient for me to leave Alcida alone, and that sléeping in a place so solitary; she answered, that the distance betwéen that place and the little Isle, was not very great, that she was sure that we should bring good provision with us, for that there was much venison in the Isle, and that the sea was calm and still, (for after that we were set on shore the surging waves were appeased) by reason whereof she concluded, that we might passe over to the Isle, and return again before Al­cida awaked, especially because she was tired with wearinesse [Page] and had many nights béen deprived of her rest. Finally, she alledged so many reasons, that forgetting what was most convenient for me to do, I resolved to accompany her to the Isle. Whereof Battophamus was not a little grieved, for that he sought not to have any but Clenarde onely to go, to the end that he might the better execute his villainous treason, yet wanted not the villain means to bring his wicked will to passe: for we leaving Alcida a sléep alone and being all setled in the boat to passe to the Isle, I thinking of no hurt and be­ing unarmed (for I left all my weapons in the ship when I leaped into the boat with Alcida to savo our lives) the two ma­riners fell upon me, took me and bound me,

Clenarde séeing their manifest treason, would for grief cast her self overboard into the sea, but the Pylot held her, and ta­king her aside, secretly said unto her in this manner. Lady, trouble not your self for this fact, and be not grieved at that which you see us do; we do it in your behalf you shall under­stand, that this Marcelio assoon as we were arrived in yonder desart Isle, spake secretly unto me, and desired me to counsell you to passe over to the Isle hard by, and after that we were on the sea, that I should sail Eastward, declaring that he was in love with you, and that he would leave your sister in the Isle, to the end that he might have you at his pleasure, with­out any let or hinderance. And whereas he made such diffi­culty, and séemed so unwilling to accompany you, he did but dissemble to cloak his malice, But I beholding the worthi­nesse of your passing beauty, not to prejudice your deserts, at the very hour that I should have executed the treason, I resol­ved to remain loyal and faithfull unto you, and thereupon have served Marcelio as you see, with full deliberation to leave him at the end of an Isle not far hence, on the shore side, and thence to return with you incontinently to the place where we left your sister sleeping. Now you know how the matter standeth, and therefore see what you will do.

Clenarde hearing this in good sooth beleeved that it was all true, and was mortally angry with me, being very well [Page] content that Bartophamus should carry me to that place where he had appointed to leave me. Besides, she beheld me with a disdainful countenance, that I could not enough marvel at the strangenesse of her alteration. And she was so inraged that she could not speak, but she rejoyced in her heart, that she should be so revenged of me; without perceiving the knavery which the Pylot went about. So that I well marked, that Clenarde was nothing grieved at my evill intreatment, whereas not­withstanding at the first, she took it so heavily: and therefore I said unto her, How now my sister, what mean you by this? Do you think both my misfortune and yours, and the danger wherein the Gods have placed us both at this instant, to be so small and of so little weight, that you ought so soon to cease from wéeping? Or do you hope to see us soon delivered out of their traiterous hands, that we may be revenged of their vil­lany. Whereupon she inflamed with fury, like a fierce Ly­onesse, told me, that I was so dealt withall, because I would have left her sister Alcida in the solitary isle to lead her away, and many other such brave invented lies, which the Pylot had made her to beleeve.

When I understood that, I felt such an extream pain, and was so greeved, that I well perceived, that never the like had befallen me before; and although I could not stir nor touch those Peasants, yet I miscalled them, and railed at them won­derfully.

And as touching Clenarde, I alledged her such quick and forcible reasons, that at length she knew that all this procée­ded out of the love which the Pylot Bartophamus bore her. So that she began so pittyfully to lament our case, that it was sufficient to mollifie stones, but not the hard hearts of those traiterous mariners. Now consider, that our boat had in short time with marvellous swiftnesse overrun a great part of the sea, when as unfortunate Alcida awaked, and found her self a­lone, who seeing that she was to abandoned and forsaken, tur­ned her eys toward the sea side, to see if the could espy the boat and perceiving that it was not there, she went along the shore [Page] to seek us, but she found no body. Ye may well think beauti­full shepheards) what grief Alcida suffered at that instant, and imagine what abundance of tears she sent from her Chri­stal eyes. Consider I pray you, in what extremity the mise­rable young Lady found her self, when as she was left all alone in that solitary and desart Isle: perpend in like manner how often she meant violently to cast her self down headlong into the sea, molesting the air with her lamenting voice, and how often she called me, and forced eccho to repeat my name in the element. But we were by this time so far separated from her, that we could not understand her cries, but we might well perceive that she with a white handkerchiff (which she lifted in the air) made sign that we should return, but the traitor Bartophamus could not be intreated. But sailing marvellous swiftly with wind and tide, wee arrived at the Isle Iuique, where he landed and with his companion carried me on the shore, tying me to an ancker that stuck in the ground. Incontinently certain Mariners came thither being of Barto­phamus acquaintance and of like disposition. And notwithstan­ding that Clenarde recommended her honour unto them, & prai­ed them to deliver her from Bartophamus his wicked enter­prise, yet she obteined nothing the more of them peasants, who took no regard of her just complaint, but gave the traitor sufficient provision to live, wherewith he entered his boat a­gain, taking Clenarde with him sorely against her will. After which time I have not seen her, nor heard any news of her. I remained there a long time famished and bound hand and foot. But the chiefest part of my grief consisted in the cala­mity and miserable case which poor Alcida was in, being left alone in the Isle of Formentera. For as concerning the ne­cessity wherein I was, that was soon redressed. For certain mariners that were more pittyfull and honester men then the other villains, hearing me call unto them, came near me, and freed me from my wonderfull kind of prison unlosing the lines wherewith I was tied to the anchor. And after that they had given me meat to asswage the fury of hunger (which well [Page] near had overcome me and caused me to resign my life) I was so earnest wtth them, and so importunately requested them to carry me to the Isle of Formenters, that they being mo­ved with pity presently rigged a briggantine, and making provision of victuals and weapons, [...]ailed with me to the Isle of Formentera, where I had left Alcida. But what search I made I could not find her. Suppose gentle shepheards that she had chosen the sea to be the sepulcher wherein she buried her grieved body, or that the wild and savage beasts had made a prey of her tender limbs. But I searching along the shore, plains, rocks, valleys, caves dens, and most secret corners, and burroughs, of all the Isle, at length found a piece of a rock wherein certain letters were ingraved with the point of a knife, which conteined this protestation; which I as déeply ingraved in my heart with the edge of my memory, as it was cut in the hard rock with the point of a knife.

I will not here make mention of the wound which I felt in my heart, when I read this memorial, that I knew that by fortunes cursed spight, I was hated of my Lady and mistresse, whom I love dearer then mine own life. Wherefore being invironed with so many calamities and troubles, I as weary to live any longer, would have pierced my distressed heart, intending to run on the point of my sword had not those good Mariners that were with me, not onely by perswasions and words, but in effect and deeds also hindred my intent. They forced me half dead to return to the Brigantine, and by my importunate intreaties they sailed towards the coasts of I­taly, and landed at the Haven of Cayetta in the Kingdome of Naples: wherein I enquired for Alcida, asking news of all those that I found; and at length meeting with certain shep­heards, after I had told them certain tokens of her, they knowing whom I meant, informed me that she certainly lan­ded at the same Haven in a Spanish ship, which passing by the Isle of Formentera, and them rivers, finding her there all alone, fetched her aboard. And that because I should not find her, she had changed her apparel and clothed her self like a shepheard. Whereupon I also became a shepheard to the eye, in outward colours, hoping the sooner to find her; and in this habit ran over the whole Country: without méeting with any man that might tell me news of her. At length I found a certain shepheard that gave me intelligence, that she know­ing that I was informed of her being there, took ship and sai­led into Spain. So that with all speed I took ship also, min­ding to follow her, and I arrived here in Spain which I have almost coursed over, and as yet I cannot hear any tidings of this cruell Lady, which I seek with such labour and exceeding pain.

And this (gentle shepheards) is the Tragedy of my life, this the cause of my death, and this the successe of my mishap. If perchance I have troubled you with the tediousnesse and perplexity of this pittifull history, the fault is in you selves, who have so earnestly desired me to do the same. In the [Page] mean while, I beéech you not to take your pleasure in going about to remedy my evill, nor to comfort my distressed soul. But let me spout out of my infortun [...]te eyes so many tears, as so just an occasion requireth. Wherewith Marcelio having ended the discourse of all his misfortune, he began to sigh and weep so bitterly, that it was pittifull to behold; in such manner that no man that saw him could not but be moved with ex­tream pity,

CHAP. V. How Marcelio taking his leave of Perierio and his sisters, departed in search of Alcida.

EUphilia having heard this pittyfull and la­mentable discourse of Marcelio, was [...]orely grieved for his cause, and gave him this comfortable answer. Sir Marcelio, the strangenesse of your mishap is sufficient to abash any man whatsoever, and to give him sufficient cause to be grieved though it con­cern not himself; but séeing there is no harm so great but may be helped in tract of time, and as fortune is inconstant in her favours, so is she likewise not constant in her frowns, and she hoiseth men as well from adversity to prosperity, as she cast­ [...]th them from their wicked pleasures to an intollerable grief Insomuch that her onely essence is inconstancy, and all her being is being variable, as well in withdrawing her favours, as in bestowing them. And therefore (valiant Knight) be of good chear, draw up your spirits, and couragiously take hold on the shield of hope. For I doubt not but that you shall in short space attain to your wished desires, and find your Lady whom you say to be in these parts of Spain. For if it be so (as I certainly believe it is) all doubt removed, I shall hear of her by reason that all the shepheards of the Country resort hither; so that it cannot be but we shall hear of them such news as they know, and it may so fall out, that Alcida her self [Page] may have occasion to passe this way. But howsever know this that she cannot be long in the country but we shall hear of her. And besides, we will give order that she shall be sought for in the most secret places of the wh [...]le country. But in such manner, that your arrival into these parts be kept secret, least she flie into some other country further off. M [...]rcelio thanked her greatly for her exceeding and undeserved curtesie, and desired her to remember to do as she so freely and of her own volunta­ry goodnesse had promised. Whereupon taking his leave of her, Perina, and Perierio, notwithstanding that they were loth to let hi [...] depart ere morning, yet he so earnestly desired them to take his most just excuse in good part, and to suffer him to do according to his own intent, that they could not but let him accomplish his pleasure. So that Marcelio thank­ing them all in most curteous manner, for their rare hospita­lity & singular benevolence towards him, departed late in the night from those famous shepheards, and took his wonted course in running up and down the woods, rocks, plains, caves and all such solitary and desert places where he thought he might meat with the cause of his grief, and yet the sole mi­stresse of his heart and onely object of his content and delight. The noble shepheards were marvellously sorrowfull for his departure: but especially Perierio, who (as you have heard) was in love with the Lady that fled from him in the wood. For he had purpose to ask Marcelio certain tokens of his Al­cida, because he doubted whether that Lady which he had seen had been Alcida; but for that Marcelio had declared, that his La­dy was apparelled in the habit of a shepheard, he gathered that it was not Alcida, because the Lady which he saw was most sumptuously and gorgiously attir [...]d, more like some Princesse then a counterfeit shepheard. Whereof he was glad for two respects; the one because Marcelio had rehearsed Alcida her pro­testation ingra [...]en in the rock. Whereby he signified that she would never love any man living more. The other, because Marcelio was Alcidas husband in troth and promise, & therefore thought he should have but hard luck to become competitor [Page] and corrivall to so worthy a Knight and faithfull lover as Marcelio. Euphilia and Perina went to their rest, but Perierios mind was so intangled in the conceit which he had of his strange love, that he could not rest, but tumbling and tossing up and down in his bed, by that time the day appeared, he went from b [...]d as he came unto it, for he had not so much as shut his eyes all the time that he lay. Assoon as he had put on his cloaths, he went into the Orchard to drive away his me­lancholy passions; but the more he strived against love the lesse he prevailed, and the means wherewith he sought to quench the fire which Cupid had inflamed in his breast, did kindle the same. For hearing the birds sing their naturall notes, and [...]ill the air with their chirping noise, he began in this man­ner to renue his passions.

Ah pleasant birds, that bewray your wished content by your shril voice, which soundeth so swéetly in the air would I were so happy that I might have cause to sing with you. Ah cruel fortune that didst send me into the wood to meet with my ene­my. Ah unmercifull Cupid that goest about to stay me, by her for whose service I would willingly offer my life? Why hast thou made me love her that hateth me? And why prolon­gest thou my life to increase my torment? If I may not en­joy her in whom my felicity consisteth, I must die. And there­fore if I must be deprived of my wished desires, swéet death mend thy pace, and deliver me out of this intollerable grief. Make hast ye fatall dames, and cut the line of my life, that with the losse of the same, I may gain a pleasing rest and qui­etnesse. But why do I request, where I may command? Have not I this dagger which at my pleasure may cause the bread­full Destinies to throw my miserable body (the very habi­tation of grief) breathlesse on this ground? True, but what if with one stroke I make four wounds in four severall bo­dies. For if I die, aged Camillo cannot live, nor yet either Euphilia or Perina. Therefore rather then my father or my sisters should end my Tragedy, I will indure the extreamest torment that love or fortune can invent.

And therewith Perierio flung out of the Orchard, and went with his shéep to the field. And after Euphilia and Perina be­ing warned by Phoebus silver lines, that Aurora had cleared the air, and expelled the darknesse of the night, followed with their flocks also. But Perierio lest they should perceive his inward grief by his outward looks led his shéep some­thing farre out of the way where he thought he might be out of sight until he had powred forth the tears which as yet sate in his eyes. Dinner time being come, he washed the tears from his face, and looked as chearfully as he could, least his fa­ther or his sisters should mark any alteration in him. He li­ved thus for the space of two moneths, wéeping and lament­ing the absence of the Lady which he loved, oftentimes ran­ging through woods, to sée if he might be so fortunate as to méet with her again.

CHAP. VI. How Euphilia and Perina came to the knowledge of Perierio's love, and what conference passed between them.

HOw runningly soever Perierio cloaked his grief under a pleasant countenance, yet because he so delighted to be alone, haunting solita­ry places Euphilia and Perina began to suspect that their brother had something or other that troubled him.

And they could not enough marvel why he so often separa­ted himself from their company whereas notwithstanding he was wont so pleasantly to recreate them, either rehearsing some history, or sounding his instrument, or discoursing of the disposition of the water, inclinations of the Planets, and of the celestial orbs. And therefore they could not imagine what might be the cause that he was of a merry, become me­lancholy, and to delight in solitarinesse, where he so coveted company. And to the end that they might know what moved him to alter and change his natural complexion, upon a cer­tain morning, when the air was something darkned with a grosse myst, they followed him secretly into the woods: and although he almost tired them with trotting up and down all the paths and crosse ways of the wood, yet they marvelling at the strangenesse of his walk, rested not untill the bright beams of the sun had chased away the duskish myst: for then they were compelled to stay behind Perierio a pretty way, lest they should be séen by him.

At length he being overcome with wearinesse, the sooner because he laboured in vain: grief and travel together forced him to rest. He therefore espying a tall Pine, which did cast a large and enticing shadow, threw himself down on the hard ground under the same. and taking his country Cythe­ren sung so sweetly unto it, that the heavenly harmony of his musick amazed all the Deer and birds in the wood.

Euphilia and Perina had no sooner marked that their brother had taken the advantage of the Pine, to shrowd his weary bo­dy from the injury of Apollos heat, but they entring in the midst of the thicket, to draw as near him as they might hear the sound of his instrument rebound against the bushes, wher­of they were passing glad, hoping that he would bewray his thoughts to the dumb trees and sencelesse bushes. They there­fore listening, heard him sing in this manner.

After he had ended this Sonnet, Perina his youngest sister, séeing that he arose to depart thence, whistled and so staied him. For he marvelled who it should be; but at length espied both his sisters coming towards him, which wonderfully asto­nished him, because they had never done the like before; and curteously greeting them, asked what the cause was of their coming thither? Euphilia answered, your self brother Perierio. For though we have great regard of our own welfare (quoth Perina) yet we do not regard our selves onely, but are as care­full of your fortune as of our own. And therefore we (quoth Euphilia) marking and perceiving by your solitary walks, that you were troubled with some grief or other, and that some misfortune had happened unto you, we were as sorry as if it had béen our own case. This brother Perierio, is the cause of our coming, to see if we might come in knowledge of the evill which tormenteth your youth, that it being known un­to us, might by our diligence and industry, be remedied and amended. Therefore brother conceal it not from us whatso­ever it be, and you shall find in us more then sister-like readi­nesse, if more may be. Ah loving sisters (quoth Perierio) I can­not enough thank you both, for the love you bear me; and in truth the onely cause that I have smothered my pain with si­lence, not detecting it unto any of you, hath been, for that I was loath that you should be grieved for my sake, and I wished no­thing so much: as that al the discontent and anguish of my evil should redound to no bodies grief but mine own. And there­fore (sweet sisters) if you love your selves and me also wish not to be acquainted with my sore, least you suffer part of the pain. But content your selves, and look to the tranquility of your own hearts, not tormenting your selves in my behalf. But you be deceived herein brother Perierio (quoth Euphilia.) [Page] For in thinking to free us from grief by concealing your evil you do amisse. Know you not that they which are carefull of any mans welfare, and so tenderly love him, that they think themselves hurt if any ill light on him, are continually com­passed with fear if he be grieved, thinking the cause thereof of­tentimes to be far greater or worse then it is?

And therefore brother you afflict our hearts with divers torments in concealing your evill from us, whereas we can but feel one pain if we knew it. For now the torment of sus­pition in suspecting divers things, doth assail us of one side, fearing sometimes one mischief sometimes another; every one whereof woundeth our hearts with passing sorrow. And fear maketh the assault of the other side; causing us to ima­gine that the matter is far worse then it is. Lastly, hope trou­bleth us as much as suspicion or fear. For though it be a mo­tion of the mind of future luck or good to come, and not of e­vill; yet is it but a perturbation of the mind troubling and vexing it continually; and he that hopeth enjoyeth not his hearts ease nor quietnesse of mind. Why then sister (quoth Perierio) to rid you of all suspicion, fear and hope, know that I love, and suspect no worse, nor hope any better; and ask we no more, for I should not be able to answer you if you should be too inquisitive. The reason is because I know not whom I love; nor where she is whom I love. And is it love (quoth Perina) that troubleth you? Why then left you not this verse out of the Sonnet, which you sung to the Cytharen but even now.

Well remembred sister Perina, (quoth Euphilia) for if he be in love, he must needs offer sacrifice to Venus, and what but [Page] the unsure looks of Venus hath caused him to give over all pa­sture and mirth, and live in passionate grief. And yet he saith.

How then can you love Perierio, if you be not allured by be [...]ty? Very well sister (quoth Perierio) For though Venus be accounted the Goddesse of love in being mother to Cupid, yet doth she comand no further then beauty stretcheth: which is not the onely object that moveth men to love. What think you not that vertue, nobility, excellency, or wealth, may move us to love? Then you must confesse that I may love, and yet not allured by Venus colours. Neverthelesse know, that beau­ty is the onely cause and motive of my love, and yet do I not think that the verse which my sister Perina so well remem­bred, was unfitly inserted among the other verses of my Son­net. For séeing that I loved, and yet was bereft of all hope, ever to injoy her whom I loved (because I neither knew what she was, nor where she was, as I have already told you) by reason whereof, I wished no greater pleasure then grief, nor better companion then wo, and therefore might very well say, that the unsure looks of Venus should not provoke my pen­sive thoughts from we to wantonnesse; meaning not by Venus looks sincere and true love, but wanton and voluptuous love.

CHAP. VII. How Maffeo arrived at the place where Perierio and his sisters were: how he was enamoured on the Lady Eleonora, and de­parted with her into Spain.

AS Perina thought to reply, she was interpelled by a certain Knight that came galloping towards the place where she, Perierio, and Euphilia sate, being sorely wounded in divers places of his body, his sword being drawn, and holding a scarf of silk almost in pie­ces [Page] in his left hand. This Knight séeing Perierio and his si­sters could not enough marvell that he had found shepheards so far surpassing in beauty. And drawing near them, he was so curteously saluted by them, that he was amazed to have such an unlooked for Salve. And requiting them with like curte­sie, asked them whether they had not seen any men riding that morning through the same wood. Perierio answered no. And as the knight thought to take his leave of them, Euphi­lia desiring to know what he was, found occasion to stay him, and therefore spake unto him in this manner: Sir Knight, it seemeth that you are sorely wounded, by the abundance of bloud which hath issued out of sundry parts of your body, and therefore I think it were not amisse, if you should alight from your horse, and tie up your wounds, ere you travel on any further.

And for as much as we are far from any town or village, if it will please you to take in good part such homely fare as my fathers country cottage can afford, you shall find us rea­dy to lead you thither, and to welcome you to such chear, as may content nature, though it be not comparable to courtly dainties. The Knight being very weary, and fearing least he might incur extream danger, if it should happen to be long are he might reach to some town, though he was ashamed, necessity forcing him thereto, accepted of Euphilias offer; thin­king that God had sent him in that wood to méet with those curteous shepheards, who beyond all expectation proffered him such friendship and succour, he being a meer stranger unto them. Therefore thanking them for their excéeding curtesie, he did bear them company to their fathers house. Where the old man, rejoycing to see so comely a person by his son Perierio and his two daughters feasted the Knight in such manner, that he easily might perceive that he was welcome. After they had ended dinner, Euphilia asked the Knight how he had gotten all those wounds, and what ill fortune had brought him into such danger. Whereupon the Knight began to make this discourse of his tragedy. Gentle shepheards, to the end that [Page] you may know that you have the miserablest man in the world before your eyes, here present with you, I will as briefly de­clare you the history of all my life as I may, so I be not trou­blesome unto you, to hear the tragicall events happened unto me since my cradle, I am loath to give you any cause of grief. But séeing that it pleaseth you, to know the cause of this my mishap. I hold my self bounden to pleasure you, and do accor­ding to your desire. And to be as little tedious as I possible may, I will use as much brevity as the greatnesse of the mat­ter will permit me. Know therefore (gentle shepheards) that fortune threatening me bad luck, began to lower on me before I came into the world; for she conspired my death before I was born. You must note how that my father before I was born had no children, but his brothers son was his adopted heir, and should have inherited all his lands, had he died without issue So that this adopted heir having intelligence that my mother was big with child, very careful [...]y w [...]ited for the time that she should fall in travell, which hour being approached, he corrupted the midwife with a great sum of mo­ney to smother me at my first entry into this world, and to spoil me of my life before I perfectly lived. But no; fortune would reserve me to worser events, and I was not so happy to be dealt withall as my unkind cousin had appointed. For the midwife being pricked with remorse of conscience, and overcome with pity, could not find in her heart to stifle me in her hands, when as I was committed to her to be tenderly handled and looked to, with all the care and diligence that might be; but she invented another manner to content Sil­vestro, (for so was my cousin named) which was secretly to steal me from my parents, and to convey me into the house of a poor labouring man (whose wife was wont to serve for nurse unto such poor mens wives as for weaknesse or sicknesse could not bring up their own children) about twenty miles from the place where my parents dwelled, which was the renow­ned City of Constantinople my father at that time being ge­nerall governour over the same City. The Midwife made [Page] the same poor labouring man and his wife believe, that I was son unto one of her cousins, that she had in the abovenamed City being called Bradasso, and therefore willed them to take all the care and diligence that might be, in fostring me as a child ought to be, and that she would accordingly reward them; as ste did; for she payed them duly wéek by wéek, as long as she lived. Thinking her fault more excusable, seeing she cau­sed me to be brought up with part of the money which she took of my cousin to spoil me of my life. I omit for brevities sake, what grief my parents suffered for the loue of their long desired sonne, especially becau [...]e they kn [...]w not what was become of me; but they thought nothing so [...]u [...]e as that I was dead and that the midwife would not let them know of it, least they should have been too suddenly oppressed with such sorrowfull news.

When I was thrée years old or thereabout the midwife died such a sudden kind of death that she could not take order with my nurse for me. The nurse therefore having intelli­gence of her death, fearing least she should kéep me for no­thing (which she was not able to do being a very poor wo­man) borrowed her neighbours horse, and rode with me to the City of Constantinople; where at the midwifes she inquired for the same Bradasso, whose child she thought it was: this Bra­dasso, being a young man of some four or five and twenty years of age, and unmarried, swore by all that he might, that he ne­ver had to do with woman in his life time, so far as to g [...]t her with child. Whereof the woman wonderfully amazed wist not what she should do with me. And so poor Maffeo (for that is my unfortunate name) was become a bastard that had nei­ther rath [...]r or mother that would know him or receive him as their child, and yet had both father and mother, who would have thought themselves to be the happiest parents that lived under the v [...]l of he [...]en, if they had found their own beloved infant, whom they thought to be dead long since. But my cou­sin being informed by the rumor spread through the City that a child nourished thrée or four years by the industry of such a [Page] midwife, could find neither father nor mother, after the same midwife was dead, began to calculate the time of my birth, and finding it to be full just at the time that the nurse avouched that I was brought unto her, remembred that the midwife had told him, that she had dispatched the child, & taken such order that he should never be heard of. And therefore he never thought any otherwise but that I was dead. But after he had heard this rumor spread through the City of me, he began to think how women are pittyfull, & therefore doubted whether the midwife had caused me to be fostred or no in that place, be­cause he should not hear of me; he considered also, that my pa­rents had told him divers times, that I was not dead but lost, or rather stoln: though in truth they thought I was dead, and imagined that the midwife had but made them to understand that I was lost, or stoln to diminish their grief with hope. He considered also, that the midwife was no woman to be the mo­ther of the child her self-séeing that she had béen widow a long time, and was above 70 years old when she died, which age was not convenient for wantonnesse, to be short, he concluded that it was I, and fearing lest if the nurse should make too dili­gent search to find out my parents, it might at length come to my fathers ear, and himself thereby deprived of his heredity, he caused the nurse to come unto him and told her, that séeing no man would father me he would have me brought up to be his page, séeing that I was a pretty fair complexioned boy. And a­gréeing with her for my board, charged her to let me want no­thing, and to use me well. After that time he came oftentimes to the place where the nurse dwelt, to sée whether I was wel handled, and sent me apparel by his men, and money to discharge my expences for my board. When I was about ten or eleven years of age, he took me from that place and made me his page, but in truth he used me as if I had béen his brother rather then his boy: by reason whereof my father, (though I then did not yet know that he was my father) made the more of me: for my cousin dwelled with my father, and was as his son. In the mean time I thought my self most [Page] happy, séeing that I had no father to have hit upon so good a master, Whom I served as faithfully as he dearly loved me. After I had served him the space of thrée or four years, his fa­ther by adoption and my father by right, though fortune had beguiled nature, died, and my mother within thrée moneths af­ter his burial. So that my master being in possession of all my fathers goods, lands, and lordships, began to Court all the chie­fest gentlewomen of the city, thinking himself worthy to be matched with the chiefest. Among all others unto whom he made love, he chiefly offered his service to the daughter of a Spanish Knight that lived in Constantinople, called Don Fran­cesco de guerdona, a man of great valour, wealth, and policy. So that my master to obtein the love of fair Eleonora (for so was the gentlewoman called) sued sought, watched, warded, praied, protested, and did what service a man might be said to do in the behalf of his mistresse; sometimes he plaied late in the night before her window, on his Lute, Cytharen, & Ban­dora; sometimes he turneyed and justed in her presence, to move her to love him for his manhood: and sometimes he sent her lettters, songs, and sonnets, therein bewraying his passi­ons; hoping she would receive him to her servant, being over­come with pity. But all served not: for she could no way be mo­ved to bear him affection; whereat I marvelled greatly, nor could not imagine at the cause thereof. For he was a brave va­liant young Gent. of great authority and estimation, favoured by fortune, as wealthy, rich, and abundant, exorned by nature, being beautifull and fair of complexion, tall and well propor­tioned, and of a couragious and resolute mind, wise politick, and witty. All which considered, no man could but condemn the Gentlewoman of cruelty, séeing that no man so faithfully served her as sir Sylvestro (for so was my master called.) But at length I had sufficient occ [...]si [...]n offered me, not to marvel any longer at her frowardnesse towards my master. For Ele­onoras mind was more setled on the Page th [...]t was wont to bring her letters and papers, wherein was his masters mes­sage, then on him that sent them. Which she at last shewed, and [Page] bewrayed so openly, that I began to perceive what affection she bore me, and how she both despighted and despised my ma­ster. For I being sent unto her upon a certain morning with a pair of silken garters from my master, all edged with gold, and invironed with pearls, most sumptuously and artificially wrought, she taking the garters out of my hand, gave me a Portugal Crusado, (being worth sir English Angels) for my pains. Whereof I was very gl [...]d, partly because I was so wel rewarded, and partly because I thought she began to make more account of my master in accepting the present, so boun­tifully rewarding the messenger. But as I was departing out of the house to let my master know of the good news, (hoping thereby to have augmented my Crusado with my masters li­berallity) she called me again and leading me into her bed-chamber alone, burst out into these words. Ah M [...]teo, thou doest serve thy master too trustily, to do me pleasure: and thou art an instrument against thine own welfare. How so Madam (quoth I?) I will soon shew thee how (quoth she,) but first you must tell me, whether you think not that he hin­dereth himself that sueth to obtein that thing for another, which is wished unto himself? Yea Madam quoth I.) Then (replied she) do you harm your self in indeavouring by your carefull painfull, industrious and diligent service, to satisfie your masters desire, in that he wisheth her to be his wife, un­to whom thy self mayest be a wedded husband. And so if thou grant that thou wouldest be glad of such a wife as Eleonora, I conclude that thou strivest against thine own commodity, and that thou art an instrument against thine own self.

When I heard her conclusion, it so well liked me, that I considered not whether the consequence followed according to the premises or no. Yet howsoever it was so contrived, that it set me at a non plus, insomuch that I stood am [...]ed, and knew not what betided me. I had never yet followed the Court of Cupid, though I had served one of his souldiers: and therefore I was to séek of mine answer, and wist not what to say. Notwithstanding that I felt an amourous passion creep­ing [Page] in my heart, contrary to any motion that I had felt be­fore. For I know not how, my thoughts were surprized with love, after Eleonora had argued in such order with me, and I feared that she had béen but in some merry vein to iest, taking her pastimes in mocking with me. And therefore I made this answer, Madam you are very mery this morning, whatsoever the matter is; God grant it be towards your good luck. And you are the bolder with me, because you may. But least my master long for my coming I beséech you to tell me whether it will please you to command me any service, for I must hast homeward. None other (quoth she) but that thou thank him for his present, and give him this from me, which is no lesse worth then his and so I do owe him nothing. Wherewith she reached me a Hat that was sent her father from a Spanish Duke, being a most costly Iewel. I there­fore taking my leave, she bid me farewell, adding this clause to shut up her Vale, Molest me no more for thy master; do for thy self what thou wilt Maffeo. To be short. I returned unto my master with such answer as Eleonora commanded me. But I began to be so love-sick, that I knew not how it was possible that a man might be so greatly altered, and so wonderfully changed in so short a time. Within a few days after, my ma­ster had prepared a letter to be sent to Elconora, which I put in my pocket, and walked up and down the streets not far from the place where she dwelled, and when I thought good, I returned home with such answer as my brains could in­vent and so I served my master, obeying the command of Eleonora. Who was so fixed in my heart, that I could not be separated from the thought of her beauty and excellency one minute of an hour. And though I sought by all means possible to extinguish the fire that consumed me, least at length it might grow to an unquenchable flame; al helped not, I strove against the stream, and to go about to root out the sparkles of love, was as hard a matter for me, as it were to any man to pluck the stars out of the christaline orb wherein they be six­ed. Therefore at length, not able to endure any longer. I wrote Eleonora a Letter to this effect.

She had no sooner received my Letter, but she sent me this bitter answer which she did but to try my constancy as after­wards it very well appeared. The contents were such.

Ye may suppose (gentle shepheards) how coldly that letter comforted distressed Maffeo, when he expected the sentence of life or death. But then I perceived that she had but mocked with me, when she used her merry prittle prattle unto me in her chamber at her own house, yet ceased not to burn and fry in the furious flames of my burning passions; and so remain­ed as long as I could, striving against love like a valiant champion; and passed over two moneths in continual skir­mishes against Cupid: but alasse, who was compelled to yéeld at length, but I that fought against a God of such force and puissance? insomuch that I chose rather to die, then to live without the love of Eleonora, and in all hast dispatched another letter, which I secretly conveyed unto her, the meaning where of was much to this purpose.

Vnto this Letter, she sent me no answer, but it happened within two or three days after that she had read it, that I had occasion to passe through the stréet where she dwelled, she sée­ing me, and sitting in the dore alone, called me unto her, and brake forth into these bitter words.

Why Maffeo, thinkest thou not that thou doest me displea­sure enough to trouble me with thy odious letters, but must you also fret me with the sight of thy ignominious person? I have wished these two days that I might sée thee, to cast out all the anger and spight unto which thou hast moved me, up­on thée. But séeing thou hast vowed thy life to my service, I mean to try thy faithfulnesse and obedience; and yet desire not to have thy life. I command thee therefore to carry this letter unto thy master Sylvestro: but I will allow thee to read it before I seal it.

With that she felt in her pocket, and with her hand in co­lour like to Juno when she braved the Quéen of love for the golden apple before the Troyan youth,) drew forth the let­ter and bid me read it. The meaning I remember to be such.

When I had read this letter, I was in worse case then before: it would be too long for me to make rehearsal in what a passionate state I was, both while I heard her rail at me like a raging Lyonesse and when I saw by the reading of the Letter how she sought to be revenged of me, that I was rea­dy to resign up my life, and to fall down dead in her presence for love grief, and fear: and contrarily, gladnesse and hope made such a combate at one instant in the midst of my heart, that I knew no more of my self, then he that was never born. [Page] At length gathering my sences together, I came to my self; and answered her: that whereas she sometime said, that I was an instrument against my self, she should now have most just occasion to say the same, and most fit matter whereout to gather premises producing the conclusion of her saying. And though if be my death (quoth I) to do your command, yet I will and must obey With that she having sealed the Letter, I t [...]ok it and went away; bidding her adieu with all the hu­mility that I could for my life. And posting to my master, I delivered him the Letter which was so spightfully written a­gainst poor Maffeo, notwithstanding that I was not igno­rant of the contents thereof, though my master knew not so much. But assoon as he read the letter, supposing that I had béen the onely cause of his bad successe in his amours, drew forth his dagger and threw it at me; and séeing that though the dagger stuck in my leg, yet it had not given me my fatall stroke, ran at me with his naked sword, intending fully to glut himself with the bloud of his innocent page, and cousin ger­main (though I as yet then knew not that I was so.) But I stepped aside, and got out of the house as soon as I could, flying unto one of our neighbors who seemed to make much of me, and in whom I had most confidence. Vnto him I declared how my master was fallen out with me, and shewed him the wound which he had given me, meaning to slay me. This mā being a poor honest man, and a Baker by his occupation, by name Pharicles, was likewise cunning in chirurgery, and so willingly and so carefully dressed my wound that I thought him worthy of greater reward then I could give him. But the smart of the wound, the sorrow of my grief, and the tormēt of love, cast me into such a dangerous disease, that I was in great peril of death, and out of all hope ever to recover my life again. After that I had lain in that case six or seven days, late in the night came Eleonora unto me, in the habit of a gentle­man page, because she would not be known, and told the ba­ker Pharicles that she was my cousin, and that she had brought something to make a confection for me. Whereupon the good [Page] Baker arose, and opening his door let her in, and sent her up to my chamber. Where she séeing that I was alone fell down on her knées before my bed, and wéeping most pittifully, pro­nounced these words. Pardon me swéet Maffeo, pardon me, and could not for grief speak one word more, but shed out whole streams of tears, which running down her chéeks, fell on my bed, and in such sort wetted it as if it had been cast in­to some river. I amazed at that sudden chance, could not tell whether I dreamt, or whether I was awake; for me thought by the voice it should be Eleonora, but when I looked on her vesture. I suspected it had been my master that had repented in such manner, for that he so hardly used me. But to rid my self from doubt, I reached the candle that stood by my beds-head, and looking her in the face, I soon knew my Eleonora, who was in the like taking that I was when I read that un­fortunate letter before her. Incontinently I lifted her from off her knées, embraced her, and kissed her on her tender lips, saying: What Eleonora my Lady and mistresse, do you humble your self after this order unto you servant? Pluck up your heart and be of good chear; and ask no pardon at my hands, for you have not committed any fault against your servant. Ah Maffeo (qd. she) my fault is great, and so much the greater, because against Maffeo. After we had passed on great part of the night in such talk, she in accusing her self, and I in reite­rating my unworthiness, at last we promised each other troth; and agreed to leave Constantinople and flie into Spain. For be­cause she knew that her father would never agrée unto our marriage, she concluded to provide a good sum of money, and many rich jewels, for the easier carriage, and so to transport her self and me into Spain, there to lead a contented life, un­till such time as we might be reconciled to here father, or for­tune allowed us to return. This devise liked me so well, that all the medicines in the world, could not have cured my disease so well as the presence of her, for whom I was so wil­ling to die. To be short, she appointed me the hour and place where I should méet her, when all things were prepared for [Page] our voyage. Where I finding her in the same habit that she was when she visited me, we took ship, and sailed unto Saint Lucar in Spain, where we lived contentedly and merrily for the space of five or six years. In he mean time you must note, how that Eleonoras parents marvelling what was be­come of her, were excéeding sorrowful.

CHAP. VIII. How Maffeo and Eleonora sailing towards Constantinople were severed by a tempest, and Sylvestro drowned: also how he met with her again.

MY cousin Sylvestro, having heard of her secret and sudden departure and mine also, began to suspect that we were together, and that Ele­onora sent him that letter but to give the mat­ter a contrary colour. Wherefore considering that the Gods so favoured me first in that my life was saved by means of the pittifull midwife, and after­wards that I was loved by so noble a gentlewoman where he was rejected, his conscience began to prick, and urged him so far, that on a morning he went to the house of Eleonoras father, and declared to him the whole matter. Whereat he wondring would have besought the Magistrate to burn Sylvestro at a stake; but that Sylvestro promised him that he would go to the end of the world but he would find us, and in like manner discover the whole case unto us, and bring us home to Con­stantinople. In so much that six years being expired, I espied my cousin Sylvestro walking in the Market place, and least he should see me, I went homewards to carry the news unto Eleonora. But he espied me and followed me to the place where I dwelt, and entring into the hall, where I sate with Eleonora, fell down on his knees, and informed us of all the matter: shewing us his testimoniall letters and passeport, from the city of Constantinople, wherein was mentioned that he was purposely sent to séek us. Besides he brought letters [Page] written with Eleonoras father, Don Francesco de Guerdonaes own hand. Whereof we were so glad, especially Eleonora, that we could not but pardon my master, who now became our servant. You may well think that we made as speedy prepa­ration as we could to return to Constantinople. For within eight days we found a ship rigged and throughly furnished, with provision of victuals, and all things necessary, which was bound to Constantinople. In which ship we conveyed our selves with all that we had, and haysing fail, committed the vessel to Neptunes mercy. But variable fortune (that cannot be reduced into any order, sometimes being lighter then the wind, and flying more swiftly then an arrow being shot out of the bow, and sometimes heavy and marching slowly, and resembling the Tortyse; Variable fortune I say) being loth that we should rejoyce of our felicity without any proof of si­nister hap, raised such a tempest on the sea, that the ship being battered with the swelling waves, clove asunder and burst into pieces. So that every man c [...]tching hold some on a piece of mast, some on a piece of a board, some on the ship hatches. Eleonora having a young child by her, (for God had inriched us with a young Spaniard called Alonso, though the poor babe was as soon hated of fortune as it was born, therein not un­like his unfortunate father (for it was but three moneths old when we came to sea) she emptied one of our greatest chests, and therein clapped her self and her young Alonso: stirring y ^e boat up & down w ^t a piece of an Oar which she had spied in a ship. My cousin Sylvestro reaching to two or three oars thin­king to lay thē under him tumbled into y ^e sea. I for my part had gottē a great piece of cork, which such as it was, by y ^e help of y ^e Gods saved my life. But nothing so galled me, as th [...]t I saw my onely Eleonora and Alonso, floating on the terrible sea within the chest, and yet I could not come near her, and the traiterous waves would not drive my cork the same way that the chest was carried. For the winds blew so crabbedly that the chest floated one way, and I with my cursed cork was driven quite contrary. So that in short space I lost the sight [Page] of the chest, and therewith of all my joy. Imagine gentle shepheards in what plight poor Maffeo was at that instant. For as long as I could see my Eleonora and her Alonso, I per­ceived not the perillous case I was in, but after I had lost that blessed sight, I marked in what danger I was to be swallowed up by the greedy waves at every moment. Yet the grief that I suffered for that I knew not how Eleonora fared, permitted me not to care for my self, who almost an hundred times had purposed to leave my cork and cast my self into the depth of the roaring sea, and very Court where Neptune sate to rail at him for his fierce government. But yet I know not how my dreadfull destinies inveigling my heart with vain hope, reserved me to worse mishaps. After that I had rowled up and down the seas a whole night, in the morning betimes I espied a great ship of war on the sea, so that I being some­thing comforted at the sight thereof, began to call unto them that were aboard of her, as loud as my voice could reach. But the Marriners though they heard not my voice, by reason of the noise of the waves which did beat against the belly of that great ship; yet seeing me, considered in what necessity I was, and steering the ship as near as the steer man could, they threw out a cable rope which I catched by the end, and so got into the ship. Thus God had redressed my necessity, howsoe­ver it fared with poor Eleonora and Alonso. My life was saved, but my sorrow nothing ceased, yea increased rather. For thin­king on Eleonora and Alonso, I was so beset with grief, that my life was in greater danger, then when I lay rowling up and down the rising waves on the Cork. I had not been in the ship above the space of three days, but the wind blew so slowly, that we were not the better for our sales, but were compelled to use all the oars th [...]t were in the ship. As we had thus rowed one day and a night, we espied a chest floating on the sea which by reason of the lightnesse was carried away more swifter then our great ship. At length it approached so near us, that I might well perceive it to be the same chest wherein my Eleonora was. And when I saw that no body [Page] [...] [Page] [...] [Page] was in the chest, suppose (gentle shepheards) whether I had not sufficient occasion to think that fortune had made Eleono­ra, and my unfortunate boy Alonso, a prey unto the hngry. Whereupon I fell into such a trance, that having by the dili­gence of the Mariners recovered my sences again, I heard them say, that they had never seen the like extasie. O spitefull fortune! when she beginneth to frown on men, she never cea­seth untill she maketh them most miserable, and bringeth them into despair. And when they are in such distresse, that they think it impossible to be worse handled, then she to shew her power, augmenting their evill, causeth them to acknow­ledge their heresie. As I for example, who could be in worse case then I was, when sprawling on the cork amidst the ra­ging waves, I was in danger every moment to be devoured of Neptune? Yet I farto worse when I iost the sight of my dearest Eleonora. And a thousand times greater was my mi­sery, when I saw the empty chest. At which time, cursing the winds as helping causes to my mishap; the sea as greedily desiring the prey, the ship as the instrument that brought me into that Charibdis of calamity, the celestial Planets as hard hearted, séeing me injured, and not revenging my wrong, the stars as witnesses of my misery, and fortune as the effici­ent cause, yea primum mobile, and onely author of what mis­chief soever had betided me; I would have cast my self over­board: but my intent being hindered by the Mariners, I was forced to comfort my self as much as the greatnesse of my hap could permit, and to arm my self with that old poesie, Dum Spiro, Spero. Though my greatest hope was despair, and my life worse then death.

Within a few days after, the Mariners taking occasion by a gale of wind, which blew something strongly, hoysed up their sails & arrived at Constantinople within two days after. Where incontinently I went to my father in laws Don Francesco de Guerdonas house, and declared the whole history of our navi­gation unto him, how we suffered shipwrack, how I saw Syl­vestro my cousin fall into the sea, how I had lost Eleonora and [Page] my child, & how I was saved in the other ship. But least I should kill the old Knights heart, I suppressed the sight of the empty chest. Don Francesco and his Lady, glad to hear their son in law speak, but sorry to understand the sum of his woful relation, fell both into an extasie. At length the old man com­ming to himself said. Ah my dear son Maffeo, whose presence I have wished for so long time. What a disastrous chance is this? what spitefull mishap? what an horrible event? it seem­eth that fortune (that monstrous Goddesse) hath endeavou­red to exercise what mischief she can upon thee and thine. Ah Maffeo, thou séest these silver hairs which cover my face, are tokens how neare I approach to my grave; and yet this heart, which is inclosed in this weak and feeble body, is such, that I might with shield and spear, encounter with fickle for­tune, I doubt not but I should become victorious. But alas, force, manhood, courage, or valour cannot prevail in this case; and therefore onely resteth that we put on the armour of hope. It is not impossible, (séeing my daughter and her son were so well placed in a chest) that we should hear of her, and perhaps before we are aware, may see her. Wherefore séeing the Gods have saved you, and amidst such a multitude of misfor­tunes brought you home to your Country, I think it not a­misse that you should acquaint your self with the estate of your goods, and take possession of such lands and houses which, your honourable father dying, your traiterous cousin Sylvestro inherited. Whereunto I answered, that well I might do it, but never should enjoy any pleasure though all the goods, riches, and kingdomes of the world were mine, unlesse I had my Eleonora and her child present with me: and therefore I meant not to stay at Constantinople. Which done, I took my leave of my kind father, and mother in law (who so wept at my departure, that it might have moved any man to com­miseration) and so leaving them, I betook me to my fortune, meaning to try whether she would some time turn her whéel, and become more favourable then she was accustomed to be. After I had travelled by sea and land, so far that I marched [Page] through most parts of Europe, through a great part of Asia, and Affrick, at last I shipped from the West-Indies, towards Spain, where I had béen thrée times before. For I know not how, my mind gave me that if she lived, I should hear of her there, thinking that she could land no where but in Spain, sée­ing that our ship was drowned near the coast thereof. But all helped not in all those thrée years (for so long I had travelled sithens my last departure from Constantinople) no living creature could tell me any news of Eleonora or the child And therefore I would not return to my country, but thought to run over all Spain, and throughly search the whole Country, for I hoped not to find her in any place, if I found her not in Spain; though my hope was little or none to find her at all, considering that I had séen, the unhappy chest spoiled of her carriage. When I had ranged up and down the dry fields and sandy meadows of the country nine days, at length I came into a most pleasant green, through which there can as delectable a river as mans eye might behold, the banks where­of were beset with Orange and Lemon trees; which by reason of their fruit cast forth such a fragrant and odoriferous smell, that the very odour thereof did perfume the air in such man­ner, that it did spread the same smell over all the neighbour greens and meadows of that quarter. So that the coldnesse of the river, the shadow of the trees, and the odoriferous scent of the fruit, enticed me to rest my weary limbs on the river side; where the pleasing noise of the murmuring stream did bring me into the sweetest sleep I could have wished. You must note, that the b [...]nk on the other side of the river was something high by reason whereof, my dear Eleonora (whom I so painfully sought) lay in the grasse against the bank on the other side the river, not being seen. Who whilest I was a sleep, chanced to rise up, and séeing me lie with my face upward knew me. How glad she was (gentle shepheards) I leave unto your discretion to judge of. But she willing to try what remembrance I had of her plucked off a lemon in co­lor like to the Indian gold, and in it ingraved this distichon.

And casting the carved lemon on my breast, she lurked be­hind the bank lest I should sée her. But I slept so soundly, that although I felt the lemon fall just upon my breast, yet I started not; for in that paradice I feared nothing: but ima­gining that the lemon was shaken off by the wind, I was loth to give over my sléep so soon, and therefore I turned my self to fall into sléep again. But as I held the lemon that was cast at me in my hand, I felt that it was something rough: willing therefore to see what kind of lemon it was, I read the poesse, and no sooner espied the name of Eleonora, but my heart seemed to leap out of my body for joy. Yet because I saw not her, nor any man in the world near me, I could not tell what to imagine of that lemon; but concluded at last, that the Gods had sent me that eminent token in sign that I should hear of Eleonora and the child. At length she called on the other side of the bank, Maffeo, Maffeo, why doest thou not speak to thy Eleonora? Wherewith I as a man raging mad, looked up to the skies, sometimes down into the river, and sometimes over the meadow, and séeing no mortall wight, I brake out into this open exclamation.

O miserable wretch that I am! I ran over the world to séek my beloved Eleonora, and now I have found her, I can­not see her. Where art thou Eleonora, where art thou? Or doth an eccho rebound the sound of thy voice from the other part of the world unto mine ears? Or do I dream? Or do I ima­gine to hear that which I do not? Or is it the ghost of Ele­onora that calleth unto her Maffeo? And if that be, why am not I a ghost also? Or have the Gods hearing her bewail her miseries pittied her complaints, and changed her into one of these delectable lemon trees? Or have the sacred nimphs be­ing ravished with the love of Eleonoraes beauty, led her with them into y ^e secret bowels of this pleasant river? surely I be­leeve [Page] it is so. And therefore Maffeo make hast to follow her. Cast thy self into the silver streams Maffeo, and they will bring thee to thy wished and long sought for Eleonora.

Thus I being ready to leap into the water, Eleonora rose up, and came on the top of the bank, right over against me, saying. Stay Maffeo, stay, Eleonora is here; and here mayest thou behold thy son Alonso. At the fight whereof I was so a­mazed, that I knew not whether I did but dream, or whether it was so indeed. At last knitting my wits together, I per­ceived that I was not deceived or inchanted, but that with my naturall eys I beheld my wife and my son, being a pretty tall wag about four years old. But to see the churlish nature of fortune who though she seem to favour men, yet she doth in such manner with wrinkled frowns intermingle her fa­vours, that they have no cause fully to rejoice of her benefits. And so it fared with us, for what greater chance in the world might have glutted our hearts more with joy then this that I seeking Eleonora found her, and Eleonora seeking Maffeo found him likewise, each of them saluting the other, and speaking the one to the other? And yet contrarily, what greater grief then this that we had found each other, saw each other, and spake one to another, and yet could not come one to the other; being separated by that, being somthing large and very deep. I could not swim, Eleonora lesse: and so we were in the pitty­fullest taking that might be in the world.

Eleonora told me that she had travelled one day and a half along the bank-side of the river, and had seen no bridge from the place where she was, unto the side where I was, Insomuch that we could not imagine how we might do to travell both together; for we were [...]oath (seeing we had so happily met with each other) to part again, fearing least we should hazard our selves into danger of our former mischance. What remedy I wanted my sword to cut down trees to serve me for a bridge, and loose wood there was none. Nothing rested but this, that we should travell along the river by the banks side, she of the one side of it, and I on the other [Page] side of it, untill such time as we had found means to get to­gether.

After we had marched in that sort four or five hours, (in which space she had declared me how she was saved from the present danger of drowning, by the means of a Spanish gal­ley; how that the chief ruler of the staves that rowed in the galley kept her in a close prison, because she would not con­sent to his wicked and filthy desires; and how that by means of one of the galley slaves after she had been in that miserable and loathsome captivity two years and a half, set on shore, and brought to a country village not passing forty miles from the place where I found her) we met with a shepheard & his wife, who told us that we should within a small mile find a bridge to passe over the river, whereof we were passing glad. And in short space reaching to the bridge, I passed over to the other side, and embraced my beloved Eleonora, & my young Olphon­sus, who began prettily well to prattle in the Spanish lan­guage, for his mother used continually to speak Spanish unto him. But mark (gentle shepheards) how fortune still sought to bar us from perfect felicity. For as we were thus imbracing one the other, and rejoycing of our good successe after so much ill suck and so many dangerous chances; came thrée tall lubberly Moors, each having a good cudgell in his fist who approaching near us, and being enamoured with the beauty of Eleonora, presently fell upon me, and hinding me hand and foot, rowled me to the bank-side where they left me; But Eleonora and the boy they carried with them, whither I knew not, untill the next morning, that she having escaped from the Villains (who were so busie in robbing a Farmers house, that they took but little regard of her) told me her self, being returned to the same place where they left me b [...]und. You must note, that the thée vs had set Eleonora with her child upon this horse which they had stolen, with all the furniture belonging unto it, from some Farmer by the way, and had loa­den it with swords and other weapons, with all which, she ran away, and rested not till she approached the bridge, néer [Page] which I lay bound. I very glad to sée her and my son incon­tinently cast of all the weapons and other trash, saving this sword which I kept for my defence. And thinking it scarce safe to stay long in that place we rode on a good pace, till we reached to a small village, where we lighted.

Assoon as we perceived the darknesse of the night to fly from the beautifull glimps of Lady Aurora, to horse we hied, and rode on still towards the next haven. But Phoebus dart­ing his beams on the plains, so enflamed the air with the heat thereof, that we were compelled about mid-day to alight, and to shroud our selves from the Sun, under a Trée that stood in the middest of the high-way. The passing heat made me slumber, and from that slumbring I fel so fast asleep, that a­waking, I missed Eleonora, and what was become of her, I knew not, but that the child which was by me cried and told me as well as it could, that the naughty man had run away with his mother. Whereby I suspected that some villain or other was by Fortune suborned again to crosse me with her currish envy. In what grief and perplexity I was at that pre­sent time, you may think (gentle shepheards) by your selves how perplexed you would be if you were in the like case: yet séeing it was not the first time I had been in like taking, I stuck to patience, and cleaved to hope. For my heart was so hardened in unfortunate events, & unhappy chances, that con­temning Fortune and all her power, I could better behave my self in adversity then I was accustomed. And therefore spéedi­ly leaping on horseback, I took up my Alonso with me, & rode till I came to the next village, where leaving the child with an honest shepheard (unto whom I declared y ^e case wherein I was, promising to reward him throughly for the boys mainte­nance til I fetched him thēce, which I hoped would not have been long) & desiring him to use it well, I posted thēce to séek swéet Eleonora, that poor Eleonora whose life was so miserable, because so dear to me. As I coursed with my steed up & down the wildest and solitariest places of the country at length this morning (being the sixt day after I lost Eleonora) I fel into y ^e [Page] hands of the same villains that took away Eleonora the first time, when they tyed me by the unfortunate Bridge. These on every side assailed me, some behind, some before, and some of them on each side of me: for they had increased their com­pany by four men, so that there were seven of them. Yet by the help of the Gods and my sword, I so acquitted my self, that with no worse wounds then these, I got from them, and recovered this Scarff, which Eleonora for hast had forgotten and left behind her, when she ran away with this horse.

Thus (gentle shepheards) have you heard the whole histo­ry of my life, and I hope you are satisfied as concerning your question. Now I am to request you, to give me leave to fol­low on my journey; for until I find Eleonora, I cannot rest. And so Maffeo, thanking them for their courteous entertain­ment, took his leave and departed. Now therefore leaving him to séek Eleonora, we will proceed in rehearsing the suc­cesse of Perierio his strange love.

CHAP. IX. How Perierio resolved to travel in search of the Lady on whom he was enamoured, and how he obtained leave of his father under pretence of becomming a Scholler.

PErierio being intreated by his sisters to tell them whom he loved, though he could not name her, for that he knew her not; yet he let them know as much as he could tell, and declared the whole mat­ter unto them; how he met with that Lady by chance, how that she asked him his name and country: and how there­with she conveyed her self out of sight on the sudden. Euphilia and Perina were very sorry, that their brothers love was of such a kind, that it might not be remedied, but by giving over love. For it was altogether casual and accidentary, nei­ther [Page] might they hope that ever he might enjoy his love, for that there was nothing lesse like, yea it séemed rather impos­sible.

For they considered, first, that he had never séen the Lady before that time nor after; by reason whereof, though he chan­ced to sée her, perchance should not know her. Secondly, they marked that he knew not her name, her parents, or Country, to enquire after her: so that the nearest place he knew where he might find her, was the world, and the properest individi­um to denominate her, was a certain woman.

And lastly, they perpended that she sought for some other Knight, who had her heart in hold; and therefore a very hard matter, though Perierio should find her, to obtain her love. All this considered and weighed, they sought to root love out of Perierio his brest, which Cupid had so pierced with his dart, that all the perswasions of the world could not serve to extin­guish the fire which was kindled in his heart, and increased more and more dayly. In so much that the fire being enfla­med, and beginning to torment him with insupportable pain, he determined to commit himself and his case to Fortune, ho­ping, that as the cause of his grief was accidentary, so the ef­fect might by chance be redressed and remedied.

Perierio thus resolved, asked, and obtained leave (though with much adde) of his aged father, to travel into far coun­tries, to sée and learn such things as a young Gentleman ought to know, alledging that there was nothing more pe­remptory to youth, then to passe over those years which are apt to comprehend and learn, in foul obscurity of ignorance. In so much that a young man that will live in credit and re­putation, ought to travel into strange countries, to be ac­quainted with forreign manners and governments, to learn tongues, to haunt Vniversities, and insinuate himself into the company of learned men. All this Father (quoth Peri­erio) is necessary for them that will have their lives famous, and death honourable.

Old Camillo replied with Horace: ‘Coelum non animum mutant, qui trans mane currunt.’ Men change not their manners, but the aire, that run from country to country, Perierio. And therefore I am not of their opinion that believe that men by far travelling from home, can attain to wisdome and humane prudence. For I think, that that is not gotten by running into far Countries, or by living in exile farre from home, but rather by communi­cation and conversation of wise men. Yet Perierio séeing that here in this multitude of shepheards, little wisdome is to be learned, or little profit to experience and prudence to be rea­ped. I and content that thou go to the Vniversity of Salaman­ca, which is within this kingdom, and there to repeat such ru­diments as thou hast begun at Rome, that thou mayst after­ward be apt to greater studies, and to exorn and beautifie thy mind with the brightness of the liberal Sciences which are the lights of humane understanding: Lastly, also to fense thy mind with wise and sage precepts of Phylosophy, that after thou hast attained to the knowledge of natural things, thou maist use moral Philosophy to moderate thy affections, and to follow that which thou knowest to be honourable and profi­table, shunning the contrary. Then art thou fully armed to passe forward, & to travel into other countries to be acquain­ted with strange customes, or to learn diverse tongues; o­therwise what profiteth it to have coursed through sundry and strange regions, and to have séen many kingdomes, and man­ners of divers Nations, if he that travelleth wanteth the ripeness of wit and judgement to reap profit by his being a­broad: Therefore Perierio, think not that I disallow of tra­velling, but would have them that take that course, not to have their stomacks empty, but first guard themselves with the knowledge of Philosophy and humanity, and furnish themselves with provision necessary to such journeying. For I remember that Homer and Virgil to describe and form an [Page] heroical man adorned with all vertues, fained that Ulysses and Aeneas, had travelled through all the world; and not thinking this sufficient, they fained that they descended into hell, and went into the Elizian Fields, and knew those that were in them.

Perierio hearing his father alledge such points as made for his purpose, was excéeding glad, at length obtained his Fa­thers good will to leave the countrey and rustick company of Shepheards, to haunt the comely and seemly conversation of Schollers though his mind was more moved to his Lady then to the Vniversity, whither old Camilla determined to send him. And although Euphilia and Perina knew the colour wher­with he painted the occasion of his travelling, yet they re­served the whole sorrow to themselves, without declaring it to their father, fearing lest he should be discouraged and dis­comforted thereby, that he might hinder his health, and for grief fall into sickness, considering that old age is so subject to diseases, that the least cause in the world of discontent is sufficient to subvert the estate of health in an aged person.

CHAP. X. How Perierio in his journey met with the fair Shepherdess Ismenia with whom he departed towards the Temple of Diana.

PErierio lifted up with the wings of hope, in a manner doubted not but his fortune would be more favourable then she had been, ta­king his leave of his father and his sisters, he betook himself to his journy, intending to go to the Vniversity of Salamanea, as his fa­ther wished but in such order y ^t he would take y ^e néerest way about to sée if Fortune would once again favour him with that sight which made such an impression in his heart, that neither continuance of time, nor contrariety of thought, was able to rase out the print thereof.

Thus Perierio having travelled six dayes through Woods, [Page] dales, bushes, gréens, medows, hills, valies, and other soli­tary place, and yet had not met with that which he sought, nor séen any likelihood thereof, began to be wonderfully dis­comforted, and thought his pain vainly bestowed, séeing that Fortune was blinde and made no discretion of persons, but ever wrought by chance, bestowing her favours not where she would, but where they fell. Perierio thus discomforted, climing on the top of a hil, heard a most swéet and melodious voyce sounding to a harp within a little wood where the high O [...]kes made a pleasant shadow. And drawing néer to the wood, he marked that it was the voice of a shepheard, who af­ter she had ended her song, began thus to complaine of her misfortune. No doubt but all the starrs that from the skies send light on the earth, have agréed and consented to my mis­hap and ill fortune; neither is there any thing on earth, that may yield me any comfort or consolation; but love which is subject to fear, turneth and converteth my sorrowfull soule into pure ice. Ah Fortune, how canst thou be so cruel? How canst thou forbear to succour a heart so distressed as mine, sée­ing that I am falsly suspected of disloyalty? And therefore I must accuse thée Lexander, thou art the man whom I must burthen with the cause of all my grief; unto thée do I disco­ver and unfold my plaints, hard-hearted and cruell Lexander, in whom no pitty taketh place: For if thou wer'st of my side, I would not care though Heaven Earth Love and For­tune were against me, and enemies unto me. After that she had ended her complaint, she fetched a heavy sigh from her heart, and therewith wept so bitterly, that Perierio might easily perceive that she was in that pittiful and lamentable taking, by reason that her husband falsly suspected her to be disloyal and unfaithful; so that he entred into the wood and found her sitting upon the grasse in the shade, néere to a de­lectable Fountain, which issuing from the top of the hill, ran along a great part of the wood in divers places. But when she saw Perierio comming neer her, though she was something discontented that she was interpelled amidst her [Page] passions; yet beholding that he seemed by his behaviour to be some Shepheard of great account, being most courteously by him greeted, saluted him likewise with such modesty, that he began to misdoubt whether she were Alcida the promised spouse of Marcelio. (For he called to mind how that Marcelio had told him and his sisters, that Alcida had cloathed her self in the habit of a Shepheard, because she might be the harder to be found by him) and therefore spake thus unto her, Beau­tiful Shepheard (for so your coat bewrayeth, though your sin­gular grace make me suspect that your calling is contrary to your colours,) I shall desire you not to be discomforted, though I have troubled you at this time, intruding my self into your company, for as I have discourteously offended, so shall you find me most ready to make amends for my boldnes. Gentle shepheard (answered she) I am so forsaken of al com­fort and solace, that good company cannot offend me, & there­fore where no fault is committed there is nothing to be mis­constred of. And to put you out of suspition, know that I am a shepheard as wel in vocation as in habit, called I [...]menia, and born néer to the Temple of Minerva, in the kingdom of Por­tugal: But I pray you what chance hath brought you hither into these Countries, or do you by hap dwell hereabout? In truth Ismenia, (quoth Periorio) my ill fortune hath brought me hither, for I neither dwell here, nor ever was in this place before; I was born in Italy, but with my father and sisters transported to the fields annexed to the river Epla, a­bout four or five dayes journey hence. I know the place ve­ry well, quoth Ismenia, it is not far from the pasture where fair Euphilia, so renowned in all that quarter, doth féed her shéep. I hear you name my sister (quoth Perierio) and am glad to have met with one that is not wholly unacquainted with our Family. What say you (quoth Ismenia?) In truth unto a woman so distressed as I am being desolate and forsaken of my loving husband, nothing could have hapned more wished for, then to have met with such honest and vertuous compa­ny as it hath pleased the Gods to comfort me withall, in di­recting [Page] your self towards these woods. And forasmuch as I am in mind to go to the Temple of Diana, if your journey ly that way, I shall think my self among so many mishaps, to have received no small favour of Fortune. As for me (quoth Perierio) where I am I know not, nor whether I may go, and therefore am induced to think that Fortune beginneth to repent her self of her shrewdnesse, in that she hath favou­red me with so worthy a guide as your self, to lead me forth of my straying errours to some place where I may enquire for directions in my journey. And I am most passing glad, that you go towards the Temple of Diana; of the sumptu­ousnesse whereof, I have heard such famous relation among the Shepheards, in the Village néer my fathers Farme, that I have a long time been moved with great desire to see the same. And therefore fair Shepheard, take which way you will, and Perierio will follow you. Ismenia glad that this Shepheard was in her company, began to march, ho­ping before Phoebus should attain to his Western home, that they should reach to a Farme where she thought that they might be lodged that night: But to shun tediousnesse in their wearisome journey, Perierio desired her to recount and declare the cause of her griefe unto him. Ismenia an­swered, that although the memory thereof could not but pierce her heart with the prick of exceeding sorrow, yet notwithstanding because he desired whom she could not say nay, she was content to make a pastime of her misery. And thus in this ensuing Chapter began the History of her Tragedy.

CHAP. XI. How Lexander was enamoured on Ismenia, and how he was crost in his love by his father Filene.

IN our Village dwelled a certain Farmer that had a comely youth to his son, in beauty pas­sing all the Shepheards thereabout, being called Alanio, who féeding his shéep in a pasture ground, not far from ours used some­times to come to me and keep me company sitting in the shadow by me, and telling of tales, or passing over the time with some other kind of honest recreation; whereby at last grew such a familiar acquaintance betwixt us, that love joyning our hearts together, we were not well while we were separated the one from the others company. To be short, he loved me, and was loved of me. There was in the same Village a fair beautiful Shepheardesse called Selvagia, who for her beauty might be compared with Venus in the valley before Parys, when she won the golden Apple. Of which Shepheard my Alanio became enamoured; wher­upon I to be revenged on him fained to favour Lexander his deadly enemy. Which fained love of mine, at length by rea­son of the acquaintance that grew between us, changed into such pure and true love, that by reason thereof I am fallen into the misery, in which I now finde my selfe at this pre­sent.

Now, continuing the history of my life, you shall know that Lexanders father called Filene, sometimes frequented my fathers house, by reason of certain businesse that my father and he had betwéen them concerning Oxen and Kyne, and séeing me although he was something old, yet he fell in love with me and that so greatly, that he became foolish, mad, and frantick: He became so importunate unto me, and troubling me above a thousand times, daily declared me his passions & [Page] grief, but all could not help: For I would never give eare to his prattle, nor mark what he said, and though he had been much younger or lesse aged, and by many parts more perfect then he was, yet for him could I not have forgotten his son Lexander, who had so won my heart, that I had wholly given him the possession thereof. The old man knew not what friendship was between his son and me, for Lexander was so obeysant and dutifull, that he behaved himself secretly in wooing me, least his father knowing thereof should have re­buked him, and have occasion to be angry with him. And in like manner, was Lexander altogether ignorant of his fathers folly, who because he should not give his son example of light­nesse, took all the regard he might to his love from him. Ne­verthelesse the foolish cocks-comb, ceased not to molest me with importunate requests to take him to my husband. He made me wonderful large proffers, he promised to give me many cloathes and jewels, and he sent me many Letters, ho­ping thereby to change my mind. In his time he had been a Shepheard most excellently qualified, eloquent in spéech, and witty, which you may easily gather by a Letter which he wrote me, as I yet remember.

Filene sent me this Letter and many more, with other Songs and Sonnets, wherewith if I had bin as greatly mo­ved as contented and delighted, he had Iudged himself happy, and had been ill wedded; but it was impossible to finde any where [Page] means whereby the picture and image of my beloved Lex­ander, might be rased out of my heart; For he so pleased me, and was so constant and perfect in love, that his wil and mine was but one will, his word and mine one word, and his heart and mine one heart. Never did he perform less in deed, then in word he promised. His doings were alwaies correspondent to his sayings. And as for me, what Lexander liked, I could not mislike; and whatsoever displeased him, was horrible to Ismenia. In this pleasant life and sweet concord having passed certain years, we purposed to confirm and establish our con­tent, and to signe our wished desire with the seale of honest and chaste marriage. And although Lexander before he would take me to his wife, intended to speak unto his father first, and to ask his consent as it beséemed an obedient son to do, yet when I had advertised him how that his father would not be willing to agrée unto that match, by reason of the foolish de­sire he had himself to take me in marriage he estéeming more of his own content and the estate of his own life, then of his due obeysance towards his father, concealed the matter. So that this unfortunate marriage, was made with the consent and good will of my father, at whose house the wedding was kept, where there was such feasts, games, sports and pastimes held, in respect of our marriage that it was spoken of in all the Boroughs and Villages thereabout. When the amorous old man knew that his own son had deprived him of his love, he became so furious against Lexander and me, that he hated us both, and abhorred us worse then death it self, in such man­ner that he would never after sée us, or come néer us.

On the other side, a certain shepheardess of the same vilage, called Felisarde, who so fancied Lexander, that she almost fell mad for love of him (who made no account of her by reason that he loved me so well, and because she was an elderly Maid and nothing well complexioned,) séeing that he whom she so dearly loved had wedded me, almost fell into dispair. In so much that our marriage bred us two deadly enemies. The an­gry old man to have occasion to disinherit his son, determi­ned [Page] to marry some fair young woman, by whom he might have children; but though he was excéeding rich, yet all the shepheards of our country disdained to be married unto him. except Felisarde onely, who to have opportunity to allure my husband to her unlawfull and dishonest lust, (for she had not as yet forgotten the love of Lexander) willingly took old Fi­lene to her husband. She had not long time béen married, but she began to practise meanes to gain the love of my husband, and for that intent she sent a Maid that served her, called Syl­veria, unto Lexander, to tell him that if he would grant her her will, she would obtain pardon for him from his father; and besides, she would do him much pleasure, and shew him great favour; but she could never corrupt him with all her large proffers and fair promises to consent to her wicked wil; wherefore she considering that she was so despised and so lit­tle regarded of Lexander, began mortally to hate him, and en­devoured continually to move her husband more and more to indignation against his son. Neither was she content with that but determined also to practise a strange and villanous treason against us both; for she had in such a maner won the heart of Sylveria her maid, by reason of her flattering promises and other favours which she had done her, that she was ready to do whatsoever she would have her, although it had been a­gainst Lexander, whom she respected for the time that she had served in his fathers house. So that they secretly consulted a­mong themselves, how they might be revenged of me, and at the hour appointed for the execution thereof, Sylveria went forth of the Village, and comming to a certain Gréen néere the River, where Lexander used to féed his shéep, she stepped unto him, and with a troubled countenance as if she had some matter of great importance to tell him, spake unto him in this maner. Ah Lexander, how well and prudently have you done in eschuing the love of your wicked mother in law, unto which although I sometimes encited you, yet know that I did so by reason of her importunate requests; but now I know how the matter standeth, she shall not be able any more to [Page] make me the messenger of her dishonesties, I am acquainted with some of her secrets that concern her nearly, and are such, that if you knew them, although your father be so cruell unto you, yet would you not leave to hazard your life for his ho­nour. I will not say any more, because I know you to be so wise, and indued with such discretion, that it shall not be ne­cessary for me to use many words and reasons in your behalf. Lexander being astonished to hear her talk in this order, mis­doubted some dishonesty of his step-mother. But to know the truth, and to be throughly informed, he desired Sylveria o­penly to shew him all the matter, and to let him hear what it was that she knew of Fehsarde her mistresse. At first she would be prayed, séeming to be unwilling to disclose a mat­ter so secret; but at length she declaring that unto Lexander, which he demanded of her, and which she so greatly desired to tell him, stuffed him with a lie most notably well forged and contrived. Saying, and considering that it is a matter of great weight both unto your self and your father Filene in like manner, to know that which I know: I will most plainly declare it unto you, assuring my self that you will not let any man know how that I have discovered this secret unto you. You shall understand, that your mother in law Felisarde hath purposed to defile your fathers bed with a certain shepheard, whose name I will not tell you, séeing it lyeth in you to know him if you please; for if you will come this evening and enter into that place where I will lead you, you shall finde the Traitress with the Adulterer in your fathers house, for they have so appointed it, because that Filene your father doth this night lye abroad, and doth not returne till to mor­row about midday, by reason of certain affaires moving him thereto. Therefore prepare your self (if you will follow my counsaile) and about eleven of the clock at night come unto me to our house, where I will bring you to the place, where you may easily do that which you shall think convenient for the honor and credit of your father; and by meanes whereof, you may also be reconciled unto him. Sylveria said all this, dis­sembling [Page] so cunningly, that Lexander resolved to put himself in danger to be revenged of him that thought so fouly to dis­honour his father: And thus the traitress Sylveria, glad that she had deceived my husband by the counsel of Felisarde, retur­ned home, to let Felisarde know the effect of her talk with Lex­ander, and what he appointed to do.

CHAP. IX. How Lexander, through the treachery of Felisarde and Sylveria, would have slain his father, and what ensued thereon.

THe obscure night had not so soon vayled the aire with the curtain of darkness, but Lexander comming to the Village, and taking a dagger which he had gotten by the decease of his Vn­cle Palemon, went just at eleven of the clock at night to his fathers house, where Sylveria expected him, accor­ding as they had ordained. Where was ever such treason seen? Or where such malice thought? She took him by the innocent hand, and ascending the staires as softly as they might, she led him to the chamber doore where Filene his fa­ther lay with Felisarde asleep; when she had brought him there, she said, Lo Lexander now are you in place where you ought to have your heart and hand required in such a case. Enter into this chamber, and ther [...] you shal finde your step-mother in bed with the adulterer. With that she got away, and retired as swift as she could. Lexander being deceived by that dissembling traitress gave faith to her words, and in­couraging himself, drew his Punyard, and having thrust open the doore with his foot, entered into the Chamber like a furious man, and being inraged, with a loud voyce uttered these words: Traytor, I will presently make thée dye, the loves of Felisarde shall but little availe thée; nay they shall be the cause of thy death and ruine. And so saying, altogether enraged, and not knowing who was in bed with Felisarde his [Page] stepmother, lifted up his hand to clap his weapon into his fa­thers brest; but as Fortune would have it, old Filene knew his son by reason of the light which was in the chamber, and thinking that Lexander purposely came to kill him, because he had so ill used him both in word and déed, sate upright in his bed, and crossing his arms spake thus unto Lexander. Ah my son, what cruelty moveth thee to become the butcher of thy natural father? Call your judgement, and enter into your wits again, and seek not to shed my blood, or tearm my life with so tragical an end. For if I have been something rigorous unto you, and unnaturally dealt with you being my son, I crave pardon, intending to become most favourable un­to you ever hereafter. When Lexander perceived the treason of Sylveria, which had almost been cause that he had slain his own father, he fell into such an extasie, that his force failed him, and his dagger fell out of his hand without his know­ledge; for he was so amazed of the treason which he had com­mitted against his father (had not God provided the contrary) that he could not feel his weapon drop out of his hand, but al­together troubled and confounded like a man that was be­reft of all his sences, went presently out of the chamber, and out of his house. Felisarde knowing what should chance that night, watched for the comming of Lexander, who was no sooner entred in the chamber, but she leaping out of her bed fled into a more inward and back room, where bar­ring up the door, she fréed and exempted her self from the fu­ry and anger of Lexander. But when she saw that he was de­parted, and by reason thereof she out of danger, returning to her bed where Filene lay, trembling at the peril which he had so wonderfully escaped, she began to stir up her husband a­gainst Lexander his son, exclaiming in this manner.

O Filene, now may you sée what a son you have, and know that to be most true which I so often have admonished you, concerning his evil nature and inclination.

O cruel Lexander! O traytor Lexander! how commeth it to passe that Heaven doth not confound thée? why doth not [Page] the earth open and swallow thée up into her bowels? why do not the brute beasts tear thée to pieces? and why do not all men persecute thee, and punish thee according to thy heinous actions. Accursed be thy mariage, accursed be thy disobeisance, accursed be thy loves, and accursed be thy Ismenia, séeing that she hath inticed thée to execute such a cruel act and abhomi­nable déed. Ah Traitor, thou hast not chastised the shepheard Alanio, who unto thy great dishonour and shame, hath disho­nestly haunted and entertained thy wife Ismenia, whom she loveth better then thy self, and yet thou wouldest kill & mas­sacre thy owne father, who alwayes hath made great account of thy life, honor and credit. Ah unhappy father! Ah unfortu­nate old man! what fault hast thou committed so great, as to be slain and murthered by thy son? by him whom thou hast engendred? whom thou hast brought up and nourished? And for whom thou hast suffered a thousand troubles? Now ther­fore take heart, cease henceforth to bear him any more love or affection; commit him to the rigor of the law, that he may be punished as he hath deserved; for if he that hath commit­ted so execrable an offence escape due punishment, every diso­bedient child will be emboldened and unfearful, and thine at length will in good earnest lay hands on thée to shorten the course of thy odious life.

Sorrowful and troubled Filene, altogether amazed and fearful, hearing his wives voyce, and weighing the horrible treason which his son had thought to commit upon his person became so angry, that taking up the dagger which Lexander (as I told you) had let fall out of his hand, went forth as soon as the day appeared, to assemble the Iustices of peace and chiefest of the Village together in the criminal Court, where he with aboundance of teares flowing out of his eyes, spake unto them in this manner.

I call God to witnesse (most excellent shepheards) that I am so grieved with that which I am to declare unto you that I greatly fear, lest my spirit and breath faile me before I have opened the matter unto you. Especially séeing it is such [Page] that I may be estéemed most cruel, in that I publikely com­plain of my son, expounding his misdeeds and wickednes un­to you, which being so strange, that I know not how it may be accordingly punished and chastised, I beseech you to see what is convenient to be done in this case, to prescribe him such and so just a punishment, that other children may there­by take a manifest example how to behave themselvs towards their parents. Ye know very well, that I have nourished him carefully, and maintained him as a father ought to do, brought him up painfuly, taught him and instructed him, and what trouble, paines, and labour I have had with him, what counsel I continually have given him, and how mildly I have rebuked and chastised him in his youth. Now is he sore­ly against my will married to the Shepheardess Ismenia, and because I have rebuked him, therefore instead of revenging himielf on the shepheard Alanio, who shamefully entertain­eth (as all the Village knoweth) the said Ismenia his wife, he hath turned his rage against me, intending to murder me: He found meanes the last night to enter into my house, yea into my bed-chamber where I lay and slept with my wife Fe­lisarde, and there with this ponyard would have slain me: and verily had dispatched me, if God of his grace had not taken his force from him, in such sort, that he could not hold the dagger in his hand, but was constrained to let it fall, and so confounded and bereft of his sences, departed without execu­ting his damnable enterprise. And this is it that I had to say, thus is the matter verily passed, as my beloved spouse can better inform you. But for as much as I certainly know that my son Lexander had not taken upon him to commit such an horrible treason against me his father, unlesse he had been counselled and provoked thereto by the inticements and al­lurements of his wife Ismenia, I beseech you to perpend and weigh what ought herein to be done, to the end that my son may be punished for his offence, and false Ismenia also, as well for the counsel which she hath given unto her husband, as for her lightnesse and dishonest love towards Alanio.

Filene had scarce ended his tale, but the people began to murmure and make such a noyse, that it séemed that the whole Village should have presently sunck in the ground; in so much that the hearts of all the Shepheards were troubled, and all conceived generally mortal hatred against Lexander. Some said, that it was pitty he should live till Phoebus had reached to his Meridian seat; others said, that he ought to be cast into the River; others, that it was pitty if he were not burned quick; and others, that he ought to be committed to the mercy of the cruel and savage beasts: finally, there was no one person that was not stirred up against him. Besides, they did likewise all marvel of that which Filene falsly allea­ged concerning my life; but they were neverthelesse all of them so amazed at the fact Lexander, that they did not greatly hearken to the accusation and impeachment which Filene most falsly (by reason of Felisarde his wives deceitful spéech) had made against me.

When Lexander had heard what his father had deposed against him, in the Court of criminal cause, in the presence of the Iustices and audience of all the people, he was wonder­fully grieved; & besides, when he understood what his father had said against me, he conceived such excéeding sorrow, that it passeth my ability to express the same. And thence com­meth all my grief, thence took my evil it offspring, that was the cause and beginning of all my labours, travel, pain, and sorrowes. For my dear husband Lexander, remembring that in times past I did love, & was loved of Alanio, and that love forgotten and dead, oftentimes may be renewed and revived again, because he saw that the Shepheard Alanio (whom I could not abide to sée, & whom I abhorred for Lexanders sake) was yet amourous of me, daily shewing me such curtesies and importunate cherishments, he thought verily, and perswaded himself that all was most certain and true which his father had spoken of me in the face of the world. In such maner, that he dispairing as well for the treason committed unto him by Traitress Sylveria, as for the suspition which he conceived of [Page] me, departed incontinently from the village: since which time he was never séen there, nor any news brought what is be­come of him. And as I knew that he was departed, and the cause wherefore, by report of certain shepheards his friends, (unto whom he had rehearsed the whole matter,) I likewise left the village to séek him and intend not to rest any where, untill I find my sweat spouse, to the end that I may excuse and clear my self unto him of that fault which is falsly impu­ted to me, and which he suspecteth to be most true. It is long since I have wandred up and down through the world to seek my husband and although I have sought him and inquired for him in most places, and especially all the chiefest and principall farmes, houses, villages, and boroughs of the coun­try, yet can I not hear any thing of him. The best adventure that I have had in this my endlesse voyage, was, that two days after I departed from our village, in a certain valley, I met the traitresse Sylveria, who having heard of the volunta­ry exile and banishment of my husband Lexander, went after him to discover her treason unto him, repenting that she had so highly offended him. But she had not as yet found him: and as soon as she saw me, she approached near me, and falling fi [...]t on her face, cried me mercy, and at my will, rising she opened the whole matter vnto me Whereof I was not a little glad, thereby understanding how that abhominable treason was practised against us. And although I was but a weak woman yet I could have unlaced the traitresse members, and teared her to piece-meal with mine own hands, yet I withheld my self because she onely could remedy my harm, by reporting her own mischief. I willed her diligently to seek my beloved Lexander, and to give him notice how all the matter was pas­sed: and therewith on the sudden, I left her going one way, and I came anut her, to the end that either of us might find him.

Thus gentle shepheard, have you heard the plain and true rehearsall of all my miseries and calamities. And for as much as Phoebus is not yet drowsie or sleepy, nor like to reach to his [Page] Western bed so soon: if in like manner you (as I have done) will take pleasure in reporting the cause and off-spring of your wandring errors, I doubt not but we shall reach to the place (where I hope we shall rest this night) by that time that you have added the canclusion to your narration. Alas (quoth Perierio) the conclusion must néeds follow quickly, where the narration is sooner ended then begun. For all the speciallity that I can use in declaring the cause of my misery, is this ge­nerall rule, that I know that I am most miserable. For I love, but whom I know not: and that is all I can say concer­ning my self.

Perierio hod scarce ended his words, but Ismenia made sign that he should hearken to a certain voice which she thought to Have heard in the woods; for there was a Gentlewoman in the habit of a shepheard not far from the place where they were, which thus complained of her mishap.

Ah Fortune, have I thus long had thee in estimation and yeelded thee such honour; and doest thou reward me with con­tinuall and never ceasing travel? Ah unthankful and ingrate­full Goddesse! If a Goddesse. For Gods are just, constant, merciful; thou inconstant, cruel and most unjust: by the rule of contraries, therefore art thou no Goddesse. Ah foolish wench be wise at last being taught by experience, and instead of wor­shipping fortune, curse her, detest her, and defie her; and per­swade thy self that the Gods which are jealous, and therefore wrathfull, and incensed with anger against those that deprive them of the honour due unto them, and give unto others have thrown thée into this Charybdis of miseries, to punish and cha­stise thy hainous offence committed against them in wor­shipping that Idoll fortune. Wherefore O heavenly powers, Brisilla bendeth her knées and foldeth her hands, asking par­don of heaven for her errour. She repenteth her of her igno­rance, she bewaileth her folly. Pardon mercifull Gods, pardon me, and cease to work your vengeance upon a poor distressed virgin, that is desolate and bereft of all hope and consolation, pleadeth for mercy from heaven. And with that she wept so [Page] bitterly, that Ismenia and Perierio comming unto her could not sée her face, it was so vailed with tears. Likewise she pul­led her golden hair, by whole locks off her head with her hands, which were so white and so delicately fashioned that it was a marvel to sée such tender hands so cruelly prey upon so brave a head. Ismenia therfore not able to behold such an un­merciful spectacle, stepped unto her and held her hands, which so furiously teared her glistering hair, saying, Ah distressed shepheardess, seek not your own ruine, wrong not your self, and fight not against your own person; for the torment and grief which you suffer by reason of your misfortune, is aug­mented and enlarged, not diminished or slacked by these meanes.

Therfore (fair shepheardess) hold your hands, & cease from vexing your self. You live not alone in adversity, for we are not so happy but that we may worthily complain of Fortunes sicklenesse. Company in misery is no small solace comfort your self therefore, and with us hope, that the Gods will at last be moved to mercy, and appoint the end of our miseries. Ah gentle Shepheard (answered Brisilla, for that was her name) where dispair ruleth there hope is banished Nay, quoth Perierio, embrace hope, and dispair dareth not approach. The extremity of my case (replied Brisilla) forbiddeth me to take hold of hope. Yea, but through magnanimity and courage (quoth Perierio) may you overcome and vanquish your extre­mity. And therfore (swéet shepheard) let not your heart faint, nor your courage slacken, but with an invincible heart suffer not any extremity though never so supream, to brave your mind; and though you be conquered of all your enemies, yet yéeld not the liberty of thy mind to the proudest Champion that either Fortune or fate can arme against you.

Brisilla marking that both Perierio and Ismenia were persons of estimatiō, thought thē to be some of the chiefest shepheards therabout, & therfore assoon as she could contain from wéeping, thanked thē for their comfortable persuasions; for she received great consolation in that she had met with them taking great [Page] delight in beholding their beauty: and asking them whether they travelled, Ismenia told her, that she with Perierio were bound toward the temple of Diana, hoping that the Lady pre­sident of the same temple would remedy their harm, and give them such instruction, that they should have cause to hope for the end of their troubles in short time. Brisilla hearing that, was passing glad, and began to clear her eys from the water which continually ran down her face. And having chased away such impedimēts as hindred her speech, by reasō of her sorrow, she spake to Perierio and Ismenia with such an excellent grace, that her words seemed to flow from her mouth, as running water issueth out of the fountain. Insomuch that they did not doubt, but that she was some courtly Princesse, though she co­vered her body with the vesture of a country lasse.

CHAP. XIII. How P [...]riander Prince of Albion, and Brisilla daughter to the Duke Florindos, became enamoured of each other, and what ensued.

AFter they had had some talk of each others for­tunes and troubles, Brisilla at the request of Perierio and Ismenia, began to unfold the cause of her travel, making a copious and large narration of the course of all her life. Per­mitting this Exordium.

Loving shepheards, though I fear that I shall not be able to accomplish that accordingly, which I have undertaken to do, mistrusting that I shall both lack time to end the history of my life, when I have begun it, & also discretion to contrive the same into some order and method my memory being weak by reason whereof, I may chance to forget, and slip over many things; yet hoping that you will accept of my good will and readinesse in pleasuring you, I will endeavour as neare as I can, and as truly as my memory will permit, to [Page] report and lay down the whole circumstance of my case unto you.

I was borne in the famous Isle of Albion, where my fa­ther was generall Commander over all the Kings Forces a­broad when the King was at home. And if his Majesty chan­ced to follow the Camp in his proper person then was my fa­ther Viceroy and supream Governor at home I had not lived six years, but my father venturing himself in the midst of his enemies, and pressing into the very bowells of their Camp, slew the King of Gaule with his own hand, and there­with gave the enemy a terrible overthrow, and his King a great victory, but it cost him his life. For after he had slaine the King, there were so many Knights that besought him to revenge the death of their King that he was not able to escape the hour which his destinies had appointed him.

When the King was informed how that my father had ob­tained him such a wonderful victory with the price of his life, knew not whether he had greater cause to rejoyce for the o­verthrow of his enemy, or to wéep for the loss of such a vali­ant Souldier, and faithful subject. Wherefore he in proper person came to my fathers Palace, and himself brought my Mother the newes of my Fathers honourable death, comfor­ting us all with such friendly spéeches, that we could not have béene grieved for his death, if Nature had not forced us to lament his losse. Yet howsoever we were grieved, the King caused my Father to be buried most honourably, and erected such a magnificent Tombe at his owne cost, that he gave a sufficient Token to all his Countrey, how greatly he e­steemed of Duke Florindo, (for so was he called.) With­in foure yeares after, my Mother the Duchesse, being an a­ged woman dyed, and was buried under the same Tombe with my Father. And the King considering that I was young (about ten yeares of age) and that I was onely heire to the Dukedome, to the end that I might be carefully brought up and well looked unto, he caused me to be brought to the Court, where I waighted on the Quéen, who made as [Page] great account of me as if I had been her daughter. And to the end that I might perceive the love and affection she and her husband the King did bear me, I was honoured with the ti­tle of a Duchesse, and disposer of all my fathers signiores, and Lordships, yea & of the Dukedom also, at mine own pleasure: neither did the King withhold from me any part of the re­venues thereof; so that I lived in as great joy as any mortal maid might; for I wanted nothing that I was able to think of. I was loved and favoured both of the King and Qu [...]en, and therefore honoured of all the country. But alack, this my fe­licity was too great to be perpetuall; and I was seated too high to escape the stormy blasts of adversity. The tall Oaks are shaken with the winds, and the climing stéeples rent with the thunder clap, where the low brambles féel not the fury of the wind, nor the base cottage the force of the storm. The tops of high mountains are chopped through Apollos heat, where the low plains and green medows are beautified with flowers, and being cherished with Phoebus rays, produce sw [...]et hearbs, and yeeld food to the shepheards flocks. And so poor Brisilla lifted up to high estate, triumphing in Court, and glorying in her happinesse; is brought in this most miserable torment, whereas many simple maids and countrey wenches injoy sweet content, and passe their lives in supream plea­sure. You shall therefore understand (loving shepheards) that I being 15 years of age or thereabout, the young prince was sent for by the King from the Vniversity; for the Qeen had purposed to marry me unto him Who being about eight or ten moneths younger then my self, was thought too young to be married so soon; but the Queen fearing least some one or other (for there was many noble mens sons of great hou­ses and high descent in the Court) should win my heart and love, used the matter so, that few or none could have my com­pany but her son, whom she wished to be matched with none but my self. And in truth by reason of our daily conversation at length grew such familiarity and acquaintance between Periander and me, that love creeping into our hearts united [Page] us together, and of two bodies made but one heart, one will, one desire, one pleasure, and one mind. Insomuch that the Queen, yea and all the Court, began to perceive the affection that we did bear one to another. Suppose (shepheards) what a pleasure it was both to the King, his wife, and most of all the noblemen of the realm, yea generally to all men in the coun­try, to see such likelihood of a marriage, which they so ear­nestly wished and greedily desired. And dy that time that Pe­riander had reached to the age of eighteen years, the King fea­ring least delay might breed danger, and my affection to chāge or his sons mind alter, called us both into his chamber and in presence of the Queen his wife spake unto us after this man­ner, intending to try our constancy.

Marvell not my son Periander, nor you young Duches, that I have sent for you hither, for I will not keep close the cause thereof. Know therefore that my pleasure is, that you Peri­ander love not Lady Brisil any longer; have I sent for you from the Vniversity to court your mothers maids? Did I cal you to the Court to learn how to play Mars in the field, and do you take upon you so young, to serve Venus in the chamber, you are but a boy yet Periander, and therefore unfit for love. And you Lady Brisill, have we shewed you such friendly enter­tainment in the Court, and honored you with such an high e­state, to allure our son to fancy you, where I purposed to mar­ry him to the King of Portugals eldest daughter, & heir appa­rent to the crown of Portugal? thy father the deceased Duke, was a man of great desert, but his daughter not so worthy as to become a Queen. Be contented with the title of a Duchess Lady Brisil, and reach not so high a bough as a crown; for thou mayest both misse of thy purpose, and incur danger to lose their favour, in whom consisteth your welfare. Therefore I ex­hort you both to leave these familiar meetings, these lovely Salves, which you give one to another in the morning, & curte­ous good nights you bid one another in the evening; also those pleasant smiles, passionate looks and continual winks where­with you favour one an other, will I have you not to use any [Page] longer. And to be short, I forbid you to use company one with the other any more. Periander hearing his father concluded so peremptory against his bliss, answered. Then father, my Lord and Soveraign if it please your Majesty to seperate me from the conversation of Duches Brisil, I beseech you to give me leave to separate my self from the company of all men; and with that he drew his dagger, and would have wounded his loving heart with the sharp point thereof, had not his Mo­ther the Quéen hindred his intent, holding his arme. As for me, I was so perplexed both at the Kings words and his rash­ness, that I fell on the ground in such manner, that the king himself thinking that I had been dead, ran from his chair of estate, and lifted me from the ground, calling Lady Brisil, speak, speak Lady Brisil, young Queen of Albion, speak but one word. But I lay in that extasie a good hour. All which time the King, the Queen, and all that were present, (but especially Periander) were so grieved that none of them could abstain from wéeping. The King called, the Quéen hallow­ed in mine eares, with a lamentable voyce, and Periander al­most breathless, being choaked with excéeding sorrow which he conceived, could neither call, nor cry. At length with much ado, I came to my self, and stood upright, to the joy of all those that had heard of my mischance. Whereupon the King told us that he had used his formor words, but to learne whether our love was firm, intending if I liked of Periander, and Periander of me, as of man and wife, to marry us toge­ther. To be short, before we departed from the King, he sent for some of the chiefest Noblemen, and in their presence, Periander made promise never to marry other woman then my self, and in like manner affirmed that I was content to have him to my husband, and would die rather then be married to any other. So that our marriage was presently concluded, and the wedding to be a month after.

CHAP. XIV. How Massicourt betrayed the Prince Periander, and sold him to the Moores for a Gally-slave, and the sorrow that was made for his absence.

IMagine, loving Shepheards, what joy there was through the country, when it was repor­ted that the young Prince and the yong Du­ches were promised, and should be maried within the space of one month? Consider al­so, how happy and blessed that Periander and I thought our selves to be, when we had obtaind that with the King and Queens consent and good will, which we feared that they would never have granted? but envy the sorest ene­my that wageth warre against content, soon made a breach of our felicity, into a woful and pitiful mishap.

For there was a young Knight in the Court called sir Mas­sicourt, being son to the Earle Doraster, who was so in love with me (though he had not as yet declared it to me) that for me he had willingly made exchange of all that he had. This Sir Massicourt having of the contract between us, took it so heavily, that he almost dispaired. But considering that grief or sorrow could not prevail to remedy his harm, took courage, and hoped to find means by subtilty and craft to hinder the marriage, which he practised with all speed. The Earl his fa­ther was Admiral of the sea, by means whereof, this young Knight had great acquaintance with divers Captains of the ships of war, and other Pilots and shipmasters: among whom he had one especially bound unto him named Barsalis, whose service he durst imploy in the weightiest matter of the world, and unto whom he might have communicated the chiefest secrets he had.

To be short, he sent for this Barsalis and told him, that if ever he would requite the courtesies and friendship which he [Page] had received of him, that now the time was come, and occasion offered, wherein he might shew the thankfulness and grate­fulness of his mind. The Captain Pilot answered, that he wished not for any better hour then that in which he might be imployed in his service, protesting, that whatsoever he would have him do, he should find him most ready to execute his pleasure were it right or not, so it consisted in his power, being ready to hazard his life to do him service; whereupon Sir Massicourt desired him to cause a ship to be well rigged and furnished with provision, and to lay Anchor at the haven of Dover, where he should expect his comming, and then he should further understand his pleasure. Which Barsalis pro­mised to do, though he wist not why, nor to what end. For Sir Massicourt being something politick, and considering that mens mindes are fickle, and subject to alteration, would not as yet disclose his intent unto the Pilot, fearing least he might have been moved to bewray him before the time that he purposed to execute his treason. But after he had charged the Pilot to expect his comming to the Haven of Dover, he sought occasion to talk with the young Prince as soon as he might. And the next morning having heard that Periander intended to ride a hunting, prepared himself, to méet the Prince as he rode towards the Park. Periander glad of his company (for there was great familiarity between them) and sir Massicourt was wonderfully well beloved of him, be­gan to be merry with him, and to talk with him according to his accustomed manner. At length sir Massicourt taking occasion to speak of the Sea, I remember (quoth he) that your Grace oftentimes hath been earnest with me to go to Sea, and to see what rule Neptune kéepeth in his kingdome. The weather is now most pleasant for that purpose, insomuch that if it will please your Grace now to recreate your self in be­holding such pleasure as the calme Sea can yield, I am ready to accompany your Grace to Dover, where I have a most gal­lant Pinnace, as excellent and fit for our turne as any Ves­sel in all the Realme. Periander thanked him, and appointed [Page] to ride with him the next morrow towards the haven. As soon as he came to the Court, he told us that he had purposed to go to Sea, and asked me whether I would give him leave to be away five or six dayes. And although I was very sorry and unwilling that he should go, fearing lest any mischance might happen unto him, yet seeing he so desired to go, I seemed to be more willing then I was, left he should be grieved, and leave his pleasure for feare of displeasing me.

The next morning sir Massicourt being come, their fast broken, and their horse ready, they rode merrily from the Court; but alas, I was not without cause discomforted, nei­ther did I forecast such danger as hapned in vain; for the trai­tor Massicourt, as soon as the Prince was aboord the Pinnace, called the Pilot Barsalis aside, and gave him certain chaines of gold and other sumptuous jewels, mounting to the value of ten thousand crowns, promising him a far better reward. And this is it I request at your hands (quoth he) that when we be on the sea (séeing the wind serveth for Spain) you should faile into the Spanish sea, and being there, on the sudden lay hold on the Prince, and my self also, as if you were enraged against us, and sought to bereave us both of our lives. That done, you shall hide me into some odde corner of the Ship, where the Prince shall not be able to sée me, and make him beléeve that you have cast me into the Sea and then arriving at some Spanish haven, sell him to the Moors that have the go­vernment of the Gallies, to be a Gally-slave, but first put off his clothes, and apparel him as if he were one of the Ship­boyes; then shall we be rid of him, and he never like to escape out of their hands. Barsalis promised to do all this, and perfor­med no less indeed. For Periander was sold unto the Galley slaves, sir Massicourt travelled into Spain and Italy, and Bar­salis upon a certain night, set his Pinace on fire, and burned all his Mariners, saving himself in a Ship boat, and in a Merchants he returned to Albion. Whither being arrived, he came presently to the Court and brought us newes of those that we so long had wished to hear of. For they had bin [Page] away ten moneths, and though the King had sent out divers Ships, and the Admiral himself also coursed through the seas, yet could we hear nothing either of the Kings or Ad­mirals sonne. Whereby we supposed that they were dead, though we hoped the contrary. But Barsalis that traitrous Pilot told us, that as soon as they had entred the mouth of the Sea, the winde rose, and such a tempest was spread over all the Sea, that the Pinnace being beaten with the waves on every side, rent in pieces and sunck presently. All that he could say of Periander and Massicourt, was, that he saw them both together leap out of the Pinnace, and that the Knight with a small mast in his hands swome up and down whither the streame drove him, and that the Prince casting himself upon one of the hatches, tossed up and down the waves. All the rest that were in the Ship, he said that they sunck with the Pinace, and himself escaped alone in the Ship-boat. This traytor Barsalis received no small gift of the King and of me, (although his newes was so evil) because he told us that he saw the Prince fléeting up and downe the waves upon one of the ship-hatches, hoping that he was somewhere cast on land, though perhaps so far that he could not so soon return home to Albion.

I will not hear make mention what a living death or dy­ing life I poor wretch led, all the while that Periander was absent, sometimes perswading my self that he was dead, and sometimes hoping to see him and injoy his presence; but this I will leave to your discretion (loving shepheards,) and passe on forwards in the declaration of this lamentable history. You shall therefore know, that after Barsalis had been six moneths at home, the Admirals son returned to his fathers house attired like a ship slave, and told us such a tale of his wonderfull adventure, how he was cast on the shore side with his mast-piece, and how he fared on the land, that not the Court onely, but all the Country also admired at his hard fortune. But concerning the Prince, he could tell no more then the other traitor had done, yet [Page] to give a colour of likelihood, he agreed to the same report which the Villain Barsalis had made. And though my hope was small, yet I took the greater courage, because sir Mas­sicour [...] that Arch-traitor had escaped such dangers and trou­bles as he made us beleeve. And howsoever my young heart strived against sorrow and grief, yet the Queen being old and weak of nature, consumed for very grief, and dyed. Who being buried and intombed, what mourning, what grief, and what sorrow was made, not in the Court onely, but general­ly over all the Countrey, I am not able to expresse. And as for my selfe, though I was very sorry for her death, yet was the grief and pain which I suffered for the absence of Pe­riander, so great and excéeding, that I could scarce think up-any other thing, and therefore the sooner forgate the death of the Quéen.

CHAP. XV. How the traitor Massicourt slew himself, because he could not ob­tain the love of fair Brisilla: also how the King was enamoured on her.

BY this time began the traitor Massicourt to make love unto me, and to cast such passionate looks upon me, at all times that he passed by me, or came into the place where I was, that I could not chuse but perceive that he was becom darling to Venus, by the forcing dart of her Son Cupid, and that he suffered great pain for my sake.

I was sorry for his case, because he was a most gallant Gentleman, excéeding both in perfection of body and readines of wit, but yet my hart was so fixed on Periander, that although I had certainly known that he was dead, yet could I not have forgotten him to love any other. Yet howsoever I was affected, Massicourt found meanes to enter into the Orchard. [Page] I being there alone, and emboldned himself so far, that he came unto me, gréeted me, and with all humility, by word of mouth declared what torment he suffered for love of me, desi­ring me to be merciful unto him. Whereunto I answered, that I could shew him mercy in pittying his case, and exhor­ting him to change his mind, but other mercy I could not shew him, and so I flung into the Palace and left him among the trées, which might have been witnesses of the teares he shead. Yet he gave not over the field for all he had had but ill successe at the first assault, and purposed to send me a Letter, hoping that ink and paper would do more then his bare words had done. Especially because he being passionate, was not able in my presence to expresse his mind, neither would I hearken unto his speech. Insomuch that he thinking that I could not do lesse then read all whatsoever he wrote, though I could not give ear to his sayings; dispatched a Letter and conveyed it into my hands as secretly as he could: which let­ter was written to such an end.

When I had read this Letter I could not but be angry: for it grieved me that he went about to withdraw me from the love of Periander, though he séemed to wish the contrary. For how could I have loved him, and not forget Periander? how could I have been merry with him, and mourn for Pe­riander? and how could I laugh with him, and wéep for Perian­der: wherefore incontinently, I wrote him this answer.

After Massicourt had received this Letter, he durst not so often molest me. Northelesse, of purpose he came divers times to the Court, preasing near the privy chamber to have occasi­on to speak with me; but I could watch him as well to shun him, as he could watch me to talk with me. In so much, that since I wr [...]te him that Letter, I spake with him but once, at which time I so sharply rebuked his importunity (seeing that no mild or courteous spéeches could serve) that a long time he absented himself from the Court. At length (when I thought surely that I had been altogether rid of such a troublesome sutor) on the sudden he greeted me upon a certain morning, being but newly risen. And although I was alone, yet I was so angry, that I turned my face from him, and would not speak unto him. This happened (to my remembrance) twice or thrice, after which time I saw him no more. But about thrée weeks after, a little casket covered with a cloth of gold was brought me, whereon there was written this inscription in golden letters.

‘My Supreme will and pleasure is, that this be given to Dutchesse Brisil.’

I marvelling what that meant, asked the messenger, who sent it? or to what end? To which he answered, that he that sent it, is not now, but living was called Sir Massicourt. Who being in his chamber (quoth the messenger) this mor­ning, willed me to go into the next room till he called me, and that I should presently carry the casket which I should find upon the table to Du [...]hesse Brisil: when I had stayed there three [Page] or four hours, I marvelled what my master did there so long alone, and péeping through the crease of the chamber door, I saw him lie breathless on the ground, and so amazed, I stepped in and found this casket, what is in it I know not, and so the messenger being Sir Massicourts chamberlain, departed. I opening the casket, found a dagger all bloudy, on the blade whereof, was this message ingraven in such small letters that I could scarce read it.

In what case I was (loving shepheards) after I had read that message and béen informed of that rufull tragedy, I will not now declare.

For the sorrow which I conceived for the end of Massicourt, was incredible. Besides what a suddain rumor was spread through the Court of his death you may consider, insomuch that I need not to stand upon that point. But I will passe on to the rest of my misery. For within thrée or four moneths af­ter [Page] the decease of sir Massicourt, I got a stronger enemy to my content then Massicourt; for the King himself (though he was above fifty years of age) solicited me to give over all remem­brance of his son, and yéeld to his request, which was to be­come his wife, and be crowned with the diadem of Albion. Yet could not that precious object alter y ^e mind of Brisil, or any whit in her diminish the memory of Periander. But the King knowing that he might command, when he perceived that I could not be induced by prayers, fair words, lofty promises, and other allurements to grant his sute, soon used the tyranous sentence of all those that may do what they will.

And thought to try whether he could by threatnings and menaces obtain that, which by fair means I would not con­sent unto: but all could not help, for except death onely no­thing could take from me that faith and promise which I made to Periander. And whilest the King & I thus strove, he in loving, & I in hating a letter was brought to the Court from the King of Spain, wherein he informed the King that his son Periander was with him intending to be in Albion with his father and loving Brisil very shortly. But that he had sent a messenger before his coming, that they should be informed of his health and fortune, could scarce believe it; but that they saw it was manifest, séeing the Prince Periander had written that Massicourt was by the Pylot Barsalis cast over-board, and yet notwithstanding he complained not of Barsalis, but agréed with him in the report of the tempest which was none. Be­sides that love which he bore me was sufficient proof of his treason. For he sent us the whole declaration of the trea­son practised by Barsalis against him. He also informed us how he had heard of the Quéen his mothers death, whereof he was very sorry. The King having received these Letters, at the first was glad that his son was living, and caused Barsa­lis to be apprehended, who with a little racking confessed the [Page] whole matter, and appeached the Admirals son that was dead, as the Author and cause of all that he had executed. Where­at the whole world so marvelled, that they could scarce be­leeve it. And whereas many had pitied the Knights lamen­table and tragical end, now they judged him rewarded accor­ding to his deserts. And I for my part, was so inraged against him, that if he had yet lived. I beleeve I had with my owne hands wrung his head from his shoulders; for he was the cause of all my calamities. The King caused Barsalis to be hanged and quartered, and in the place where Massicourt that poli­tick traytor was buried, did he command a gibbet to be set up reaching over his Tombe, and this written on the top of it in great letters,

For the King was terribly enraged, when he had heard this strange kind of treason: which was the cause that now he lo­ved her whom he had wedded to his son; and hated him whom he was by Nature bound to love.

For lest Periander should return into Albion, and marry with me, whom he would have to be his wife, the King forgetting both the law of Nature and Honesty wrote unto the King of Spain, that his Son Periander was guilty of treason against his own person, being his Father: and therefore desired him upon all friendship, and the alliance that had a long time béen between the Kingdomes of Spain and Albion, to keep his son close prisoner, and to let him be used as hardly as any of all the other Captives which were in his Kingdome or Domi­ons.

When I had heard what answer the King had returned by [Page] the Embassadors of Spain, my heart was ready to burst. And I was minded divers times to dispatch my self with one of my garters, thinking that by my death I should deliver Perian­der from imprisonment, and move the Kings mind to use his son as he ought to do. But I know not how, I was al­ways so falsly allured with hope, that I continually abstained from shortening my life, and thereby prolonged my misery. You shall therefore understand, that I got one of the Embas­sadors Pages to carry a Letter from me unto Periander, and to deliver it secretly into his own hands; which the youth pro­mised that he would accomplish, though it should cost him his life: and to reward his readinesse, and to make him the wil­linger and carefuller to discharge his duty, I gave him twen­tie crowns to drink. The Letter was written to this effect.

This Letter I had no sooner delivered to the Page, but Embassadours departed from the Court having taken their leave of the King, and embarked themselves the next day af­ter to return into Spain. When they were gone the King sent for me, and asked me whether I was not yet resolved to love him séeing he hated his own son for love of me. Where­unto I answered that if his Majesty loved me indéed, he would likewise love his son, séeing that I loved none but his son, nor could not love any other as long as I lived. But (to be [Page] short, and as little tedious loving shepheards, as I possibly may) after we had reasoned and argued together the space of a full hour, he in protesting how intirely he loved me, and that he could not live, unless he enjoyed Brisil as his Quéen; and I in defending, that I might not love him, nor live, if I break my promise made to his son in his presence and by his consent; at length he burst out into these raging words. Proud Brisil, and ungrateful Duches, thou despisest the high offers of a King, and contemnest the love of a Monarch, that governeth a whole Kingdome. And thinkest thou not that I cannot command thée, séeing an huge people is ruled by me? I promise thee, that I will teach thee not to say nay, when I demand; and to be ready to grant when I request. There­fore know, that thou shalt be married unto me, wilt thou, or wilt thou not, and the Marriage day shall be the ninth day after to morrow. See then that thou prepare thy self against that day, to condescend to my pleasure, lest thou wilt rue thy stubborn hardneckedness. And with that he turned from me into the next chamber, and left me poor distressed wight ready to yield up the ghost, at the sound of his conclusion. But snat­ching hope by the subject, I thought either the Kings minde might before the appointed day be altered, or fit opportunity offered me to escape his tyranny by flight. But neither I could in time get away, nor the King had forgotten his in­tent. But the day which he had appointed for the Wedding being come, and all things in a readinesse, sent for me. I, al­though I did not well know what to do yet r [...]sting upon this point, rather to die, then to forsake Periander; and considering that fury was not to be repressed by force, where Majesty commanded, and that fair spéeches prevail most, where the party is weakest, I went presently unto him, and falling on my knees, beseeched his Majesty to pardon me for my former folly, promising, that whereas I had offended his Majestie with stubbornnesse, I meant to make him amends with obe­dience and loyaltie. And for that I could not but as yet mourne for my forepassed frenzie, I besought his Majesty to [Page] protract the day of the wedding one moneth farther, to the end that I might prepare and exorn my self in such manner, that the whole world may bear witness that Brisil doth offer her self a worthy spouse to so mighty a Bridegroom. The King was herewith so pleased, that giving the farewel to all anger, willingly granted me my request; whereof I was not a lit­tle rejoyced, hoping before the space of one moneth to be so far from his reach that he should not force me to be married to any but to Periander.

CHAP. XVI. How Brisilla to avoid the intended Marriage of the King with her, departed secretly into Spain, where she found meanes to speak with the Prince Periander, and how he escaped out of prison with her.

TO compass the conclusions of my intent, lest I should seem pensive or sorrowful, I wept all night, to the end mine eyes might spare from shedding tears in the day. Besides I séemed to be very busie in beautifying my person with sumptuous clothes, costly jewels, preci­ous pearls, and other ornaments which I had laid aside sithence the losse of Periander. At last, about a week before the prefixed time of our marriage, I espied an occasion to get out of the Court, which though it was not so fit as I could wish, yet fearing lest if I did let that slip, I should not have the like offered the day being so neer at hand, I took hold of it, which was this. There was a ship that six weeks before, had brought sugar, figs, raisons, dates, oranges and lemons, to Albion, the Merchants whereof, having bought other wares to return into Spain, had made their provision to go to Sea. Which when I heard, (for I was in nothing so attentive as to learn of some Back that was bound toward Castile) I changed my sex in outward sight, and in the form of a Ship­boy, [Page] I went to the Spanish Merchants, and beséeched them to take me into their service, for I was a poor fatherless childe that had for the space of two years led a Mariners life; which misliked me so, (for that I was weak of constitution, and my limbs tender by nature) that I have taken leave of the Master of the Ship, wherein I have served to sée if I could happen into some other kind of good service. The Merchants no doubting my tale to be other then truth, because I spake Spanish unto them, supposing that I had learned their speech by travelling into their Country, liked me so well, that they went to Mumbchance which of them should be my Master. Whereof I was so glad, that séeing the Mariners hoyse up the sailes, and hale in the Anchor cable, I cared not for the chance of the Die, or whose servant I should be, hoping that if the Gods would favor us with a gale of wind that I should shortly arrive to the place where the stay of my life, and hold of my hope remained. But mark the taunting check which Fortune gave me. For we had scarce entred the mouth of the Sea, but we were overtaken by two swift Pinnaces, so well furnished with all warlike provision, that they had been able to master four such Barks as the Merchants ship where­in we were. To be short, that they calling to our Pilot that he should strike, durst not but obey; and I misdoubting that they were Albion ships, sent to look after me, kept my self un­der the ship hatches, where I so bepitched and betarred my face, that the judgement of the eye could not prevail to dis­cern who I was, if I might have escaped speaking. But the Pilot who could not understand the Albion spéech, called me to interpret what the Albion Pilot dem̄anded of him. But I made as if I had been so affraid that I could not speak, and while I heard them wrangling each in his own language, one nothing understanding the other, I tried to counterfeit my voyce as well as I ceuld, fearing lest I should have been compelled at length to become their interpriter, which in truth so happened. For the Merchant my Master considering the course of our Navigation, was greatly hindred by their [Page] importunity, and fearing lest they were Pirates and thought to pilfer and rob the Bark, and spoile him and the other Merchants of their goods and lives, forced me to come to the uper part of the ship, and to speak to my Country-men. Thus I constrained whether I would or no, not onely to present my self unto them that sought me (for I had heard what they demanded, though none could understand them but my self, and therefore I was the better instructed what to say unto them, and how I should interpret their sayings unto the Spaniard) but also to bewray my voyce unto them, and to bee the expounder that should declare and expli­cate what they demanded, and what the Spaniards answered. Wherefore being come into their presence, I began to speak Brittish, but that in such order that they had much add to un­derstand me, and took more pleasure to laugh at me, then to enquire after Brisil, whom the fools spake with, and thought that she had been some Moor or Turk. For the Admiral who was there in his own proper person, hearing how crabbedly I cracked his Brittish language on the pate; what the devill (quoth he) have the Gods sent us hither, to mock us with our language after this sort. No doubt but our paines are well bestowed to come thus far into the Sea, to talk with such an eloquent fellow. I beleeve certainly, that he hath been an Orator to the Devil three or four years. Whereupon he as­ked me what Countrey man I was, a Turk or a Iew? I answered him that I was which he would, for I knew not my self where I was born. At length he asked me where I had learned to speak such good Brittish, whereunto I made as if I had not marked that he mocked and gybed with me, said, that when I was two or three years old I was in Albion with my mother, for the space of two or three years or thereabout, in which time I learned so much of their language, that God be thanked it serveth my turn. Whereat they all burst forth, and laughed very heartily, and at length, remembring Brisil, they asked me whether our Bark was bound? and I answe­red to Barbary; then they asked whether we had not any wo­men [Page] passengers aboord, I answered, that we had no more then they saw, either men or women. They said they were not so content, but would search the Ship, and bade me to tell the Pilot that he should not resist their pleasure, for they would do it and were forced to do it by the straight command of their King. Whereupon I told our Pilot this tale, that they were the King of Albions searchers, that scoured up and down the Seas, to see if they could meet with any Ship that carried such wares out of the countrey as were not gran­ted or licenced by the king; and that because they suspected that the Merchants that were in that Ship had unpriviledged wares, they would for that purpose make search for them, and if they found none, they would not any longer hinder them of their undertaken voyage. The Pilot willingly let them come aboord the Bark, though the Merchants thought verily that they had been Pyrates, and used that colour to obtaine their prey the easier. But they found themselves deceived, for after the Albion Lords had throughly searched the Ship, they returned into their Pinace again, without offering the least injury in the world to the Spaniards, whereof they were glad, and I gladder, having escaped the danger which Fortune seemed to threaten me. And in few dayes after, being speedi­ly arrived at the wished Haven, my Master took post horse for himself and me, and we rode to Sivil, in which City my Periander lay imprisoned. And now I began to wish my self released from the subjection of my Master, for he imployed me in so many matters that I could not perform my duty to­wards him accordingly, and withall have time and occasion to obtain my desire concerning Periander; wherefore I sought all means possible to be rid of my Master, who was loth to part from me. At length I feined my self to be sick, that I could neither eat nor drink, nor stand on my feet, but kept my bed, and being asked by him what I ailed, or what sickness I had, I made as if I durst not tell him, at length seeing he was so importunate to know, I told him it was the plague, whereof he was so affraid, that he would put me into an Hos­pital [Page] among the diseased; but I intreated him that he would rather leave me to mine own shift, then to place me among the diseased, promising that if I escaped death, I would re­turne into his service before any other. And though he was loth to let me go where I should want looking unto, yet sée­ing that I had rather have died then be carried to an Hospi­tal, he gave me thrée or four pieces of gold and sent me pack­ing, wishing that I might fare well. I thanked him for his kindness, and the Gods for my liberty. And now I began marvellously to long for the sight of my onely comfort Peri­ander, who little knew that I was so neer him. But I could scarce imagine how I might come to him, and avoid all sus­pition. For I feared lest the King should have misdoubted of my intent, and therefore have written unto the King of Spain to make search whether I were in his countr [...]y, but especially to watch whether any came unto Periander, knowing that if I were in Spain it was to come to him. The conside­ration whereof, made me so carefull and so wary that I look­ed before I leaped, and did nothing but being forethought; So that I passed by the prison where Periander lay every day once or twice, and sometimes more often, to see what likeli­hood there was that I might come néer him. I espied the manner of the prison, the condition of the Gaolor the estate of those that frequented his company. At length I became so impatient, that I could not abide any longer delay and there­fore began to invent some deceit or other to beguile the kéep­ers, and come to the spéech of Periander. First I purposed to apparel my self like some Italian Gentleman, and so to have asked the Gaolor leave to speak unto the Albion Prince, but that séemed not the safest way. Afterwards, I thought to go like a Brittish beggar; thinking that they would have brought me to talk with the Brittish Prince, to take pleasure at our strange parley. And this liked me worse, for so I might have easily béen entrapped. At last I found no better meanes then to counterfeit my self to be an Egyptian Prophet and Fortune-teller. So that I went into the stréet where the [Page] prison stood and a good way off (as I had not thought to come néer the prison) I began to sing an Egyptian enchantment, and I did so counterfet the [...]une thereof (though knew not my self what sence my Sonnet inferred) that the Spaniards thought me an upright Egyptian; and having ended my Song, a number of Youths, Maids, women and men, also came flocking about me, holding up their hands to know their fortune. I, as cunningly as I could, held the devill a candle, and told them many good morrowes, and evil even­ings, as I often have heard y ^t the Egyptian figure Castres used to do, to deceive the world; yet nevertheles I used the mat­ter so that they were content of their fortune, and liked me the better. But I was so haled and pulled from one place to another, that I knew not how I might content them all. At length I was fetched by the Maids that dwelt with the Gao­lor and his daughters to come thither, whither I went wil­lingly, for that was my cause of my practised sorcery, and there was the man whose fortune made me become a fortune-teller. To be short, the Maids of the house led me into a yard where they might secretly talk with me, and ask me questi­ons concerning their fortunes. But it chanced that my good hap was such, that I espied Periander out of a window reach­ing unto the yard where we were; but alack I spied that re­nowned mirrour of beauty, fair Florina, the daughter of the King of Spain, standing by him, who entangled in the snare of fancy, and fettered in the pleasant contemplation of Peri­anders beauty so loved him that she corrupted the Gaolor with sums of money to use her Love, not as a strange prisoner, but rather as a worthy guest whom she also in proper person some­times visited to asswage his sorrow; which sight so amazed me that I could not tel what I said to the Maids desirous to know their fortune. I felt a kind of soothing pleasure créep in­to the veins of my heart, for the presence of my friend, & on the other side, a fearful kind of grief possessed my soul, for th [...]t I was acquainted with his company, mistrusting whether poor Brisil was committed to the winds, & raised out of the heart of [Page] Periander, by the matchless curtesies which he received of fair Florina; but not suspend you with my long and endlesse discourse (loving shepheards) know that fair Florina espying what dealings I had with the Iaylors daughter, as new sick as the rest, willed the Iaylor to bring me into the chamber where she was with Periander, to learn what cunning I had. Therefore I being led by the Iaylor before her, saluted her and her company with all the humility I could, but yet in such order that my besmouged chéeks were died with a ver­milion red at the sight of Periander. But Florina imputing the change of my hue to shamefastnesse, and thinking I being a simple swad, was abashed to sée my self in their presence bid me come néer her boldly, saying she meant to be my patient, & to sée whether I knew by the lineaments of her h [...]nd, what Fortune she had; and was like to have. Imagine (gentle shepheards) what mind I had either to tell her fortune, or to give her an answer being in that case; yet taking all the cou­rage that in such extremity could cleave to my heart. I said, My skill is too small to conjecture of so high constellations; for I hold opinion that the destinies of those that are of such noble descent as your self, are more intricate then the constel­lation of base persons; and therefore if my divinations prove false or little agréeing to the truth, I leave your Grace to be burdened with the blame, séeing it is your pleasure that I should conjecture of your luck, and not my own presumption: And therefore thus much I wil say of your fortune, I wil not touch your Parentage, wealth, honor, and likelihood of great renown, for that is known to all the world, but I wil tel you of that which is most doubtful, and more delightful unto you, as my simple knowledge teacheth me; for (unless I am de­ceived) you love (Lady) and that most loyally, but I sée one doubt which is like to redound to your sorrow, that you shall have a shrewd enemy to your desire, and a terrible foe to your wished love. And to yield you reason of my divination, mark the line of affection in your hand, it is streight, a token of pure love, and faithful affection accompanied with loyalty, [Page] and these two short wrinkles which you see of each side of the forsaid line, are token of the cross you are like to indure in obtaining you hearts ease. Neither would I have your grace to think that the clause of this ill success dependeth onely on the person who hath your heart in hold; for there be many events and chances that we cannot foreknow or forethink, which may breed your sorrow. But hoping that your Grace is minded as the Astrologian that said, Inclinationes non sunt edicta praetorum, that inclinations be not ordinances and de­crees of Maiors; shall be able to command the stars and rule over them, according to that old saying, Sapiens hominabiter astris, I am glad thou takest me to be so wise Egyptian, re­plied Florina. But I pray thee canst thou not tell me more particularly of some adventure to come? No truly Madam (quoth I) may it please your Grace to bear with my rudeness and ignorance, which is not able to content your pleasure, and satisfie your mind concerning this point. Why then, quoth she, let me know what you can say to this Gentleman, for I hope as I admitted him to hear my luck so he will not be an­gry if I hear his fortune. But Periander, (as I well percei­ved) knew me; for I saw his face receive such divers colors, and his countenance altered so suddenly, that Florina marvel­led what had befallen unto him, that he stood so perplexed; for he conceived infinite pleasure in séeking his onely joy so néer him and contrarily he was grieved that I found him with Florina, fearing lest I should suspect him less constant, and so my self less faithful. Florina beholding Periander, wist not what to say, and although I was sorry to see him in that taking, yet because I knew the occasion and reason thereof, I was the better contented, hoping that it was no more then I thought it to be, and that he was led in a trance by my unex­pected presence. Yet I was commanded by Florina to depart, she thinking it now no time to tell any more fortunes. And so I was forced to leave poor Periander, before he was come to himself, although I feared that as my presence had strucken him, so my departure would kill him. Neverthelesse, séeing [Page] there was no remedy, I took it as patiently as I could, and away I went, though I was not permitted to go far; for the Maids of the house so flung about me, and kept such adoe with me to know the sequel of their fortunes, and to have me fully resolve them in all points which they desired to know, (séeing I was so hastily called from them by Florina, that I had not half satisfied them before) that I could scarce get from them. And my luck was such, that while I was busie with answe­ring to their questions, the Gaolor had heard that Florina was missed in the Court, and looked for, to come to the Queen her mother, which when he had signified unto her, she stayed not, but incontinently hied to the Court. Periander therefore by this time being restored to his wits, and séeing both time and place serve to talk with me in secret, to the end that I should not be discried, willed the Gaolor to bid me to come unto him, for that he earnestly desired to confer with me a­bout the nature of certain hearbs that grow in Aegypt and o­ther peculiar matters. To be short, the Gaolor sent me in to Periander, and there left me with him alone, where he came and embraced me, his eyes distilling and gushing forth whole streames of teares, saying, Brisil, Brisil, pardon mee, that you were not by mee welcommed and entertained at your arrivall, according to your deserts, and my duty. For where necessity nippeth, all must obey. And doubt not that Leander had béene more welcome to loving Ero, if the swelling waves had not hindred his journey by glut­ting themselves with his carkasse, and so stayed him from the wished Tower, unto which he was swimming, then thou most worthy Brisil to thy faithfull Periander. It were too long for me (worthy Shepheards) to declare what o­ther cherishments and loving congratulations that hee made. To be short, we talked of many matters (as you may well think,) of Sir Massicourts Conspiration and trea­son especially, which was the first step to all our troubles; of the Quéenes death; of the Kings unnaturall tyranny, of my secret flight of our Fortune on the Sea, of my Master: [Page] to be short, there was nothing raked up in silence, that con­cerned our fortune. At length, the chiefest matter and hard­est point of all our conference was offered, when as we ha­ving informed each other of all our adventures since that time that we were by the policy of traiterous Massicourt sepa­rated entred into consultation what we might do to shun the eminent danger which was like to fall upon us, by reason of the Kings wrathfulnesse. And after we had long deliberated, now intending to use this means, now that at length, we con­cluded to take the vantage of the time, séeing that by means of Florina. Periander was not kept so straightly, but that he might go secretly out of the prison, and walk whither he would to take the air. Therefore least if his father the King of Albi­on should upon my flight send new Embassadors to the King of Spain, to have his son put to death (for he divers times swore unto me that Periander should die if he any way hindered his marriage with me,) or brought Albion to be dealt with­all not according to fatherly affection, but his mercilesse rage, we thought best not to expect the worst, but to play safe as long as time and occasion was offered us. To make few words Periander the next morning by break of day got out of the pri­son (telling the Iaylor that he went to a place where Florina had appointed him to méet her) and coming to the hous where I waited for him, she presently departed from Sivil, intending to trabel towards some solitary place, where we might live untill we heard of the death of the King of Albion. And because we should not be known, if search were made after us, we cloathed our selves both alike in the habite of country maids, as if we had been two sisters.

CHAP. XVII. How the Prince Periander and Brisilla became shepheards, and how by the means of Malorena and Bergama, the Prince de­parted from Brisill.

AT length travelling thus together, we arrived to a certain village which is called Ezla, where we purposed to keep our residence. And although we had sufficient wherewith­to maintain our selves, yet the better to a­void suspition, and to have wherein to im­ploy our leisure and to take our delight, and pastimes, we bought a flock of sheep, and learned to play the shepheards as wel as we could; none of al the inhabitants knowing but that we were two sisters. For Periander was yet but young and had no beard, and besides he was so fair of complexion, that it had been impossible for one to suspect that he was no woman.

After we had passed over one moneth in that haven of con­tent and passing pleasant kind of life, I enjoying the presence of my Periander, and he of his Brisil in spight of the world, for­tun [...] began to envy at our felicity, and to evert the happy e­state wherein we lived. For it chanced that we being both at the feast which was celebrated in honour of the Goddesse Ce­res, there was a young shepheard being son unto one of the ri­chest farmers in our village, who casting his eys on Sybilla, (for so I named Periander, who was thought to be my sister) was fetttered in the snare of his beauty that we were so trou­bled with importunate requests and sutes of this youth, that we wist not how to dehort him from folly, or how to quench the burning flames which consumed the poor shepheards hear [...] For the crueller Sybilla my supposed sister seemed to be, the more he was provoked to hope for mercy; the colder she shew­ed her self to be, the hotter he was, the more she disdained, the more earnest he sued; the more she crossed him for his fondnes, the more he hoped for kindnesse.

Insomuch that poor Petulca (for so was that wretched shep­heard called) so miserably loved, that all the Countrey knew by his colour, what Captain he honoured and served. His joy and welfare which was wont to recreate the whole company of the Inhabitants, was changed into Melan­choly.

His young face which was a fashion of Modesty, Grace, Mirth, Beauty and Comliness, waxed wrinkled, his limbes weakened, and all his body decayed: So that as he was ge­nerally pittied of all men, so were we most wofully grieved at his hard Fortune, though wée could not help or remedy the same.

Nevertheless, séeing that Petulca ceased not from his suit, but so hotly followed his cause, pleading for mercy to save his life, I counselled Periander to fain as if he loved him, hoping that we might by that devise and meane escape the ill will and anger which we were like to gain of all our Neighbours if the youth had died. For his passion was such that nothing but death only could move him to leave his love. Thus Petulca loving a young Prince in the habit of a lovely shepheard, and perceiving that he had won the Fort which he had so fiercly assaulted, revived again, and in short time became as pert & as trim as ever he had been. He came twice or thrice in the week unto us, and so pleasantly discoursed of divers matters as occasion offered, that we could not have changed the recreation which he had by his honest company and merry conversation, for the richest jewell of India. As he had lived in this contented and pleasant manner one month, it happened that the daughter of a shepheard called Petrueco, dwelling in the next Farm to our cotage, was fo intricated in the net of affection, and so intangled in the beauty of Petulca, that she allured him by continuall favours, loving glaunces, curteous gréetings, pleasant spéeches, and all means she could invent to gain his good will, and to move him to love her; but all the world was not able to alter his minde, though we wi­shed that he might have béen inticed by her deserts, to repent [Page] of his first bargain. At length when Malorena (so was this unhappy shepheard named) espied y ^t Petulca was so ungrate­full that he would not any way requite her curtesies with fa­vour, she began most deadly to hate my sister (I mean Perian­der) supposing her to be the cause of all her wo: For as she knew Petulca was in love of my said sister, so she thought that he was as well liked of her; which induced her to be perswa­ded that we of purpose entertaind him the more kindly to hinder her matter: whereas contrarily when we knew that she so dearly affectioned him we made less account of him, hoping that he wearied with our coynesse, might have lent his eare to his new Mistresse that honoured him so highly. Yet how­soever we wisht her well, and longed that she might enjoy her hearts desire, she nevertheless being of contrary opinion, be­came our mortall foe. If she chanced to passe by us, she did cast such a lowring look upon us, as if she would have eaten us: if she had lighted at unawares in the company where we were, she thought her self the worse; if she spake of us to others, she belyed us, and invented tales to defame and discredit us. Yet all this served not; but intending fully to revenge her self of the injury which she dreamed that we offered her, she excogi­tated this stratagem There was in the same Village a beau­tiful young M [...]id, Neece to this Malorena, who by reason that she kept her sheep in the next pasture to ours, kept great com­pany with us, and became very familiar and friendly unto us. Which her Neece Malorena espying thought to use her as the instrument of her supposed practises. Therefore on a certain morning she sent for her & made such a sugred spéech unto her, declaring the occasion why she sent for her, the estate of her love towards Petulca, the love of Petulca towards Sybilla, alias Periander, and briefly all that concerned this matter, de­siring her not to deny her friendly aide and holy herein. So that to be short, Bergama (for that was this other Shepheards name) promised her neece that what she could do, she would be ready to performe. Whereupon she told her what she would have her to do, instructing her in all points concerning the [Page] same. Which tended to no other end then to work our woe, and by expelling us by their treachery out of those quarters, to enjoy the love of Petulca. Insomuch that these two Neeces having agreed and concluded upon the premises, thus began Bergama to play her part. But you must note, that when Pe­tulca the amorons shepheard used to come to our field, his way lay hy the place where Bergama kept her sheep. So that she espying him, on a certain morning betimes marching over her ground to come to pass the time with us in merry chat ac­cording to his maner, she stepped unto him, and knowing with what kind of talk she might stay his journey, she cunningly held him prattle until such time as she espied that I was a­lone. For commonly my sister Sybil alias Periander, towards noone used to go to our lodging, not so well able to suffer the heat of midday, as I. Bergama therefore espying me alone, called me unto her, and asked me where my sister was (as if she had not known it) when I had answered that she was gone home; why then (quoth she) séeing thou art alone, I pray kéep company with me a little and this shepheard, who al­though he had rather be in company with Sybil, yet for that maugre his will, he must this noone be my guest, will not be displeased with your presence sith he loveth y [...]u the bet­ter for your sisters sake. With that she did lead us both into a delectable Arbor, whence I might sée my sheep as well as if I had been in mine owne field, and therefore was the soon­er intreated to stay with her. In the midst of this Arbour was a table of Marble stone, on which she laid a fair napkin, and set before us such chear as was most wished for in the Countrey at that time of the year, praying us to sit downe and take such fare as she had in good part, sith she envited us not for the excellency of her delicates, but for good will and pleasure of our company. So she placed the shepheard Pe­tulca and me together on one side of the Table, and she her self sate on the other. While we were thus merrily banquet­ing and talking together, thinking or dreaming of no harme, Malorena by whose counsaile and instinct all this was practi­sed [Page] having notice of our being together, by means of a little wench sent under by Bergama her neece in post-haste went to our Cottage and entring into the house spake unto Periander in this manner.

Fair Sybil, I doubt not but you have heard of the love and affection which I have borne towards the shepheard Petulca, and that therefore I seemed to be displeased with you because he so dearly loved you, and for your sake despised and disdained me. But now, seeing I know the contrary, and being enfor­med of one of his speciall friends, how the matter standeth, I perceive that I have greater occasion to be angry with your sister then with you; and therefore I thought good to come unto you, and to crave pardon of you, for that I was offen­ded with you without c [...]use. In respect whereof for acquit­tance, I will now shew you as great friendship, as before I wished you evill. You shall therefore understand that your sister Brisilla doth most unnaturally deal with you in loving Petulca, whereas she seemeth not to esteem of him, and Petul­ca himselfe doth most shamefully abuse your courtesie, in that you give such trust and credit to his feined speeches and dis­sembling perswasions. For he therewith bringeth you in a fooles paradice, causing you to beleeve that you are the saint whom he honoureth, whereas he like a treacherous caitiffe loveth your sister Brisil so affectionately, that he never espieth her out of your company, but he hieth unto his Lady, passing the time with passionate spéeches, swearing each other love and loyalty, and therewith conspiring together how they may best deceive you and feed you with this false opinion that Pe­tulca loveth you, because you should not perceive that he and your sister could play concord in your absence, though they were alwayes at discord in your presence. And for because you shall finde my words to be true, and acknowledge me to be your perfect friend, whom you suspected to be your foe (as in truth for a time I could not well disgest you, I will lead you in a place where you shall see your unnaturall sister and dissembling sutor banquetting together. You know my néece [Page] Bergama very well, I doubt not, which is as shrewd a wench as any in the world, if you knew her qualities. And I think also that you perceive what great acquaintance there is be­tween her and your sister. This Bergama my cunning Néece hath granted them her house for their secret meeting place, where Petulca after he hath been with you, and sometimes without comming unto you, stayeth till he come home, and then is sure to enjoy the company of his loving Brisil. For as soon as you are gone from her, thither she trippeth. And if you will follow my counsaile and go with me, you shall see how lovingly she at this present sitteth on Petulca's side, and maketh good chear with him in Bergama's Arbor. I would have you to go with me, because if we go to your field, we are like to misse of our purpose, the reason is, for that my shrewd Neece Bergamas standeth on her hold, and watcheth for your comming, and as soon as she can espy you, the con­vert breaketh up, the Shepheard marcheth on forward, and your sister returneth to her sheep. But where I will lead you, we shall not be seen, and yet see all. And then take Malorena to be your friend, when your owne eyes shall force you to con­fesse the same.

Periander giving faith to this Syrens sweet Song, went with her, and according to her saying, saw us together, though we poor souls most innocent, and thought of no such supposed villany. Yet Fortune to marre our matter the more, and to give the greater colour to Malorena's tale, would have it so, that while Periander stood with that traitress and looked upon us, the shepheard Petulca being of custom merry and pleasant, smacked his lips on my cheek as I sat by him, which I know­ing his humour, that he did it of wantonness, and not of love, made not strange of it, & seemed not to take it in ill part, sith the shepheard meant no evil by it: But alas! (loving shep­heards) Periander took it so heavily, and so ingraved both that which he had heard of Malorena, and seen with his own eyes, in the ground of his tender heart; that now I am compelled to detest that traitres Malorena to hate that deceitful Pergama [Page] and to curse Fortune yet at this hour. For when Periander had séen us in the Arbor, he returned home presently, and thanking Malorena, that she had so faithfully bewrayed our treachery unto him, desired her to return home with him, where he wrote a Letter unto me, and sealing it up gave it to Malorena, and not doubting of her fidelity, prayed her to deli­ver it unto me; which he promised to do, and departed from Periander, who incontinently went his way I know not whi­ther; for since that time that he went home and I was called by Bergama, I never saw him, nor heard of him, nor could know what is become of him. The traitress séeing how cun­ningly she had deluded her neighbour, unripped the seales of the Letter, thinking she might be her secretary séeing she had done her so good a turn; but by chance looking on the subscrip­tion before she had read the contents, and seeing Periander written instead of Sybilla, was strucken in a maze on the sud­den, not knowing what it meant, but to be the better enfor­med, she read the Letter which was thus penned.

When Malorena had read that Letter, she could not but marvel at the strangenesse of the case; for she perceived there­by what kind of sisters we were; and though she was sorrée that she had offered such true Lovers that injury, yet glad for that she hoped to enjoy the love of Petulca, she stayed till he came home, and then she shewed him Perianders Letter, tel­ling him from point to point how she had served us: For she thought, when Petulca should know how he was by us decei­ved, in that he loved a man for a woman, a youth for a maid, yea Periander for Sybilla, that then he would be sorry that he so unwisely had disdained her self, and set so little by her love. But yet she was deceived; for Petulca having attentively list­ned to her tale, and well perpended the Letter, was so angry at her and enraged that she had committed such villany against us, that he swore he would himself revenge the injury by her offered to us. And therewith flung from her, and pre­sently declared all the matter unto me with tears trickling down his eys, and shewed me the Letter which Periander had written unto me: whereat I was both so ashamed and ama­zed, that I fell in a swound. But being by the industry of Petulca come to my self again, I conceived that grief for the departure of Periander, and the false opinion which he holdeth of me, which now so tormenteth and vexeth me, that I wish I had fared as wicked Malorena did, who understanding that Petulca had opened all her treachery and divelish practises un­to me, falling into desparation, for that she had attempted so much villany in vain, cast her self into the River, and so was dr [...]wned. By means whereof the whole village, yea and the neighbour towns, were filled with the rumour of this trage­dy; and I the next morning making no man of my counsel, depar [...]ed from thence, to seek my sorrowfull Periander.

Thus (loving shepheards) have you heard the discourse of my miserable life, which now is so much the more miserable, by how much the more pleasure and joy I have had therein: For the grief which I suffer because Periander (the thought of whom, and remembrance of whose love is the onely thing [Page] wherby I live) departed from me with such an opinion, is so extream, that the greatest pleasure which ever I enjoyed in al my life, is no way equivalent or comparable unto it. Iudge then your selvs (worthy shepheards) whether I have not cause to curse Fortune, and blame even the Gods of cruelty.

Wherewith Brisilla having ended her history, began newly to wéep and lament most pittifully. But Ismenio and Perierio, who had so attentively given eare to her discourse, that they had not interrupted any part thereof, comforted her as much as they might. And séeing that by this they were come to the place where I [...]menia had appointed to rest that night, they made provision for supper, as merrily as their passions would suffer them, falling to their meat, refreshed their weary bodies, and afterward took their rest.

As soon as Apollo had lighted on his fiery steeds to run his wonted course, Perierio, Ismenia, and Brisil, rising from their bed, be took them to their journy towards the Temple of Dia­na, every one of them hoping that they should have their grief if not remedied, yet at least something mitigated; for the wisdom and divine power of the Lady president of that Tem­ple, was so blazed by the Trump of Fame through all the Countries about her that no man in her time which had heard of her celestiall knowledge, doubted but that his evill might by that Lady be redressed, though it were nere so mar­velous, so it passed not the bounds of possibility. This Lady was called Felicia, of whose wisdome, knowledge, beauty, ex­cellency courtesie, gracious favour towards all true Lovers, and vertuous piety towards all distressed persons Monte Mayor largely describeth in his Diana; and forasmuch as the same Monte Mayor copiously setteth forth the sumptuous­nesse and magnificence of the Palace wherein this Lady Feli­cia kept her Court, in the fourth Book of the first part of his said Diana; I think it superfluous for me to retain the Rea­ders eare with unnecessary relations of those things that by others have so exactly been performed.

Wherefore turning the gentle Reader desirous to know [Page] the curiosity of the sumptuous building both of the Temple and Pallace before mentioned, with the situation of the place to the fourth book of Monte Mayors Diana, I will prosecute the matter of my history.

CHAP. XV. How Perierio, Ismenia, and Brisil, in their travell found Mar­celio and Maffeo asleep, who departed with them towards the Temple of Diana.

PErierio with his company had not gone above the space of an hour or thereabout, they came in­to a fair green, where they saw a shepheard and a Knight lying on the tender grasse a­sléep both together. Ismenia and the Lady Bri­sil marvelling at that sight, séeing two per­sons of such different calling, so fellow likely sléeping one by the other wist not what it meant; for they saw neither flock of shéep by them, nor yet any other company. But Perierio told them that he knew both the shepheard and the Knight also; for he had both séen them at his fathers house, and heard them de­clare their sorrows to his sisters. So while they lay and slept, Petierio declared unto Ismenia and the Lady, who they were, (for it was Marcelio, and Maffeo) and as briefly as he could re­hearsed the sum of both their discourses which they made in his presence to his sister Euphilia, concerning the cause of their travell and trouble, when she so curteously with her sister Pe­rino, entertained them at her fathers lodging. And when as he had told them as much as he knew of Marcelio and Maffeo, (which greatly delighted both Ismenia and the Lady Brisil, for they conceived infinite pleasure in hearing the strange histo­ry of their lives) he awaked them, both desirous to know what successe they had in their travel, and how they had so happily hit of one anothers company. Maffeo not sléeping so soundly as Marcelio, awaked at the first call, and marvelling to see such beautiful shepheards about him, thought that it was some ominous token of good hap; and as he beheld them more [Page] narrowly espying Perierio, he leaped up suddenly, and imbra­ced him so curteously, yeelding him a thousand Bezolas manus and thanks for his gentle entertainment at his fathers coun­try house, that not Perierio himself onely, but I [...]menia also, and the Lady Brisil could not but praise the Knight for his gratuity and thankfulnesse? and being asked of Perierio whe­ther he had found his Eleonora, and where he had met with Marcelio, he answered, that after he parted from him and his sisters, he found Marcelio within two days after, exclaiming on fortune for her accursed inconstancy, & most bitterly lament­ing the miserable estate he was in for his Alcida, who conti­nually fl [...]d from him when she could hear of his arrival to the place where she was. Insomuch (quoth Maffeo) that when I heard Marcelio (whom I til that time never had seen) so pitti­fully breath forth his plaints to the merciless skies, I thought my self favoured of the Gods, that I was not onely tormented with the sting of adversity, seeing there were more that be­wailed their adventures then my self. And in truth I so pit­tied Marcelio his case, that I asswaged mine own grief by com­forting him; when I found him so desolate, and void of all consolation and hope. So that he glad of my company and I of his, after we had declared our troubles each to other, we purposed to travel together, and so have kept one the other company these five days. In which time we have coursed over most part of all the villages aout the river Ezla, where old Camillo your father dwelleth. And as we were one evening something late in a pleasant grove, some 40 leagues from this place, we (overcome by the wearisomnesse of our journey, and heavinesse of our sorrows) fel asléep. Where being awaked by three most beautifull nymphs, of them received a letter sub­scribed unto us both: whereof we greatly marvelled, séeing that no man in the world knew of our amity and friendship, which was out of two or three days continuance. Neverthe­lesse we hoped more then we feared. For we thought that such divine things could not happen but for our better luck & content. Wherefore unknitting the letter we read it, & found these to be the contents,

When we had read this letter, not knowing whether we dreamed or were deceived with some phantasie or vain vision, we looked on the Nymphs, gazing on their beauty; but knew not what answer to make. But they so graciously spake unto us with such a setled and grave countenance, beautified with pleasantnesse and curtesie, saying. Be not abashed at our pre­sence worthy Knights; for we are sent hither not to harm you, but help you, to give you comfort, and incourage your minds now distressed. Marcelio taking heart gave them this answer, Worthy Nymphs sith we bee not able to make you any part of amends for this your high desert, I beseech the sa­cred powers of heaven to recompence your favour toward us. In the mean time if occasion were offered that our service might requite your courtesie, till death we acknowledge our selves bound both unto you and the soveraign Lady Felicia, [Page] who hath sent you hither to direct our straying paces, and ad­dresse us in some stayed path, by following of which we may obtain the end of our haplesse journey.

Curteous knight (replied one of the Nymphs) recompence we neither deserve nor desire, our message we bring and thus deliver it. Séeing you have read the Letter, it may please you to stay here till you sée us no longer but so, that you mark well what way we take, and then follow us at your pleasure, and you shall not misse of the way which our Lady doth write of. And therewith the Nymphs most courteously taking their leaves departed from us, though we were sorry to sée them goe, and leave us behinde them. Yet we encouraged by their words, followed, being led by the guide of hope, not so much knowing whether we goe right, as hoping that wée are in in the way which the Lady promised that wée should take.

Thus (Perierio,) you have heard what successe we have had since I was with you.

When Perierio, Ismenia, and the Lady Brisil, had heard the words of Maffeo, marvelled at the strangenesse thereof, and told him, that unlesse they were deceived, they were in their direct way to the Temple of Diana, whither they also travel­led to the same Felicia, to crave her ayde and counsaile for the abridgement of their sorrowes. Maffeo passing glad of that, waked Marcelio, who in like manner as his fellow had done, knew and saluted Perierio. And after they had very courte­ously greeted one another, and each discharged him of his du­ty according to the rules of civility, they marchd on pursuing their journey. And for as much as Ismenia and the Lady Bri­sil had partly by Maffeo, while Marcelio in his shepheads wéed yet sleeped, béene enformed of their Fortunes, they re­quested Perierio, Ismenia, and the Lady Brisil, each of them to tell the cause of their travell. Which to beguile the wea­risome journey, and to pleasure the Knights, they did all thrée performe.

When they had ended each his discourse, they came néere [Page] to a most pleasant Grove, beautified with sundry ranks of tall trées, which yielded such a pleasant shadow, that they could not pass by that place without entring into it, and en­joying such pleasure as the amerity thereof did offer them. This Grove was so perfectly made by Natures skill, and hedged with such pleasant bushes, that the manner thereof farre exceeded the artificial Gardening invented by the sub­tilty of mortal men.

As these Lovers walked up and down the Grove, when they came neer the hedge, they sate downe, and listning, they heard certain shepheards singing to the sound of their Oaten Pipes. Which shepheards belonged to the Lady Felicia, and were called Custophilus and Eromaus, Their singing tended to this sense.

CHAP. XIX. How Marcelio met with Polydor and Clenarde, who declared to them what had hapned to his father Eugerio and himself, after they were separated by the tempest.

WHen these Shepheards had ended their Son­net, Marcelio, Maffeo, Perierio, Ismenia, and the Lady Brisil, intending to rise and passe on in their journey, they heard a certaine Knight and a Lady thank the Shepheards for their Musick. And because they could not sée what this Knight or Lady was, by reason of the thickness of the hedge, they hearkned to their talk. For the Knight turning himself towards the Lady, spake unto her in this manner. But I pray you sister, have you ever heard in the Court, or in any populous City, any Musick that so delighted the sences, and contented the minde, as this Pastoral fit, which these Shepheards here have bestowed upon us? Certainly brother (quoth she) these Countrey songs, being accompanied with a certain kind of simplicity and goodnesse, please me far bet­ter then those melodious tunes which are used in the Courts or Palaces of Kings and Noblemen, being most curiously composed and artificially enterlaced with divers new inven­tions. And now we talk of this matter, I cannot forget that good time in which Marcelio making love to our sister Alcida, did use some evening to play on his Lute, and sung so swéet­ly, that if Orpheus his Musick was agréeable unto his, I mar­vel not though he moved stones and trées to follow him, and fetched Euridice from the duskish Groves of Tartarus. Ah Marcelio, Marcelio! Where art thou now? Nay where art thou Alcida? Ah most unfortunate wretch that I am! Con­tinually doth Fortune offer me occasion to remember some­thing or other which may encrease my grief, at such time as I intend to recreate my self with some simple pastimes.

Marcelio who was with the other Lovers on the otherside of the hedge, hearing very attentively what talk the Knight & the Lady had, was so astonished to hear them name him that he scarce beléeved that he was the man they named; but began to imagin that it was some other Marcelio and Alcida they spake of. But to be resolved, he climbed on a trée, and looking over the hedge, espied that it was Polydorus and Clenarde, brother and sister to his Alcida; whereof he was so glad, that he ran unto them and imbraced them both with tears expres­sing his exceeding joy, séeing he could not utter one word in a long while he was so suddenly surprized with gladness. Po­lydor and Clenarde marvelled greatly what this might mean; for because Marcelio was apparelled like a Shepheard, they knew him not, till such time that his sobs and tears permit­ted him to utter these spéeches. Ah brother of my heart, now do I not care for my misfortune, séeing that I am so happy as to see thee. But what, is not Alcida by thee? Or doth she perhaps hide her self in some secret place of the Grove? I be­seech thee to let me know some newes of her, if thou knowest any, & deliver me from y ^e torment which I suffer. Herewith Polydor & his sister knew Marcelio, and imbracing him said.

O most blessed day! O most happy hour! Ah brother to our soul, what cruel disaster hath been cause that thou art de­prived of the company of Alcida, and us of her presence? Why dost thou march thus disguised? Why dost thou wear such counterfeit apparel? Ah cruel Fortune! It is most certain that there is no perfect content in any thing whatsoever.

On the other side Maffeo, with the other Lovers, seeing that Marcelio had so luckily met with Polydor and Clenarde, were very glad, and so they marched altogether toward the Temple of Diana. And by that time that they had gone two leagues, the Sun being at the highest, forced them to take the shadow of certain trees that grew about a pleasant Foun­tain. Where they all sat down, and washing their hands in the Christaline water that issued out of the Fountain, each one setting out such provision as they had brought with them, [Page] they refreshed themselves, and having satified their hunger, after that Marcelio had told Polydor and Clenarde what for­tune he had after his departure from them, he desired Polydor to let him know what adventures he had had, since that time that he left him with old Eugerio in the Ship, when he with Alcida and Clenarde leaped in the ship-boat, and so were sepa­rated from their sight by the tempestuous waves; thinking sure that they had miserably perished with that unfortunate ship. Whereupon Polydor began thus to rehearse how he and his father escaped the danger of the Sea, using as much bre­vity as he possibly could, because he thought it would be trou­blesome to the rest of the company, to hear matters that were full of sorrow recited.

After that I was hindred by the Pilot and the Mariner (quoth Polydor) when I had prepared my self to leap into the ship-boat with my father, so that we were compelled to re­main in that unfortunate and dangerous ship; our aged father was so distressed, as we may suppose that a loving father may be, who in the latter end of his old age, séeth both his own life and his dear childrens also, in such present danger. He did not greatly complain of the waves that battered the flanks of the ship, neither did he regard the boisterous winds that be­set our Vessel of all sides; but when he beheld the boat in which you were with Alcida and Clenarde, (which séemed at every moment to be overwhelmed and drowned in the rising waves which séemed to flée over the boat) he thought that his heart was pulled out of his belly; and when you were sepa­rated from us that we could not see you any more, he was so grieved, that I feared lest he should have presently died.

The ship being led by Fortunes will went astray up and down the sea for the space of five dayes, after we had lost the sight of the boat, at the end of which space, Phoebus being néer his Western home, we found our selvs to be in sight of land. Whereof the Mariners rejoyced marvellously, as much for that they had recovered the hope which they had altogether lost and given over, as for that they knew in what coast they [Page] were arrived; for the land which they saw was the pleasant­est Countrey and the most delectablest place that the Sun penetrated with his beams, abounding with all kind of de­light and pleasure. Insomuch that one of the Mariners be­gan thus to cry out, O blessed and happy land of Valentia, re­ceive those, which the Sea being irrited and provoked to ice, doth vex and afflict. Happy are they that being out of danger to be swallowed up by the greedy waves, enjoy thy fertility, and the méekness of they aire! With far more labour doth the Ship eare the Sea, then the labourer doth thy fields. O fa­vourable land, before the sea become more enraged against us, receive us into thy pleasant bosome, séeing we are almost spoiled and forlorn, and thou shalt do as much for us as hée that saveth anothers life. Receive us I say, O beautifull Countrey of Valentia, that we having once set foot on land, never return to sea again.

By these words of the Mariner, we gathered that we were néer Valentia, which countrey is famous through all the world. But while the Mariner thus called to the merciless land, the Ship bring driven with a furious wind, arrived so néer the land, that if we had not wanted the boat, we might have reached unto it. Nevertheless, certain fishermen fishing not far from us, and seeing our Mast rent our Anchor lost, our sailes torn, and our ship pittifully buttered, perceived in what extremity we were. Therefore with all speed they came to succour us, and with much trouble they fetched us out of the Ship and led us to Land. The joy which we conceived thereof, was such as every man may and ought to imagine. Eugerio and I, we thanked the Fishers for their help, in that our great necessity, according to our duty. But they as men of a good and simple heart, by nature pitttifull, regarded not our thanks, nor would take any reward at our hands for their paines, one of them making us this answer. Sirs, thank us not for this déed, for you shall know that we are bound to succour and help all men that are in like necessity, and therefore take our readiness and good will in good part which [Page] forceth us to do good unto all men, whose extremities want our aide. And perswade your selves, that as often as such oc­casion shall be offered as this, we will do the like, although we should thereby hazard our lives, and intrude our selves into danger. For this morning happened such a chance, that if we had not remedied the same as we now have done this, we had been grieved therewith all the dayes of our life. The chance was this. At the point of the day, we went out of our lodges with our nets, and our other ordinary preparations to fish withall; and before we came to the sea side, we saw that the ayre was overcast with a dark myst, and heard that the sea raged by reason of the boysterous winds which blew very ruthly, in so much that we were twice of opinion to return home again, fearing to commit our selves to the dangerous streames, in such a malicious and perilous time. But some of us thought good that we should go to the shore, side to sée whe­ther the tempest would slacken, and the weather change. For it happeneth somtimes, that after a great tempest the weather changeth on the sudden, and spreadeth a calm over the whole sea. But as we came to the sea side, we espied a great boat so shaken with the wind, and bruised with the waves, without mast, sailes, oares, and all other seafaring instruments, that unless this had been néer the shore, they could not have esca­ped present death: to be short, they were in the very same case that you even now were. We moved to compassion, without regarding the peril unto which we submitted our selves, pre­sently leaped all into one of our Ships, and with all spéed rowed towards those forlorn persons. When we were so neer them, that we might see them that were in the boat, we espied a young Lady, whose face was covered with tears, and her cheeks so blubbered with the water that issued out of her eyes that it would have moved a Tyger to pitty. Which La­dy, as soon as she perceived us rowing towards her, expected our romming, with her armes stretched, and said unto us. Ah brothers, I heseech you to deliver mo from this imminent danger with which Fortune menaceth us presently, and more [Page] earnestly do I beseech you to deliver me from the power of this Traytor which is by me, who against all reason and equit­ty keepeth me prisoner, and most villanously offereth to force and violate my chastity. When we had understood that, with all speed & diligence that we could (and that not without great danger) we pulled them out of their boat, & setting them aboord on our ship, we brought them to the shore, where she told unto us al the vilany of the traitrous Mariner that was with her; how he had abused her and her sister, with a certain Gentle­man allied unto her, which would be long to rehearse. But we have exempted her from the villains and led her to our lodg­ing, where she is yet with our wives and daughters out of all danger to fall in the hands of those malicious and dishonest caitiffs that were in the boat with her, whom we have cast in­to prison not far hence, where we will cause them shortly to be punished and chastised according to their deserts; seeing then that such and event hapned, (as in like manner more may happen) who is there of us all that would not, nay that ought not willingly to hazard their lives in like danger, to recover the welfare of those that are lost, & to do good unto those that are abused and afflicted? When Eugerio my father heard the fisher say so, he thought that the same yong Lady might have been one of his daughters, and although the fisher could not tell us her name, we hoped nevertheless shortly to be resolved of our doubt, by reason that the Lady was not far off, and that the Fisher did lead us unto the house where she was, that we might there take our rest. As we came neer the house we heard the women sing that were within; and we so longed to see the Lady, that we could scarce reach to the house in time enough to know what she was; but entring into the lodging, the Fishers wife with her daughters and her maids, marvel­ling to see what new guests came thither, they all held their peace, and left their song; and among them did we see the da­mosel whereof the Fisher had spoken, whom we incontinent­ly knew, and were of her known, for it was my sister Cle­de, who is here present at this time, and may tell you how she [Page] fared after that she was separated from you, by means of the Traytor Bartophamus, and how she came so luckily unto that self-same place where both she and we were saved, by the help of those pitiful and curteous Fishers; but when we had heard of the treason of the same Villain Bartophamus, of the necessi­ty of Alcida, and of your captivity, I leave it to your discreti­on to consider how grieved we were, as Clenarde my sister wel perceived, and may witness; for the joy of our arrival to land, and delivery out of that present danger, was turnd into mour­ning, all our pleasure into grief, and all our comfort into di­spair. Insomuch that the fisher séeing how pittifully we were grieved and afflicted, for the mishap of Alcida and your self, he comforted us as much as lay in him, and told us of a certain Lady called Felicia, bearing rule over the temple of Diana, say­ing that she had such infinite knowledge and wisdom, that she could remedy our evil by telling us what was become either of Alcida or your self, whereof we were very glad; for that was the chiefest thing that we desired to know. Wherefore we resting there that night, as soon as Phoebus had saluted the Fishers cottage we rose, and thanking the fisher and his wife for their inestimable goodness and friendship towards us, and rewarding them according to our power, we departed be­times in the morning, leaving the Mariners there. To be short we marched, Eugerio, Clenarde, and I, till we reached un­to the temple of Diana, where we saw the Palace where the wise Lady Felicia holdeth her residence. We beheld the mag­nificent building both of the place and of the temple, we saw the most pleasant Gardens, the sumptuous towers, the most wise and discreet Lady, and many other things that have so suspended our minds with admiration and marvel, that I am not able to make rehearsal according thereof. We saw in like manner the most excelent and beautiful Nymphs that attend on the Lady Felicia, and many other shepheards both men and maids and divers Knights, Gentlemen, Ladies, and Gentle­women, that were come thither to have their harmes reme­died by the sage Felicia, who had given them great comfort [Page] in their love and necessity, But as concerning us, the aid and help which she hath done us untill this present, is, that she hath kept our father Eugerio by her, willing us to go unto these quarters, and not return untill we had occasion to be better contented. And forasmuch as we have received no smal contentment and joy of your life and presence, we think we have sufficient occasion offered us to return to the sage Feli­cia, especially séeing we have in her company left our aged fa­ther all alone, and desolate, among strangers, I know that it importeth greatly for his comfort, that we should find out our sister Alcida; But séeing that fortune in so long time hath bar­red us from understanding where she is, or hearing any thing of her, I think it convenient that we deprive not our father any longer of our company and presence.

After Polidor had ended his discourse, all the company mar­velling at the strangenesse of his and Clenardes adventures, comforted Marcelio, who wept bitterly for Alcidaes sake: and as soon as his tears would permit him, he recounted unto Po­lidor and clenarde, what had hapned unto him since he saw them last. But Ismenia with the Lady Brisil, Perierio and Maf­feo, having heard the report that Polidor made of the sage La­dy Felicia, were pricked with a greedy desire to arrive to the Temple of Diana; pa [...]tly because they wished to sée that fa­mous Lady, and partly for that they gathered by the praise which Polidor gave her, for her discretion & wisdom, that they should have occasion to hope for the redress & remedy of their harms For they were in great hope that some of them whom they so diligently & painfully sought for either were already a­mong those gentlemen, damosels, & shepheards which Polydor said that he had séen with the Lady Felicia, or should be ere long by means of the said Ladies singular wisdom and experience.

The Sun by this time began to fall in the Western plains, and thereby was not so hot but that Polydor thought good to march forward, that they might in good time reach to the pal­lace of the Lady Felicia. Which liking all the cōpany, they rose all and went on their journey. They had not gone passing a [Page] league and a half, but they met a certain nymph, whom the Lady Felicia, foreknowing the comming of this worthy com­pany, had sent to let them know of certain things which she would have them acquainted with before they came unto her, to the end y ^t all things might succéed according as she through her incredible wisdome thought convenient. Marcelio there­fore with the rest of his company coming to the place where the nymph was, saluted her very curteously as she likewise did him and all the other that were by him, and asked them whi­ther they were going: whereunto they answered, that they wēt toward the temple of Diana. She hearing that said; for as much as I can gather by the valor and worthinesse of your persons, I believe y ^e Lady Felicia, of whose nimphs I am one, will be very glad of your company. And séeing that Phoebus doth now begin to prepare for his evening lodging, & the day draweth to an end, I wil return home with you▪ for I am as­sured ye shall be received with great triumph. They thanked her greatly, that she would keep them company and went on with her towards the temple. For they conceived marvellous hope by her words, and although Polydor & Clenarde had been in the Pallace before, yet they remembred not that they had séen her among the other nymphs, by reason of y ^e multitude of the nymphs of the Lady Felicia, who all of them obeying the commandement of their sage Lady, are imployed in sundry charges and divers places. So that Polydor asked this nimph how she was called, whereupon she answered her name was Arethea. Clenarde demanded what news was in the Ladies Pallace? she answered, that the chiefest news she knew was y ^e two hours before her departure from thence, there arrived a young Lady in the habit of a shepheardesse, who being espi­ed by an aged Knight that was at that present with the Lady Felicia, was known to be his daughter: and that because she had a long time gone astray through most parts of the world, the aged Knight her father was so joyfull of her arrival, that the rumor of that young Ladies fortune, was spread through al the villages about the temple of Diana. Marcelio listening at­tentively [Page] to these words, greedily desiring to know whether the Lady she spake of were Alcida, could not but interrupt the nymph as she went to go forward in the relation of her news, and so he asked her how the aged Knight was called. Vnlesse my memory fail me, answered the nymph, he is called Eugerio, and his daughter Alcida. Wherewith Marcelio surprized with excéeding joy, after he had a long time stood as if he had been in a trance, at length burst out into these words. Ah most bles­sed troubles that take end by so prosperous an adventure! ah fortune and as he meant to have gone forward, he could not ut­ter one word more, but fell down on the ground wholly asto­nished. The Lady Brisil, Ismenia, and Clenarde, flocked about him to incourage him, and did so much prevail, that he came to himself again. In the mean time, Polydor and Clenarde, were marvellous joyfull at that news, séeing that all their misfortunes should take end by the comming of their sister Alcida, Maffeo, Perierio, and the Lady Brisil with Ismenia, were likewise glad for Marcelio's sake, and hoped likewise that as the Lady Felicia had wrought his blisse, so she would likewise being moved with compassion of their miseries, redresse their grief. Ismenia desirous to hear something of her hus­band Lexander, said to Arethee, fair Nymgh, I was mar­vellously well contented, and received great joy to hear of the general gladnesse that is in the Ladies Pallace, by reason of the arrivall of the Lady Alcida: but yet I should conceive more perfect pleasure, if it would please you to tell me what shepheard of account there is at this present in the Pallace. Arethee answered, you shall find divers shepheards of account whose names I remember not, yet two or three I know a­bove the rest. There is one shepheard called Petulca of whom the Lady Felicia maketh great account of, for his wit and cha­stity. Besides there is a shepheard called Philorenus, whose presence pleaseth the Lady Felicia as much. The Lady Brisil hearing Petulca named, marvelled to know how he came thi­ther, and to what end; and therefore asked the nymph, whe­ther she knew [...]he cause of his commig thither. The nymph [Page] answered, that as she remembred, he came to hear of a certain young shepheard whom he sometime had loved instead of a young maid, under the name of Sybilla he being apparelled in the habit of a shepheardesse and dwelling with his wife, made all the world beleeve they were two sisters. And many other things, which I cannot (quoth Arethee) now rehearse, sha [...]l you understand of him when you come to the Pallace, concer­ning those two sisters, which I promise you are wonderfull strange. Strange they are indeed (quoth Brisil) if you knew all fair nymph. Verily I beleeve (quoth Arethee) that you are either the shepheard Periander or his supposed sister. Ei­ther of them indeed (quoth Brisil) but my name is not Perian­der. I promise you (quoth Arethee) that my Lady will be sin­gularly glad when she séeth you: for I have heard her talk much of you and your spouse Periander.

Ismenia although she heard not that her beloved Lexander was among the other shepheards which Arethee had named yet for that she heard that the Lady Brisil had heard something con­cerning her matters, she took the more heart in her own cause, and was glad for the poor distressed Dutchesse sake, hoping that she should receive comfort of the Lady Felicia.

Maffeo and Perierio who had heard nothing of their Ladies, were neverthelesse of as good chear as the rest, hoping that when they were come to the Temple of Diana, they should re­ceive as much comfort as any: because the Lady Felicia had written to him and Marcelio, as you have heard before.

CHAP. XX. How Perierio and his company came to the Temple of Diana, how they were entertained by the Sage Lady Felicia, and the great joy that was there made.

THis worthy company being convoyed by Are­thee the Nymph, came into a fair large place which was before the gate of the Pallace, weere they saw a most gallant Dame come out of the house, being apparelled in a black Velvet Gowne, with a large Veile of precious Lawne over her head, accompanied with three beautifull Nymphs, re­sembling the stately Goddesse Juno, when she went to intreat Aeolus to disturb the Seas, when Aeneas sayled towards Lati­um.

Arethee espying her, advertised all the company that it was the Lady Felicia, and the three Nymphs, Doride, Cynthia and Polidora. And approaching near unto her, fell down at her féet and saluted her, as in like manner Marcelio with the rest of his company, did in all submisse and humble manner. Feli­cia séemed to be wonderfully pleasant for their arrivall, and spake unto them with a most chearfull countenance, saying, Worthy Knights, Ladies, and notable shepheards, howbeit that the pleasure which I take in this your presence is great, yet that content which you shall reap by mine shalbe no lesse. But forasmuch as you are overtravelled by reason of your wearisome journey, go now take your rest, and forget your sor­rows; séeing the one cannot be wanting unto you in my house, and I am to take care for the other by means of my skill. They thanked her most humbly, and finally took their leave of her, but she caused Polydor and Clenarde to stay with her, saying she had something to say unto them: but the others were led by Arethee to a side place of the Pallace, where they were feasted that night, and provided of all things [Page] necessary for their cherishment and rest. This house was so sumptuous and magnificent, garnished with such rich move­ables, and beautified with such delightfull gardens orch [...]rds, rivers and fountains, that there is nothing comparable to the excellency thereof,

Marcelio, Maffeo, Perierio, with Ismenia, and the Lady Bri­sil, were lodged in that part of the pallace, which abutted upon the garden, in sundry chambers being hanged with cloth of of gold, and most precious tapistry wrought with ad­mirable cunning. Supper was prepared for them most mag­nificently, and it was served up unto them in vessels of Gold and Christal. And when the night was approached, and bed time at hand, they were laid on such good and easie beds, that howbeit their bodies were wearied by travel, yet the softnesse of the delicate down, with the hope which Felicia had given them, provoked them to a most pleasant and swéet sléep.

On the other side, the Lady Felicia, with Polydor and Cle­narde, (whom she willed to make no mention of the arrival of Marcelio and the rest of his company) went into one of her most pleasant gardens, where Eugerio walked alone, his daugh­ter Alcida onely being by him who although she yet had on the same shepheardlike apparel that she did wear at her first com­ming there, neverthelesse was incontinently known of her brother and sister Polydor and Clenarde.

It were impossible for me to expresse the joy which old Eu­gerio made for the happy méeting of al his children, whom he so dearly loved, embracing them one after another and wel­comming Polydor and Clenarde with fl [...]uds of tears flowing out of his aged eys. Alcida greatly welcommed Polydor her brother, and Clenarde her sister, but farre more affectionately cherished him then Clenarde, imagining that she had purpose­ly gone away with Marcelio, and left her alone and distressed in the desart and solitary Isle of Formentera, as you have heard before,

But the Lady Felicia intending to unfold these errours, and make the cause thereof knowne unto Alcida, desiring to end [Page] their wonderfull misfortunes, and restore them to the blessed estate wherein they were before they committed themselves to cruel N [...]ptune, to saile towards the haven of Lisbone, there to celebrate the concluded Marriage in the presence of the Lu­sit [...]n King their Soveraign, she spake unto Alcida in this manner.

Most noble and beautifull Alcica, notwithstanding that Fortune hath beene so great an enemy unto you in afflicting you with so many troubles and vexations, yet cannot you de­ny, but that by reason of the great content which you now en­joy, you are fully revenged of the injury which she hath hither­to done you. And for as much as the errour which you have li­ved in, until this present day, without cause abhorring your Marcelio is sufficient (if you yet hold the same opinion) to al­ter your heart, and to breed his excéeding misery; it is necessa­ry that I should declare unto you, how that you are terriblie deceived if you be of that opinion. For the presumption which you have of Marcelio, is quite contrary and otherwise then you mean; for when you were left alone in the Isle, that came not by his fault, but by the villany of a certain traitor subbor­ned by Fortune to aggravate your mishap, who to recompence the wrong which she hath offered you, hath directed your steps hither towards me, in whose mouth you shall not find any o­ther then truth. Your sister Clenarde shall largely tell you all that concerneth this matter, and how it wholly standeth, mark well what she shall say unto you and give credit to her words; for as for me, I swear unto you, that whatsoever she shall re­hearse concerning this, shall be most certain and veritable.

Whereupon presently Clenarde began to inform Alcida how all things had chanced, excusing Marcelio and her selfe, and largely declared the treason of Bartophamus, and all that which already hath been said touching the same. Alcida ha­ving very attentively given ear to her sisters spéech, was won­derfully well contented to know the verity and truth of the case; and as she did drive away and exclude her former rancor and false opinion from her heart, so did she in like manner [Page] manner expel all such anger and hate, which she had underser­vedly conceived against Marcelio. Wherefore she now know­ing the errour, and perceiving that she wrongfully had given over the love which in times past she had born to Marcelio, the sparkles of love that had so long béen raked up in the ashes of oblivion, began to shew their force in her, and the affection which had slept thus long, began now to waken: insomuch that she said unto Felicia, Madam, I acknowledge my fault, and the singular pleasure which you have done me in bringing me into the knowledge thereof, But being at this present time delivered from that false opinion, and as well affectioned to­wards Marcelio as ever I was; who for that he is now ab­sent, if I may not injoy his company, I shall not obtain the perfect joy which I hoped to receive by your means, nay ra­ther shall I conceive another grief so excessive and intollera­ble, that I shall be compelled to sue for new favours at your graces hands, to remedy the same.

It is a manifest token of love (answered the Lady Felicia) to fear the absence, but as for that you shall have no cause to care. The Sun hath now drawen in his beams, it is time for you to retire, and to go to your chambers to take your rest with your father and your sister; to morrow morning will we talk of the rest. Therewith she went forth of the garden, and so did Eugerio with his daughters, and went to the place which Feli­cia had appointed for them: which was separated from that part where Marcelio with his company was lodged.

As soon as Phoebus had harnessed his Steeds to run his wonted course, Eugerio, Polidor, Alcida, Clenarde, and other Gentlemen and shepheards that were in the Pallace at that time, met together in the garden, where sitting by a fountain before the chambers where the Lady Brisil was lodged with Ismenia, Perierio, Marcelio, and Maffeo, began one to play on the Lute, another on the Citharen, another on the Bandora, others on their Flutes, and some sung prick songs; insomuch that with their musick they awaked the Lady Brisil, who cal­led Ismenia, and she knocked up Perierio, and the other Knights [Page] that lay in the chambers above her. Who all of them lean­ing in their windowes, although they might not sée all those that sate at the Fountain, by reason of certain Lawrell trées that grew about it, yet because it was so neer to their cham­bers, they could hear what they said. They therefore listned very attentively each of them, Maffeo whether he might hear the voice of Eleonora, (for he hoped greatly that as the Lady Felicia had written unto him as well as unto Marcelio, that therefore in like manner, Eleonora should have béen arrived at the Palace as well as Alcida; notwithstanding that the Nymph Arethee had not made any mention of her) and Mar­celio, whether he might heare his Alcida. As for Perierio he could not hope to sée the Lady whom he loved, and therefore was more sad then the rest, and looked out at the window more to fortget the fantasies by the pleasant Musick of those that were in the Garden, and to pass the time in beholding the beauty of divers Ladies and shepheards which were there. The Lady Brisil harkned whether Petulca the shepheard sung, to know whether he had heard any thing of Periander. But Ismenia being sorely discomforted because Arethee the Nymph had not named Lexander, when she asked what Shepheards were in the Pal [...]ce, thought sure that he was not among them that were by the Fountain; but she had better luck then she wist of; for inconttnently she heard a shepheard, who sitting alone, after he had sounded his Corne-muse, began thus to complain to himself.

Ismenia hearing him sing out of her chamber window, knew that it was Lexanders voyce, whereof she was glad, though sorrow to hear him so grievously complain, thinking that he so bewailed the absence of some other, and not for love of her self. But she was soon delivered from that suspition, for after he had ended his Sonnet, he burst out into these words with a most pittiful sigh.

Ah poore soule! what an high offence hast thou committed, to beléeve such false accusations against thy swéet Ismenia who honoureth thée above all wights in the world, whereas thou least dost deserve it at her hands? And therefore doest thou worthily suffer the torment which thy lightnesse and credulity hath procured thee. Ah my dear Ismenia, how much better had it béen that thou hadst not taken the paines to course the world like a forlorn wight to seek after thy unwor­thy Lexander, that he now acknowledging his fault, might re­turn home to his house, and there find thee. Ah traitress Syl­veria, and was this the best reward thou couldst afford me for the great pleasure and service I have done thee sithence thy childhood? Yet I could account it a benefit that thou hast en­formed me of thy horrible treason, if thou hadst come in time, for séeing thou hast stayed so long, thy advertisement hath ser­ved [Page] to no end but to increase my grief, and multiply my sor­rowes.

When Ismenia had heard that, she thought it time to thank the Gods for her fortune, and to give over all care and grief, Marcelio, Maffeo, Perierio, and Duches Brisil, were glad for her sake, and séeing that so by little and little, their company was comforted, they were so encouraged, that they doubted not but that they should all obtain their wished desires in time, judging that the Lady Felicia was the onely Patroness that could redresse the sorrowes of all such true amourts as were afflicted by reason of their sincere love.

In the mean time, Ismenia was so tickled with desire to en­joy the wished company of her Lexander, that she had almost throwne her self out of the window, and so fallen down head­long into the Garden where he was: but séeing that her com­pany hindred her from that unhappy meeting, she would have presently gone to the Garden, had not Marcelio and the Du­ches Brisil exhorted her to stay till she knew the Lady Felicia's pleasure, who seeing the day appeared, and the Sun began to glance through her windowes, sent Arethee the Nymph unto Marcelio and the rest of his company: Therefore as Ismenia was talking with Marcelio, of the great desire she had to be with Lexander, Arethee entring into the chamber where they were, and with a most courteous countenance said unto them: Noble Gentlemen and fair Shepheards, I beseech God to send you so good hap and fortune as you deserve. The sage La­dy Felicia hath sent me hither, to know of you whether you have rested better this night then the nights before, and whe­ther ye have received more content then of custome you are wont to do. Besides also hath she commanded me to lead you into the Garden, whither she will presently come to speak with you. But you Marcelio, must put on this sute, which the Lady hath sent you, and put off your Shepheards apparel, to the end that you may be cloathed according to your estate.

Ismenia would not stay till Marcelio spake, but her self re­turned this answer unto the Nymph, for joy of the good news [Page] which she brought. O blessed Nymph, what a good morning have you given us? How are we beholding unto you? God will recompence the pleasure which you have done us, seeing that our ability sufficeth not. As for the content which we have received this night it is greater then I can declare, see­ing that this morning we have been so happy as that I have recovered my life, and these other Gentlemen hope to obtain the same; wherefore to obey so worthy a Lady as sage Felicia, we are ready to go into the Garden with you to know her pleasure.

Then Arethee took from another Nymph that came with her, the costly and rich apparel which the Lady Felicia had sent Marcelio to put on, and helped him to cloath himself in that sute which was wrought in pure gold & precious pearls, most sumptuous and bravely placed. As soon as he was appa­relled, they went forth of the chamber and followed Arethee into the Garden, where she led them into an Arbor, whence they could not see those that sate at the Fountain, and taking the Lady Brisil and Perierio by the hand, left Marcelio, Maffeo, and Ismenia in the Arbor leading Perierio and the Duches to the Palace where she left Perierio in a fair chamber under the bed-chamber of the Felicia, willing him there is expect the Ladies coming, and so mounting the Marble staires, led the Duches up to Felicias chamber, where the Lady her self run­ning to the door, welcomed her in this sort:

Most gracious Princess, pardon me, for that I honoured you not yesterday according to your merit and estate, for that I as yet knew not the worthiness and excellency of your per­son; but this morning as I consulted in the Temple of sacred Diana our Soveraign Goddess, concerning your case and of your company, I was informed of the Nobility of your stock, of the antiquity of your house, of the perfections of your beauty and vertues of your minde and of your loyalty in the sacred Lawes of sincere Love and Chasti [...]y. Know therefore most excellent Princess, that the Gods being moved with your in­comparable vertue, have sent you hither not only to enjoy the [Page] love of the beautifull and valorous young Prince Periander, but also to be hoysed to the top of perpetual blisse and to live not thy self onely, but all the Progeny that shall issue from thy fruitful worthy body, in such honour as no time, no mis­fortune, or nothing whatsoever shall be able to abate or dimi­nish. In the mean time till the gods send us further know­ledge concerning this affair encourage your self noble Prin­cess, and give over all care and grief; let me take thought in your behalf, and I promise you that I will not sleep upon the matter. But till occasion be offered that it may be put in practise I shall desire you to take patience to lodge in this my simple and solitary house, which though it be not comparable to the princely place of your bringing up, I mean the famous Court of Albion, yet I doubt not but for the recreation, plea­sure and content which you shall have in my company, you will think well of it, howsoever you find it farre inferiour to kingly Palaces, for the baseness of the building. Most hea­venly Lady, (answered the Duches) what thanks I may yield you for your high deserts, I know not and therefore per­swade your self that I wish you as much recompence as a mortal heart may conceive. As concerning my abode with you, I am ready to stay with you as long as you please, nei­ther shall I think ill of the place séeing that in magnificent building it surpasseth the stateliest Palace that I think may be in the world. But grant it were (as you say) inferiour to the mean Court of Albion, yet considering the excellency of your person, it may be judged the most pleasant and delectable place under the vale of heaven. If you like so well of my com­pany already (replied the Lady Felicia) I hope you will in­crease your liking when you have made trial of my readiness to pleasure you. But in the mean time, because I must go unto the rest of your company that is in your Garden, if it please you, put off your shepheards attire and apparel your self with these Robes, which though they be as precious and costly as ever was any that entred in my wardrobe, yet are they not so sumptuous as your vertues deserve. And for that [Page] you have so chastly behaved your self, and as yet kept your vir­ginity inviolated contrary to the opinion of all men whereas you have notwithstanding so long kept secret company with your loving Periander, reserving your Virginity, and conse­crating the same to Diana, until such time as your Marriage Rights being celebrated, you may by the laws of Hymaeneus, give an honourable adieu to virginity, and enjoy the fruits of your chast love; I give you this bunch of Roses which shall not wither in winter or fade in the summer, but in token of your chastity reserve their natural vigor and fresh colour as long as you live. As Felicio had so said, whilst her Nymphs ap­parelled the Duches, she called Perierio by Arethee, & saluting him very curteously told him that she had not been less mind­ful of him then of the other of his company that night. There­fore, quoth she, put on the clothes that I wil send thee, and stay for my coming; as for all the rest, disburthen your self of all care, and let me alone; and so she departed from Perierio, who went to the chamber where Arethee had led him, and inconti­nently espied Arethee coming with a fair sute of black velvet as he was wont to wear before his father was exiled from Venice. Arethee having helpt him to put on his clothes, retur­ned to the Lady Felicia, who séeing that Duches Brisil was rea­dy, set a most precious Coronet on her head, on the top where­of she put the bunch of Roses, and taking her by the hand, sée­ing Perierio apparelled, bid him follow her into the Garden; so she went towards the Fountain where aged Eugerio sate with his daughters, Alcida and Clenarde, and his son Polydor, with other Knights and Shepheards, among whom was the shepheard Petulca, and Lexander also. And you must note, that the Lady Felicia had also caused Alcida that morning to leave off her shepheards coat, and apparel her self in rich attire ac­cording to her estate, that when she should meet with Marce­lio (who now was in like maner most sumptuously appareled) she should not be disfigured with base clothes, though Alcida her self as yet knew nothing of Marcelios being there. As then Eugerio and the rest of those that sate at the Fountain, saw the [Page] Lady Felicia coming, being accompanied with so beautiful a Princess, marvelled greatly who the same young Lady should be, and every one doing his obeysance to the Lady Felicia, and her company saluted her most humbly, as she likewise with Brisil, and Perierio did them. The Duches séeing Alcida, won­dred at her beauty, as likewise Alcida did at her; for by reason that she was so sumptuosly and richly apparelled, her beauty which surpassed all Gentlewomen of her time, séemed rather to be heavenly then mortal. And though Polydor and Clenarde had séen her the day before, yea and gone two or thrée leagues in her company, yet the change of her attire so alter'd her, that they as yet knew not that she was the Lady Brisil, whose beau­ty was injured by that base shepheardlike attire. But Felicia calling Alcida and the shepheard Lexander unto her, went to­ward the place where Marcelio and Ismenia with Maffeo, stay­ed for her coming. They séeing her come, as they marvelled at the supernaturall beauty of the Duches, which had thus long been shadowed under a rustick habit, so were they excée­ding merry to see her so well accompanied to their joy and comfort; for Marcelio saw his Alcida of one side of her, and Ismenia saw her Lexander on the other side. You may also ima­gine what a sudden joy Alcida conceived to see her beloved Marcelio, and Lexander to see his dear Ismenia, whose absence he but one hour before so pittifully lamented.

After that Marcelio, Ismenia, and Maffeo, had humbly salu­ted Felicia, and imbraced, Marcelio his Alcida, and Ismenia her Lexander, the Lady Felicia left the Duches and Perierio there with them, and calling Maffeo unto her said, Most valiant Knight though the gods have not as yet gladded you with the sight of her whom you seek, in such manner as the rest of your company; yet let me intreat you to be of as good chear as these, seeing the joy which they have had, or is yet present is to come and future unto you. You shall have no worse enter­tainment then you have had hitherto, therfore if that like you I pray you stay with me till you hear more tidings of your beloved spouse, and let me care for the rest.

Gracious Lady (quoth Maffeo) séeing I cannot give you acquittance for your great deserts, I can do no lesse then rest your servant for ever, ready to do your Ladiship pleasure at all times though with hazzard of my life. As concerning my wife Eleonora, I doubt not of her presence before long, séeing your Ladiship willeth me to leave that c [...]re unto your self. And therefore what you think good, I cannot but allow, and what you please to have me to do, I wil put in practise; being ready to go or stay, to depart or to remain, or any thing else whatsoever it may please you to prescribe. Herewith Felicia taking her leave, entred into her Palace again leaving Maf­feo, Perierio, and the Duches by Marcelio with his Alcida, and Ismenia, with her shepheard Lexander. And although Lexan­der and Ismenia were but of base birth, yet were they en [...]ued with such excellent conditions and qualities, that they might have worthily complained of Fortune and Nature, that they had not allotted them Nobility of race. Yet howsoever they were of low parents, they nevertheless behaved themselves so in the company of Gentlemen & Gentlewomen, that they were beloved of all men, and none knew them but coveted to keep company with them, were they of never so high estate. They then being in company with these excellent and famous personages, brought over the time with pleasant parley until noon, at which time the bell rung to dinner. The table being covered in the midst of the Garden under a pleasant bower, the Lady Felicia came thither with Eugerio, with his son, Po­lydor, and his daughter Clenarde, the shepheard Petulca, and Philorenus, where, after Marcelio had imbraced his father in law Eugerio, who was excéeding glad to see his sonne in law Marcelio; the Lady Felicia taking Princess Brisil by the hand sate downe, and willed all th [...] rest of the company to place themselves at the table. I will not here declare what Lordly cheer was made them, nor how magnificently they were ser­ved by those beautiful Nymphs, nor yet with what precious and sumptuous vessels their meat was brought to the boord: but this will I only say that the beauty of the guests, the coun­tenance [Page] of the Lady President, the sight of the Nymphs, the swéetness of the Musick, the delicateness of the fare, the plea­santness of the Bower, the gainness of the Garden, and in a word, the incomparable excellency of things there present, was sufficient with the penetrating force thereof to revive the sences even of dead men, and quickning their spirits to make them live againe.

There might you have séen the Lady welcome her guests with such pleasant countenance, that they tooke more plea­sure in beholding the same, then in tasting their meat; and the guests so courteously returned her thanks, generally over the whole boord, that she had rather have missed her cates then her company; for she took no small delight to sée so many di­stressed persons by her meanes merrily drink one to the other▪ as if they had never known of any sorrow or grief; for the nature of that place is of such force and efficacy, that whosoe­ver entred into it, was combred with no care.

Now neither did aged Eugerio remember the cruelty wher­with Fortune danted him and his children on the Sea nor Al­cida think of the Isle of Formentera where she was left alone, and in the Rock engraved her protestation, that she would ne­ver after fancy man again, nor Clenarde mention the treasons of Bartophanus against her and Marcelio. Now did Maffeo not dream that his Eleonora was taken from him while he sléeped, nor that his cousin Sylvestro deceived him of his here­dity. Now did not Perierio sigh for the sight of the Lady that wounded his heart with the stroke of love in the wood; Now did not Lexander and Ismenia trouble their braine with the malicious subtilty of their mother-in-law Felisarde, and the Traitresse Sylveria. To be short, now did not the Duches Bri­sil call to memory the Traytor Mafficourt, the Fortune-tel­ling in Spain, nor the cunning deceit of Bergama, suborned by Malorena. Neither did Petulca now muse on his Love Sybil, whom he so earnestly wooed, she being but Sybil in counter­feit dissembling, alias called Periander, a man as fit to play the wooer, as Petulca himselfe. Neither did now Philorenus [Page] (the other shepheard that was there, and was named by the Nymph Arethee, unto Ismenia, being asked what Shepheards of account there were in the Palace, of which Philorenus, we shall have occasion to say more hereafter) complain of his ill hap; nor any of all the other Gentlemen or Shepheards that were there, did bewaile or lament their misfortunes. For the heavenly harmony of the Musick which divers of the Nymphs made them dinner was served, some playing on the Bandora, some on the Virginal, some sounding their Cor­nets, others their Corne-muses, others their Harps, others the Cithren, others the Lute, others the Gittren, others blowing their Flutes, others the Recorder, and divers other instruments that would be too long to name, so ravished their sences, that they thinking themselves to be in some earthly Paradise, could not but be delighted, and barred even from all thought and imagination of discontent.

The Musick ended, the three chiefest Nymphs, Doride, Cynthia, and Polydora, sung this Sonnet, to recreate their Ladies guests that sate at the table.

The three Nymphs having ended the Sonnet, dinner was ended, the cloath taken up, and the Lady Felicia rising with all her Guests walked out of the Bower into the other part of the Garden, where she called Maffeo under her, and [Page] spake unto him in this maner, Worthy Knight, for that I know your chiefest bliss consisteth in the finding of your wife Eleonora, I mean by the help of the gods, and the especial fa­vour of Diana, to help you unto your hearts desire with all the spéed that I may. And therefore séeing the same is brought to passe, the more happy you shall deem your self, I will put my skill in practise out of hand. Wherefore incontinently may it please you to depart from me, and go to the place where you left your child, and taking it thence return to me again with it, and let me care for your rest. Maffeo yielding the venera­ble Dame singular thanks for all her favours, humbly took his leave of her and all the company, and presently departed from the Palace, taking his way toward the Village where he left his young Alonso, after he lost Eleonora in the high­way while he sléeped, where we will leave him pacing in his journey, and talk of those that remained in the Palace with the Lady Felicia.

CHAP. XXI. How Perierio drunk the two Potions of Oblivion and Understand­ing, and likewise the Discourse that was between the Lady Brisil and Petulca.

MAffeo being gone the Lady Felicia taking Perierio apart, led him into the Palace, and brought him into her study which was so exorned and beauti­fied with sundry volumes, that it séemed rather to be the Library of some grave Philosopher, then the Counting-house of a Lady; for there was no Book, no Author, no Writer, that was in estimation at those times, but the Lady Felicia had him in her Bibliothick. Now having Perierio there alone, she thought it time to execute that which his destinies had appointed, and therefore said unto him, Couragious Gentleman, although you have not as yet told me one word touching the cause of your comming hither, yet [Page] I know it as well as you can tell me. Is it not to enjoy the love of a Lady which you never saw but once? I expect no answer for I know it is. And I pray you tel me whether you are of that opinion yet or no? and whether you are constant in your love, ready to undertake any labour to obtain the same? But ere you give me an answer quaffe out this goblet, in token of your good will towards me that wish your hearts content.

Perierio taking the Goblet, drank out the Liquor that was in it chéerfully, which had such vertue that it took away the memory of Love, how déep soever it was rooted in the hearts of mortal creatures. He therefore having taken his draft, an­swered thus, Most prudent Lady, I am ashamed that I am come hither unto you having, yea knowing no cause why I should trouble your Ladiship, and unless I had received such excéeding pleasure in viewing your Ladiships most sumptu­ous Palace, I should be sorry that ever I left my aged father and loving sisters, sorrowfull and mourning at home for my absence. Well (quoth the Lady Felicia) I am glad that my Medicine hath taken so good effect. But I pray you take one drauth more at my request, which shall not be of the same li­quor as the other, but more fruitful; and though it be some­thing more bitter in the taste, it shal nevertheles be far more sweeter in operation then the other. Perierio taking the cup drank the potion, though with some difficulty, by reason of the sternnesse thereof which was nothing so gentle as the for­mer potion of oblivion. But Felicia séeing that he had coura­giously forced himself to leave nothing in the cup, well done (quoth she) for though the root of science knowledge and lear­ning be bitter, yet are the Flowers which it produceth, most swéet and pleasant. And as he thus spake, she perceived that her second potion had done no less good then the [...]rst. For it had not only sharpned his wit and grinded his understanding, being more apt to receive the impression of learning, but ra­vished him with such desire to attain to the knowledge of Philosophy (whereunder I comprehend all kind of learning) [Page] that his minde was quite changed from Venus to Minerva, and from Cupids Court to the Mount Parnassus. In so much that he began to unclose the clapses of Felicias Volumes, and untye the strings of her Books, being spurred thereto with a fervent zeale to know the contents thereof; where we will leave him talking with the Lady about the liverall Sciences, and such other matters concerning scholasticall parley, and speak of those whom we left in the Garden, where Marcelio and Alcida walked together in one Alley, Ismenia with Lex­ander in another; Eugerio with his son Polydor and his daugh­ter Clenarde, walked by the River which closed up one end of the Garden. The shepheards Petulca and Philorenus, with the rest of the company, sate on a bed of cammomile, and Duches Brisil walked alone in an Arbor of Roses, where the dye that beautified her vermilion cheeks, strove with the Roses for su­periority in perfection of colour.

Thus walking alone, she espied the shepheard Petulca sit­ting among other shepheards, and desiring to know of him whether he came thither about Periander, as she had under­stood of the Nymph Arethee, she stepped by them, and saluting them, said.

Gentle shepheards, I hope you will not be displeased, though I presse into your company being not sent for, the rather be­cause Petulca is one of my old acquaintance, and therefore I could do no lesse then gréet him, as I would have done ere this, if occasion had been altered. Petulca (weo though he had made earnest enquiry what this Princesse was, had not yet learned that it was Brisil, sister to his dear Sybil) marvelling at the Ladies words, séeing he knew her not, or never had seen her to his knowledge, was so amazed, that he wist not what to say, which Philorenus marking, gave her this answer: The displeasure Madam that we conceive by your comming is such, that we think our selves honoured with your pre­sence, and therefore acknowledge our selves beholding unto you, in that you disdain not of the unworthy company of such simple shepheards as we be. As for the acquaintance which [Page] you say you have had with our friend Petulca, as we are alto­gether ignorant of, so doe we not envy at his luck in that so gracious a Princesse as your self beareth a remembrance of him.

As Petulca thought to ask pardon for his unmindfulnes, and to excuse the weakness of his memory in that he could not re­member that he had in all his life time séen any Lady compa­rable to her for her beauty or estate, much less to have seene her, the Duches staied him saying, Well Petulca thy compa­ny thinketh thée happy that I beare memory of thée; but I pray you unhappy may I be thought to be, séeing that thou disdainest to know her, whom I thought you would not have forgotten so soone. Is this the memory you have of me, and my sister Sybil, whom you so dearly loved? Is this the remem­brance you beare of cursed Malorena and dissembling Berga­ma, who for thy sake sought our ruine? Petulca amazed to hear her say this, and knowing her by her voyce to be the same Brisil that sojourned among the shepheards of his Coun­trey, at length burst out into these words, Ah gracious Prin­cesse, the Gods know that I have not forgotten neither you nor Periander, who under the name of Sybil, in the habit of a shepheard, bearing title to be your sister, hath caused my grief, and forced me to undertake this troublesome journey, inten­ding never to return home till I have found him, and let­ting him know the Treason and malicious dealing of Ma­lorena and Bergama, to exhort him to race out the false sur­mise and suspition which he hath grounded in the bottome of his heart of your disloyalty. For séeing that for my sake he hath been so horribly abused and brought into that errour; I will hazard my life to restore him unto his former estate a­gaine, to the end that he may enjoy you, and your self to him. And marvel nor Lady, that I knew not your person, though I will remember you [...] acquaintance; for as the Sun is in re­spect of the least star of the sky, the rose in respect of the nettle, the juniper trée in respect of the thorn bush, and the Lordly Chrystal in respect of the base glasse, so is your Ladiship now [Page] in respect of the time that we were feasted by the dissembling Traitress Bergama in her Arbor. And therefore séeing that I had not as yet understood (having enquired of the Lady Feli­cias Nymphs of your calling) any other thing of you but that you were a certain Princesse of Albion, and that we should shortly hear of the cause of your comming, and more largely know the course of your fortune; I hope your Grace will not think the worse of me, who have vowed my body and life to do service unto your loving Periander, what state or calling so­ever he be of. Thanks kind Petulca (quoth the Duches) and perswade thy self that I think no otherwise of thée then I did at any time. And to the end that thou mayst understand the truth and verity of all my troubles, and know what Periander is, and also what caused him to fain himself to be my sister, being attired in shepheards attire, I will briefly and truly re­hearse unto thee in this good company of shepheards (so I be not troublesome unto them) the whole state of my fortune. But first I must intreat you to tell me how long you have béen here, when you departed from the village, and what suc­cesse you have had in your journey.

Then may it please you to understand (quoth Petulca) that after the malicious traitresse Malorena had cast her self into the river to take penance for her heinous offence, by her own appointment, the whole Village was made acquainted with her villany detesting her for her malice, and marvelling at Periander and your self for your perfect love, in marvellous manner mourning for his departure and your mishap. Inso­much that the chiefest of the village sent for me to understand the truth of the whole matter; which when I had declared, they took order with me that I should speak with you, and comfort you, letting you know what they had appointed to do in your behalf; for they intended to make enquiry through all the country after Periander, to the end that he might be en­formed of all that had hapned in the Village concerning ma­licious Malorena, and so be induced to return again unto you, knowing the sayings of Malorena to be false, and inven­ted [Page] by her pestiferous brain. Whereupon I, most ready to do any thing that might redownd to your content, betimes the next morning went to your lodging, but there I found you not, nor could learn of any one of your Neighbours what was become of you; whereof how sorry I was, I leave to the Gods to witness, and not I onely but the whole Village, most grievously lamented your sodain departure. At length I re­solved not to rest in any place till I had found Periander, and let him know how he had been abused by Malorena, and how you were injured by him, in that he giving credit to such a ma­licious maid, lest you to passe your life in such discontent and grief for his cause. To the end that if Fortune had been so fro­ward as to deprive him of your company for ever, by some si­nister hap yet he should know how faithfully you loved him, séeing that your loyalty was knowne unto the whole Coun­trey. Whereupon I having first caused dissembling Bergama as an instrument and helping cause of this mischief, to be banished, until such time as Periander and you were together and consented to have her released from exile, I betook my self to my journey, and having travelled two dayes and two nights, at last I arrived in a Country house, where I was ve­ry courteously used by a certain shepheard, who took pleasure to talk with me concerning the cause of my comming, for that he had himself not passing eight year since, almost cour­sed over the world to seek his wife, which was carried away upon a certain time by a Duke that riding that way, caused his men to take her with them, he being abroad in the field. And that after he had taken so much paines, it was his luck at length to come to the Temple of Diana, where the Lady Fe­licia dwelleth, who helped him to his wife again. Therefore the shepheard having entertained and feasted me very courte­ously and bountifully, set me into a way which directly brought me to this place assuring me that I should of this Lady be en­formed of all matters concerning those that I sought for; as in truth I have found his words not disagréeing unto verity; For being arrived here two dayes since, the Lady welcomed [Page] me not as a simple Shepheard, but rather like some worthy person of high estate (which I perceive she did in respect of your excellency and not of my desert) and willing me to stay in her Palace till such time as she might learn news concer­ning the cause of my comming, promised me that I should not stay in vaine, which I have tried to be so, séeing that you are so happily arrived to this place, as I hope also by the favour of the Gods, and the help of sage Felicia, to sée Periander, if not here, yet in some other place.

Thus Madame have you heard what is passed sithence the time that I saw you last, now it remaineth that it may please you to accomplish your promise. And so I wil (quoth the Du­ches; wherewith she began to declare the whole estate of her life to Petulca, and the rest of the company. Where we will leave her discoursing of all such matters as before have been declared, and return to Periander.

CHAP. XXII. How Periander met with Pharelus, and how Pharelus declared to Periander what hapned in the Court of Albion since the de­parture of Duches Brisil.

PEriander after he was departed from the Vil­lage where he left Brisil, within one dayes travel reached into a Wood, wherein after he had strayed up and down for the space of six or seven houres in the night, could not finde any path to lead him out of the same desart place. Insomuch that being weary of travel, he was forced to lie on the ground among the wild furzen bushes and thornes to rest himself, where he slept till morning, at which time awaking out of his sléep, he saw a certain Albion Knight stand before him, whom he knew very well, for he was his fathers Taster, and was called Sir Pharelus; whereat Periander was so ama­zed [Page] that he could not tell what had befallen him; but the Knight spake presently in this manner.

Fair Shepheard or Nymph (for Periander had his womans attire yet) whatsoever thou be, be not displeased that I have emboldned my self to presse so néer the place where you slept, for seeing that I was loth to wake you out of your sound sleep and wished to speak with you, I thought best to stay till you awaked of your owne accord; therefore seeing you have given over your sleep, I beseech you to shew me what way I may take to get out of this huge wood in which I have sore against my will remained three dayes, not finding any way that lea­deth out of the same. Periander glad that Sir Pharelus knew him not gave him this answer: Sir Knight, I have no rea­son to be displeased at you, seeing that I my self would in the like case have used as much boldnesse; I am no Nymph, yet if I could pleasure you and satisfie your demand, I would the willinger do it, considering that I would think my self be­holding to him that would shew us the way out of this Wood; For yesterday about the decline of the Sun, did I first enter into it, having travelled this way never before; and seeing I could not finde the way out again, having lost my path, the wearisomnesse of my journey forced me to take my rest. But pray you Sir (if I may be so bold) what luck hath brought you hither, for I perceive by the strangeness of your apparel, that you are of some countrey afar off, seeing that no Gencle­men hereabout are cloathed after such a fashion. In truth (quoth Pharelus) it was ill luck brought me hither fair shep­heardesse, for you shall know that I am a Brittain, born in the Isle of Albion, and left my Countrey by the command of our King who being informed by Letters from the King of Spain, that his son the young Prince of Albion was broken out of pri­son, and fled (for he was imprisoned in Sivil by his fathers command) sent me into Spain, to enquire after him, and not to return till I had heard of him. But when I was arrived in Spain, I heard that the King of Spaines daughter Florena went with him, or after him, but no man could tell me whether she [Page] were by him, or had not yet found him, or what way he was gone. Thus I have travelled up and down Spain, and have not as yet discovered any more news of him. In truth (quoth Periander) I heard great talk in our village, of the Kings daughter Florena, how she was conveyed out of the Court by another Kings son (I know not of what Countrey) that was imprisoned as you say by his own fathers command, because he would be married to a young Duchesse whom the King himself would have to his wife. True (quoth Pharelus) but the Duchesse about three or four days before the appointed Wedding day secretly fled out of the country no man know­eth whither; which the King took so grievously, that partly for danger & partly for grief, he kept his chamber six weeks, at the end of which time he received letters from the K. of Spain, in which he understood of his sons flight, which news almost set him besides his wits; for he had purposed to send Embassadors to Spain for his son, and to proclaim the Duchesse that was fled, Queen of England: and wife to his son Periander, unto whom he intended to resign the title of the Crown, and to marry him to the aforesaid Duches, with whom he was promised many years before. Therefore seeing that Fortune so crossed him, fell into a grievous and dangerous disease, insomuch that we doubted of his recovery. But after he had kept his bed one fortnight, by the singular skill and industry of the Physitians, he began to mend; and calling me one morning to his beds side, uttered these words unto me. Ah Pharelus, thou seest how pittifully your King hath been used both by Fortune and Heaven; for the Gods intending to revenge my unnatural crueltie and barbarous tyranny against mine own son, though I repented, yet would both bar me from my de­sire, and punish my offence. But now, as I féel by the altera­tion of my weaknesse, that they have slaked their vengeance, and pitie my case, so I hope Fortune will in like manner be­come more favourable than hitherto she hath been. You know how the Duchesse Brisil is fled, and no news can be heard what is become of the poor Lady. In like manner now [Page] is Periander also broken out of prison, and as a banished man runneth astray, perhaps suffering a thousand miseries, and all for fear lest he should fall into my hands, where alas I would rather ask him forgivenesse, then any way prejudice him see­ing he hath no way offended me, but I greatly injured him. And now for as much as the hold of my life consisteth in the hope which I have to see both Periander and Brisil here in my Court; I have caused thee to come hither, to declare my mind unto thee concerning this matter, wherein I will im­ploy thy service, seeing I have found thee faithful and loyall in all matters which I ever committed to thy trust, not doubting but that I shall finde thee as ready now to do me pleasure and acquite my self of your duty, as I have been at other times. My pleasure is that thou make a voyage into Spain, and passe over all that country to sée whether you can hear of my son Periander, to the end, that if you find him, you may let him know how earnestly I wish to see him, that he may come hither, and receive the Crown of the Realm. And if it chance Duchesse Brisil be in those parts (for it may be she is with him or in travel to séek him) insomuch that you meet with her or hear of her. I would have order taken, that she notwithstanding that Periander be not yet found, might re­turn to the Court to be crowned Queen, séeing that the Crown by the law of the Realme apperteineth unto her after my death, being betrothed to my son if he marry no other, as I know he will not, I will send others to other Countries you shall onely séek them in Spain. I pray you to do all the diligence you can, and to behave your self herein according to the opinion I bear of you. And for your reward if you find either of them, I will promise you lesse then I wil per­form. And especially this I will say before hand, that he that findeth and bringeth Periander and Brisil both, as soon as they arrive at the Court, I will give him the isle Mon [...] to be his and his heirs for ever; and he that findeth either Periander or Brisil, I will give him the government of West Albion. But as for you Pharelus, you shall receive greater benefits [Page] at my hands if the Gods will favour your journey, yet what luck soever you have, I will not be unmindful of your labour and readinesse.

Therewith the King weary by reason of his sicknesse, and scarce able to speak more, ceased, and I thanking his Maje­sty for his singular favour towards me, vowed to do whatso­ever lay in me to the uttermost of my power, partly for my duty towards him, and partly for the love I bear the young Prince. Insomuch that after we had fully concluded the mat­ter, I departed from Albion the next day with twelve men, which I have all sent to sundry places of this country, appoin­ting them to meet all at the famous City Leon, situated along the River Eyla, as the sixt day after to morrow at which time I mean to be there by the help of the Gods, to know what ti­dings they can bring me. Verily sir Knight (quoth Periander) the Kings son would wish to meet with you, if he knew the good tidings you bring him; I am grieved my selfe to heare that such great persons are subject to so much adversity. But I pray fair shepheard (quoth Pharelus) séeing you say you have heard talk of him in your Village to tell me where the same vilage is, and how it is called; for if I thought I might there hear any thing of him, I would take my journey that way. More then I have said (quoth Periander) shall you not heare there I promise you, and therfore séeing it is out of your way, take not the pains. And as they were thus talking together, they espied an old man wandring through the wood so far from them that they could scarce sée him by reason of the thicknesse of the bushes and small trees that grew in the wood. But cal­ling unto him, he fearing lest they had meant to do him some harm, began to run away as fast as his old leggs could carry him. But Pharelus with all celerity followed him so long till he overtook him at last at the wood end, having run a whole hour before he could come to him, the old fellow so bestirred his stumps, and séeing he could not outrun him, he fell downe on his knées and asked for mercy, making a large apologie that he was a poor old man and had a wife and children to kéep [Page] and many good morrows, fearing that he should have been rob­bed by Pharelus, which he perceiving, could not but laugh to sée the old man so timerous; and therefore said, Alack good Father, fear not, for though I perceive by thy fearfulnesse that thou art well provided of money, yet I called thee not for thy wealth, but for thy counsell, for I have been here in this Wood these three dayes and more, and cannot find any path to lead me out of the same. And though I perceive that by following thee I have attained to that which I wished for, seeing I am here at the wood end, yet I thought good to deli­ver thee out of the opinion which thou conceivest of me, who wish thee no harme: Neverthelesse, seeing I do not well know where I am, thou shalt do me a pleasure to tell me what way I may best take towards the famous City Leon. Ah good Gentleman (answered the old fellow) the cause that I ran from you, was not for fear to loose any treasure, for I have none; but I heard that there was a poor man slain a­bout five or six weeks ago in this wood, and seeing I knew you not, I hope you will not think the worse of me though I was afraid of you. As concerning your request, knew, that I dwell in the same City you enquire for, and if you dain to travel in the company of such an homely person as my self, by the help of the Gods I will lead you thither before three dayes come to an end. Willingly (quoth Pharelus) and I thank thee for thy courteous offer, but there is a young shep­heardesse that followed me as I ran after thee, of whom I asked the way, and alas she knew it as little as I, and I would be sorry that we should leave her behind us; and there­fore I pray thee to stay here a little, and I will see whether I can espy her comming. But if you be wise (quoth the old man) go not in too deep, lest you lose your way again, it were best for you to call unto her as loud as you can, or to whistle, for if she hear you she will come, and if she be cut of hearing, you may chance to seek after her as long as you have already been in the wood. Pharelus followed his counsel, and whooped unto her as loud as he might, and seeing that she came not, [Page] after he had remained there for the space of two hourrs, the old man being very hasty to go on his journey, he would not stay behind, and omit that opportunity, though loth, yet for­ced to leave the shepheard, he went with the old man. Peri­ander on the other side, who for his woman-like shepheard at­tire, could not follow Pharelus when he ran after the old man, (for his long coat catched by the thornes and brambles) and having lost the sight of Pharelus, went quite another way; so that it was no marvel that he heard not Pharelus call unto him; for he went quite contrary from the path which Pharelus took after the old man, and came out at the other end of the wood, where séeing himself out of the troublesom Forrest, was grieved that he had lost Pharelus in that sort, before he had re­solved whether he would reveale himself unto him or no, but yet remembring that Pharelus said he meant to be at Leon within six days, he was the gladder, séeing wher he knew to find him, if he concluded to return with him to Albion; Insomuch that sitting down on a bank by the wood side, began in this manner.

Ah unfortunate Periander, now mayst thou well perceive that Fortune hath sworn to be thy enemy for ever. For hath she not first suborned the Traytor Massicourt to work thy mi­sery, and so laid the foundation of all thy troubles? He being cut off and his villany detected, hath she not armed thy owne natural Father against th [...]e, and stirred him up to wrong thée of thy right? And now the Gods being incensed and provoked to wrath by such impiety, have by their vengeance moved him to repent? Hath she not battered the Fort which I ne'r thought she should have béen able to incorpor [...]te? Ah Brisil Brisil! ne­ver did I think that Fortune should have triumphed of her victories in making conquest of the néerest thing that touched my heart, and that she should have braved me with the tro­phies of thy disloyalty. Ah how often was I wont to say unto Fortune, when she threatned me to deprive me of honour, li­ving, renown, yea life [...]nd all, that none of all that was mine, thinking that I might claime nothing properly to be mine, but [Page] lost thy love, faith, and loyalty; not caring to lose the whole world so I might enjoy thee, whom I thought that neither alteration of time, nor distance of place, nor mutation of man­ners, nor change of estate, nor any thing whatsoever either hell or fortune might procure, could have withdrawn from Periander. In her was my mind fixed, my hope planted, and all my confidence seated; séeing therefore that fortune hath béen able to make conquest of her, I am constrained to confesse and acknowledge that she can do what she will, and that we may not resist her pleasure.

Insomuch that I strive against the stream, and cast stones against the wind, in opposing my self against fortune seeing she hath vowed my utter ruine, and will bring her will to passe. The ashes of the old Phoenix bréedeth the new, and with me the end of one misfortune is the beginning of ano­ther. How can I then hope ever to injoy content, seeing I never had happy hour? if fortune looketh on me she lowreth, if she turneth her face from me, she threatneth me, if she re­member me she is inraged at me, and if she smileth, she flatte­reth: whether dissembling to wreak her anger and ingraft her spight against me whom she could never brook. Yet Periander how canst thou so greatly complain of her, séeing that she so favoureth thée, that thy father, who was thy foe, is now be­comes thy friend; thou that wert but a Kings son, art now when thou wilt a King; and where thou didst live in impri­sonment, in exile, and misery, maist now live in Court, in li­berty, and in all the pleasure of the world? No, no, fond fool, fortune doth not this, but the just Gods, and if she be any cause of it she doth it onely thereby to entice me to become as disloy­all as Brisil, and so wholly to vanquish and overcome me. But no, though I have acknowledged her to be never so puissant, yet she shall not make conquest of my fidelity, nor brag of my disloyalty, séeeing, I will not, nor may give over the love of Brisil; and thought she neglect and hate me, yet will I love and honour her till death.

After Periander had thus lamented the losse of the love of [Page] Brisil, he determined to go to the City Leon to méet with Sir Pharelus, and with him to return to Albion, intending to live there and enjoy his Fathers Crown; but never to love any but Brisil, or to knit himselfe in marriage to any other. And resolved to take his journey by the same village where he left Brisil, meaning to speak with Malorena, and to leave a Letter with her for Brisil, as he had done before: in which Letter he purposed to let Brisil know of all that which he had learned of Pharelus, wohm he found and lost in the wood. He intended al­so to write a Letter to Petulca, and to let him know as much, protesting that if hee would come into Albion when hee were Crowned, he would give him the Dukedome pertaining unto Brisil in marriage with her, and doe him all the honour that a Monarch might do to any of his Péers, seeing that Brisil made such account of him. In this mind Periander returned secretly unto the village where he had sojourned with Brisil, and chan­ging his attire, apparelled himselfe in mans cloathes, accord­ing to his sex and nature. And being come to the village he tooke his lodging in a shepheards house, where he thought he was least of all known. When he had entred into the house, and caused supper to be made ready, he asked one of the shep­heards daughters, whether they knew not a certain shephear­desse called Malorena, (for he thought to have spoken with her, and to know of her how Petulca and Brisil were moved at his departure, & to leave the Letters which he purposed to write, with her, to deliver them to Brisil and Petulca) wherewith they were halfe angry, thinking he did it to have occasion to speak ill of the maids and shepheards of their country, and therefore gave him this answer. We knew her, but too well, and if we thought you were one of her favourites, you should have but had lodging here. Pardon me (fair shepheards, replied Perian­der) if I offend against my knowledg, for the cause that I ask for her, is that I am her cousin, & have not séen her this great while: I as yet have never heard any ill of her, nor ever knew any thing by her, but that she behaved her self as a maid of her calling ought to do. Thereby (quoth the shepheards wife) we [Page] perceive thee to be but a stranger here, and therefore to be ex­cused; for as you say, she was famed for one of the most modest maids of the whole country, but now of late she hath commit­ted great villany against two of the loyallest lovers that ever the world harboured. And thus the good wife declared the sum of the whole matter unto Peaiander, how all things were pas­sed: which so altered his affections, that all they that were pre­sent could perceive that he was moved thereby. Yet least he should bewray who he was, forced himself as much as he could to abstain from sighing or weeping til he was alone, at which time he poured forth whole flouds of tears out of his eys, for grief that he had shamefully suffered himself to be deluded by Malorena, and thereby brought himself into all these miseries, where otherwise he should have béen the happiest man that li­ved. Neverthelesse when he had heard what moan Brsil had made for his sudden departure, and how that she was gone to séek him he was joyfull and glad, accounting more of her Love and loyalty, then all other things whatsoever. Thus Periander both sorry and glad, wist not what he might best do, to séek for Brisil▪ or to go to Leon first, and speak with Pharelus. But con­sidering, that it were a most uncertain voyage, and doubtfull labour to stray after her, he concluded to goe to Pharelus first, and with all spéede to returne to Albion, where after he were crowned King, he doubted not, but that she would come unto him, assoon as she should be informed thereof. Besides, he pur­posed to send so many to enquire after her, that in despight of Fortune, he should hear of her, or she of him, especially séeing she sought for him, which was the chiefest point that encoura­ged Periander.

He therefore having his head full of Bees, and building ca­stles in the aire, slept a little that night, and rising betimes in the morning, took leave of the shepheard, paying and dischar­ging that which could be asked for his lodging and entertain­ment, departed towards the City Leon, where he arrived two days after Pharelus.

CHAP. XXIII. How Periander discovered himself to Pharelus, and departed with him towards Albion.

PEriander (though hee knew not where hee might find Pharelus, or how to inquire for him, yet hee) had such good luck and fortune, that walking in the Market-place, hee espied Pharelus talking with one of the men whom hee had appointed to meet him there: whereupon Periander stepping to him, courteously saluted him, saying. Sir Knight the cause of my comming unto you, being unknown is this. About two days ago, I met with a certain shepheardesse, who told me that she understood of you, that you sought for the King of Albions sonne that was imprisoned in Spain, and breaking forth ran away as some say with the Kings Daughter, though others rather think without her. And for as much as I have heard some certainty concerning this young Prince, where he is, & other matters touching a certain Dutchess that should be his wife or alliance, I thought good to let you know so much as I have heard, But if it will please you to go with me half a mile without the City, I will lead you into a shepheards house, where I doubt not but you shall understand as much as shall content you, and serve to bring you unto the thing you most wish for. Sir Pharelus hearing this young man (as little thinking that he should be Periander, as he did when he met him in the wood in womans apparel) thanked him with a most pleasant countenance, rejoycing ex­treamly for the hope hee had to find Periander; and presently without returning to his lodging, hee went with him out of the City towards the place he spake of. Periander seeing Sir Pharelus so merry for the news he had brought him, and so rea­dy to goe with him, conceived great joy that he had so friend­ly [Page] a subject; and leading him out of the City, when he came in­to a close something far from any house, where he thought he might speak safely and not be heard or séen of any man but sir Pharelus who was onely by him: (for he had left his man in the market-place of the City, there to expect the comming of o­thers that he looked for) he thought good to reveal unto sir Pha­relus who he was, and therefore said thus, Pharelus we are are now come far enough, I mean to go no further, and I thank thee that thou hast done so much for me as to come thus far with me, when I am King of Albion, I will do more for thee. Pharelus amazed at these words wist not what an­swer to give him, and although at the first he thought he had mocked with him. saying, that he thanked him for com­ing so far with him, yet when he heard him speak of his being King of Albion, perceived that it was Periander himself, for joy whereof, he could scarce speak, but falling down on his knees craved pardon of Periander for his ill remembrance. But Pe­riander imbracing him, took him up by the hand, and thanked him for his loyal service, saying that he was so mindful of him that he should be beholding unto him for ever. For (quoth he) how may I find fault with thy remembrance Pharelus, séeing thou daily takest such care about me, and sufferest so much toil to séek me? As for the outward remembrance, which consi­steth onely in the favour and colour of the face, séeing the same is by continuance of time changed and altered, it is a hard matter to bear memory thereof, especially when it is estran­ged with unacquainted and strange attire. Or else no doubt Pharelus, but you that think on me dayly would have known me, not onely when I came to you in the market-place of this city Leon, but also when you feared to wake me in the wood, where we were so strangely separated one from the o­ther, I know not by what mischaunce, but that (the Gods be thanked it happened greatly to my comfort,

Herewith Periander informed Pharelus of all whatsoever had hapned unto him, since his departure from Albion, and also of Brisils comming unto him in the prison, her departure [Page] with him, their abode, and manner of abode among the shep­heards: and lastly of Brisils last departure, greatly lamenting her absence, making great sorrow for her, that she now went astray up and down through the unknown and solitary places of that desart part of Spain to seek him. Pharelus glad to under­stand the whole matter, though grievously sorry for the Dut­ches Brisils mishap, comforted Periander by all the means he could, hoping by that they had been in Albion but a moneth or twain, they should hear of her.

When Periander and Pharelus had a long time talked of all matters concerning their return to Albion, they went back to the City again, where they met with those whom Pharelus ex­pected that day: who being come according to his appointmēt, each told as much as he had heard concerning Periander, which was but little: neverthelesse he thanked them all for their di­ligence and industry, telling them that hee had better newes himself, and such newes that he minded to return into Albion, where he doubted not, but that he should find Periander, if the Gods would be so favourable as he hoped; but would leave them to inquire and séek for the Dutchess Brisil, who was some­where in that part of Spain where they were. The men glad to sée their Master so frolick and merry for the good nws which he had heard, promised that they would do as much as lay in their power according to their duty, and as they had already done. But marvelling what young man he was that stood by their master (for they had never séen Periander to their know­ledg) asked their master, whether that young man had brought him those happy tidings? Pharelus unwilling that they should know that he was Periander, told them that he was so, and that he would lead him into Albion with him, to the end that if his newes were true, he might reward him accordingly as he de­served.

But Pharelus spéedily appointing them what way each should take, willed them to make diligent search for her, assu­ring them, that she was in those parts, and that the same young man that was by him had seen her not long before, being ap­parelled [Page] like a shepheard and countrey maid. Besides he charged them to tell her if they met her, what was passed in the Court of Albion before their departure, and that sithence she saw Periander last, that he hath béen at the village where he left her, and there béen informed of the deceitfulnesse of Bergama, of her own faithfulnesse and loyalty, and of all o­ther matters concerning the traitresse Malorena; and that he is either in Albion, or shortly shall be, where he will expect her comming. Herewith Pharelus dispatched them all, and leaving them each one to look to his charge, presently repair­ed to his lodging with Periander, where they refreshed them­selves being both hungry and weary. Their repast being ta­ken, they took directions for their readiest way towards the Haven of Lisbone, intending there to take ship. And so de­parting from Leon, they travelled along the river Ezla, lea­ving the village where Periander had sojourned with Brisil on the left hand, Where we will leave them going on their journey, and return to Brisil, whom we left rehearsing the hi­story of her life, to the shepheard Petulca and Philorenus, with the rest of their company.

CHAP. XXIIII. How the Aragonians were discomfited by the Castillians: and the King of Castile carried away Philorenus his mother.

WHen Brisil had ended her tragedy, she said. Thus shepheards have you heard the whole estate of my life, who I am, of whence, and of what for­tune. And forasmuch as it is not yet near sup­per time, séeing we are so well met, I pray you Philotenus (for so I hear you named) dein to make us pertakers of your fortune, that as I have willing­ly made you acquainted with mine, so you will let us know what hap you have had, and what event hath made you resort to the Lady Felicia. For by reason that I heard something [Page] concerning your self, of the nymph Arethee (who before I en­tered into the Pallace) being by me and the rest of my compa­ny asked what shepheards of account were in the Lady Feli­ciaes Court, named you among the rest, I am touched with an earnest desire to know the course of your life, Philorenus an­swered.

Most gratious Lady if I should do lesse then you demand, (séeing you may command) I might worthily be accounted both unmindfull and ungratefull. If therefore it will please you to give attention to my speech, I will as briefly as I may (not to be tedious unto you) unfold the occasion of my travel, and acquaint you with the strange effects of my fortune even from my childhood.

Brisil séeing Philorenus addresse himself to tell histale, win­ked unto Marcelio and Ismenia, who walked, hee with his Alcida, and she with her Lexander, and they being come un­to her, she told them of Philorenus his intent, which they knowing, saie down by Brisil and Petulca, with the other shep­heards, making silence, lest they should interrupt Philorenus his purpose, who began in this manner to satisfie their expec­tation.

I was born in a little village called Yervedra in the King­dome of Aragon; my parents were poor and of base linage, and lead their lives altogether in the Country, their name or kin­dred being of no honour or fame for nobility of discent though they were known and spoken of in places farre from them, through the whole Kingdome of Aragon for their vertue and honesty. As fortune had enriched them with many fair pos­sessions, so nature had beautified their persons with comeli­nesse, and the Gods indued their minds with the heavenly in­fluence of wisdome liberallity, modesty, gentlenesse, chasti­ty, and many other vertuous qualities, which made them sa­mous above all their neighbours, But Fortune who conti­nually envieth the hap of those that be most addicted to pitty, either willing to try the perfection of their vertuous consti­tution, or rather intending to overthrow their honest dispo­sition, [Page] began to lowre and frown on the good and luckie estat­in which my father and mother lived, having store of wealth, an [...] no other charge but me: I being about two or three years of [...]ge. For it happened that occasion of Wars and Discord growing betwéene the Kings of Aragon and Castile, both their Armies were encamped by our village, insomuch that my fa­ther and most of his Neighbours, to avoid the losse they were like to sustain by the incursion of their enemies, thought best to leave their country habitation til the times changed, and to sojourn in some of the next Cities until the wars were ended. To bring which thing to passe, my father spéedily travelled to­wards the City Targonna, there to provide some house for his wife and him, there to expect the end of the present troubles, intending, if he could find any convenient place for his pur­pose, to return home and fetch my mother and me with the rest of the family. But within one day after his departure, it hap­pened, that the two armies buckled together, and the ene­mie becomming victorious, pursued our King that fled with all his Nobility through our Village, to save himself in the afore­said City of Targonna, séeing his Campe was discomfited his chiefest Captains slain and all his Souldiers chased by the e­nemy, and put to their shifts, having more hope in their héels then in their hands, Insomuch that the whole Army of the K, of Castile swarming about our Village as a company of Bées, pillaged and spoyled all the houses and farms taking the chief­est farmers and husbandmen for their prisoners, setting them each one at such a rate or sum of money for their ransome, as they thought them able to pay, according to the substance and wealth which they judged them to have.

Amongst the rest, one of their Captains entering into our h [...]use, and asking for my father, the maids answered, that hee was in the City: but he not beleeving them, ran into all cor­ners of the house, to sée whether he were not hidden in some se­cret place: and as he ranged up & down through all the cham­bers, at length he found my mother lying under one of y ^e shep­heards beds, and pulling her out by the hand, when he saw the [Page] decent proportion of her body, the comlinesse of her face, and gravity of her countenance, he was on the suddain so snared in the net of fansie, that he felt himself not a conquerour, but conquered; and spake unto her in this order. Beautifull Ma­tron (for I perceive you are the Mistresse of this houshold) the pleasant weapons wherewith you fight hath given me such a soothing wound, that although it hath penetrated the very depth of my heart, and yéelded me thy captive, whereas I was in the number of those that this day boast of victory, yet I am forced to confesse, that fortune hath not a little favoured me, in that it was my hap to be overcome by so sweet an enemy as your self. Fear not therefore swéet, for I am not come hither to do thee or thy family any wrong, but to do thée pleasure and ser­vice. Wherewith he espying his souldiers busie with raping and pilfering, pocketing, and bagging up such things as they liked best, commanded them to cease, and to séek their booty elsewhere; and appointing some of them to free the house from the incursions of other captains and souldiers, he returned unto my mother, who could not sufficiently lament our mis­fortune, that we were not by my father in the City, not regar­ding the losse of all her goods, but the danger unto which her honesty was exposed. The Captain therefore perceiving her so greeved, began again in this sort to comfort her. Brave dame, I beséech you do not afflict your self, séeing you have no cause▪ for where you sée among your neighbours not one es­cape the fury of the souldier, who spoileth them of all the sub­stance, of their jewels, of their cattell, of their beasts, of their dearest houshold-stuff, burneth their houses, and taketh the Matrons prisoners, and plagueth them with all kind of war­like injury; you contrarily have not so much as a broom-staff removed out of your house. And although your husband were here, as it seemeth he is not, yet should he not have one hair of his head impaired. For whatsoever I promise, I swear unto you by the faith of a Gentleman and souldier, that I will perform no lesse. And therefore I pray you cease from weeping, and wash not your cheeks with your tears, bath [Page] not your self in water which is procured with so much grief.

All this could not perswade my wofull mother to give over her sorrow, or to asswage her grief; for she well knew that when the Syrens sing most sweetly, they intend most harme; that when the fowler whistleth most pleasantly, he wisheth the birds most misery; and that the fox never praised the hens, but when he aimed at the cock, and so did she more then misdoubt that these words of the captain tended to no other purpose but to crop the bloom of her Honesty, and to become Lord of her Beauty.

The consideration of this so overwhelmed her with excéed­ing sorrow, that she ceased not from wéeping for all the Cap­tains prattle, nor would shee give him one word in answer to his sayings. Neverthelesse hee bore her frowardnesse so pati­ently, that he changed not his former tune, but rather continu­ed in his sweet and mild speeches, trying by all means he could to asswage her dolour, and to provoke her to accept of his ser­vice and friendship, using her so courteously, that he seemed ra­ther to be some especial friend, then destroying enemy. For though my mother well marked the cause which moved him to use such favourable enmitie, and espied that he was caught in the snare of her beauty, yet could she not sufficiently wonder at his modesty, wherewith he sought to cover and cloak his dis­ease; for though he revealed it unto her at the first, yet he did not so much as offer her the least disgrace in the world, neither by word nor deedr

In the mean while the King of Castile (who in proper per­son had pursued his enemy our King, who having reached to the Wals of the City, was freed by the help of the Cannon, which forbad the enemy to approach near) returning againe through our village, being weary, and seeing no house that li­ked him so well as ours (for the most part of our neighbours houses were burned) lighted from off his horse, and entred in­to the Hall, where he found the Captain by my mother, who wept so bitterly, that it might have moved any heart to cem­passion. But the King wondring to see her in such a wofull [Page] case, and yet marked that her house was so trim and all things in as good order as if no souldiers had béen near it, asked the Captain what y ^e woman ailed I sorry of y ^e Kings coming, yet séeing there was no remedy sith it chanced so, made this an­swer. Dread Soveraign (qd. he) it was my hap to light on this house, where at my entry, I found this Matron being mi­stresse of this family, and beholding her beauty and modest plight, I forced my self to give over the rigorous manner of war, and to use her according to her deserts, whose gra­vity and comely grace hath priviledged her from the fury of my souldiers, insomuch that they have not by mee béene al­lowed to do her the least danger that may be. Yet notwith­standing doth she weep and make such grief as if she were worse used then all the rest of her neighbours, that have not onely lost their goods but also their husbands and children, yea and their honesty being violated and ravished by the common anercenary souldiers. Therefore mighty conquerour, what she ayleth or what cause she hath to take on in this manner, it passeth my divination to conjecture. Why then (quoth the King) I pray thee yeeld over thy captive unto me, and I will give thee two of y ^e chiefest noblemen captives of the K. of Ara­gons, that I have taken in this flight, in lieu of her: and let me try whether I cannot find better means to flake her grief and procure her solace thē thou hast don. As they were busie about changing of captives, news was brought y ^t the enemy flocked out of the City being an huge and mighty company, marching toward the place where he was; whereat the King amazed, caused the chiefest Marshal of his army to call up the souldi­ers and to place them in battell aray to withstand their ene­my, but all in vain; for the souldiers strayed so wide to séek their booty, and to benefit themselves with the spoil, that if they had not in time plaid scampado, they had béen every man slain. Which the King perceiving, mounting on his Steed, and loth to leave his new captive behind him, caused my mo­ther to be set behind one of his Noblemen and so they posted away, where I poor wretch bawled as children of that age I [Page] then was in, being about four years old, are accustomed to do when they be separated from their mother. My father desirous to know how we fared in the midst of the enemy, snatched oc­casion by the fore-head and went forth of Targonna with them that pursued the enemy, and comming home, marvelled to sée the house in so good estate; but missing my mother, asked what was become of her, which he soon knew by my crying, who said my mother was carried away by the Souldiers. Whereat he was so moved, as you may well consider how any man might be cheared in such a case, and therefore I will not waste the time in declaring what excéeding sorrow my father made for the absence of his wife, resolving to hazard his life to have her again.

But alas, the King of Castile being fled to a Castle which he had won not passing four or five days before, saved himself within the walls of the same, from the fury of his enemy that ceased not to pursue him; and so my father saw no way to ob­tain his desire, séeing my mother was within the aforesaid Ca­stle, which was so strong that it could not be easily incorpora­ted by our men, who assailed it fiercely but to no purpose: for the souldiers that were scattered in the slight, met together a­bout a league from the Castle, and having rallied themselves, in the night time brake into our camp, making great slaugh­ter among our men, and although they could not discomfit our men, yet they got within the walls of the Castle, and were joy­ned to the rest of their company, in so much that our men had no hope to win the Castle, and so departed towards the City, which my father took very heavily, séeing he was cut from his wife; and so he returned home very mournfully, imagining & inventing how he might have my mother again, & redéem her from captivity, though it should have cost him all whatsoever he might make with the sale of his goods. Yet his hope was but smal to get her again for any price, séeing the maids & servants of the house had told him y ^t she was carried away by the Kings command, and declared unto him how all things were passed, touching the friendly hostility of the Captain, the Kings de­mand, [Page] the changing of captives, and all other things that con­cerned the carrying away of their mistresse.

In the mean time my mother, whom the King of Castile solicited to dishonesty, was most miserably tormented and grieved, that her fortune was so adverse, that she was in the hands of him that might force her to do that which he pleased, though the laws of God, nature, and the country, were contra­ry unto it. But she purposed rather to die, then to consent to his lewd will, and to esteem more of her chastity, then his fa­vour, though she were but a mean person, and he a King; loth to change her honesty for his Kingdome.

CHAP. XXV. How the mother of Philorenus to avoid the lust of the King of Ca­stile, secretly fled out of the Castle with the Captain; and how, supposing her former husband to be dead, she married him, and had by him a Son named also Philorenus.

THe foresaid Captain perceiving that my mo­ther was so grievously vexed with sorrow for her captivity, came unto her as privily as he might, and comforted her as much as he could, promising that if she would trust him, he would release her from her imprisonment, and bring her home to her house or where she pleased. This, although it did not a little moderate my mothers grief, yet she feared least she should not so much be delivered out of her miserie, as change the kind of her calamity, and shunning one gulph, she misdoubted to fall into another, according to the say­ing.

Incidit in Syllam cupiens vitare Charibdim, which caused her to be very doubtful in deliberation, not knowing what she might best do in that great perplexity. Neverthelesse conside­ring that the worst that might happen was, that she should be abused but by a Captain, where otherwise she should remain [Page] subject to the lust and riot of a King, making case of the vice, and not regarding the persons, she resolved to follow the Cap­tains counsell, thinking that it might as well prove for her benefit as contrarily, where if she remained with the King she could not hope for amendment, séeing lust cannot be quen­ched by virtue, but rather inflamed and stirred up to further wickednesse. The Captain hearing her willing to use his help, told her that the King intended the next day after to ride to another Castle, where he purposed to muster his army, and to besiege the City Targonna, but meant to let him be as chief governour of the Castle: therefore he willed her to feign that she was extreamly sick, and to yeeld the King a pleasant coun­tenance at his departure, beseeching him to leave her there to rest, seeing she was ill at ease, & promising him that she would be ready, her health recovered, to do his Majeshy any pleasure and service it might please him to command her. And then (quoth the Captain) if you do but obtain so much of him, let me al one for the rest.

She th [...]nking him for his great deserts towards her, promi­sed to use the matter so, that shee doubted not but to obtaine so much of the King: as to be short, she did. For the King mar­ched with his bands, and left her to the keeping of this Cap­tain, who being appointed Governour of the Castle that night came unto my mother, and brought her one of his sutes of ap­parel, willing her secretly to put it on her, and to come to his chamber assoon as she was ready: which she did, and was no sooner come, but hee commanded the Watch to let down the bridge, and open the gates, for that he minded himselfe, onely accompanied with one Gentleman, to make the scout-watch, and to espie whether the enemy were about the Castle, or had sent any spies to learn whether the King were there, or to know what they went about.

The watch forced to obey their chief Governour, although they thought it but little policy, notwithstanding that hee might be thought venturous, to undertake that Service which most private Souldiers seek to put by, they did as [Page] their Governour commanded, and let him go forth with his companion, whom they knew not.

The Captain and my mother being out of the Castle, hee sware there, that hee would for her sake never enter into the same again, or serve the King his Soveraign any longer, but after he had led her home to her husband, he would séek his fortune in some strange Countrey where he might be fréed from the harm that might ensue by reason of the Kings an­ger and indignation against him, carrying my mother away from him. Which she wept marking bitterly, that so valiant a Captain, and worthy a Gentleman should be deprived of all his wealth and substance, yea of that great honour and credit which by his virtue and prowesse he had won among all his Country-men, both in the Court and in the Camp, for her sake. But he most kindly prayed her to content her self, and not to care for him; for so he might do her pleasure, and so she might by his means, injoy her content and wished desire, he should be satisfied, seeing he desired nothing so much as her blisse, and protesting that his chiefest felicity consisted onely in her prosperity.

She grieved for nothing so much as that she wist not how she might worthily recompence his deserts, could not be pasi­fied, but wept continually, not caring for her self, but sorrow­ing that the good and valiant Knight had abandoned all, for to restore her to her former liberty, and to frée her from dis­honour.

But by this they arrived at the village, where my father was not, nor any person in the world in our house; for my father thought not that he might safely stay in his own house, for fear least he should be watched for, and by the King of Ca, stiles command, be slain by the enemy. But he had put away all his servants and taken me with him insomuch that we were in a certain shepheards house something far from the village which was burned, where no man durst dwell. The Captain therefore and my mother, entring the house, and finding no man, marvelled greatly, and by my mothers intreaty, depart­ed [Page] thence towards the City Targonna, where she made great enquiry for my father and mee, but they could not hear of us. But you must note by the way, that the Captain had changed his apparel and put on a shepheards garment, and my mother likewise put off her mans wéed, and attired self according to her sex. And within two or three days after they had been in city, they chanced to light on a certain shepheard; whom my mother knew well, and who knew my parents as well as any of all our village. Of this shepheard did my mother under­stand that the King of Castile returning to the castle where he had left her, and finding her absent, and the general Gover­nour, whom he would have trusted with a greater charge, was so enraged, that he hanged the captain of the watch for letting him forth; and marching with his whole Army towards our village, he destroyed all that he met with, and put all the coun­trey men that he could find to the edge of the sword, sparing neither man, woman, nor child. This shepheard told my mo­ther, that forasmuch as he had séen my father and me in a little cottage adjoyning to our village, he thought certainly that we had not escaped the Kings fury, but that wee were both slain: which bad tidings so grieved my mother, that unlesse the good Knight had persevered in his comfortable consolations, she had either died for sorrow, or ended her grief by finishing her life with her own hands.

On the other side, my father, who by good fortune was fore­warned of the Kings furious comming to the village, escaped the danger, which he was like to incur; but when he heard of the proclamation which was made throughout all the country by the Kings command, &c. That whosoever could bring him the head of the same strumpet, which refusing to be his concu­bine, had by her dishonest enticements enchanted the heart of Don Alvares de Bazora, one of his chiefest captains in his wars (for so was the good captain called) and bewitched him to love her, & carry her from her husband, should have all the livings that belonged or appertained to the foresaid Don Alvares. I say, when my Father had heard this Proclamation, thinking [Page] that my mother was guilty of the crime she was accused of, and supposing that she had changed her praised chastity into wantonnesse, he thought that she had allured the Knight to lewdnesse, which so grieved him that after he had largely and lamentably complained of her disloyalty, he took me by the hand and departed out of Aragon presently, travelling toward Italy, where in the Kingdome of Naples in a certain village called Cinqueni, he purposed to live the remnant of his life. In the mean time it chanced that the Kings of Aragon and Ca­stile, séeing they could not by war become Lord the one over the other, they concluded a wished and durable peace among their countries, making a perpetuall league of friendship be­tween the said Kingdomes of Aragon and Castile. Insomuch that y ^e King of Castile, returned to his Country with his whole army; and in short space were the villages and towns that had been sacked and burned newly built up again, and all the in­habitants of the country returned home to their houses, My mother therefore desirous to know whether my father was slain nr no, returned to our village with the Knight, to inquire for my father and me, but no man could tell her any news of us. Insomuch that she verily thought that he was dead, and I likewise, she lived in that state yet three or four moneths; which time being expired, the Captain made earnest sute un­to her in reward of his service and faithfulnesse, seeing her husband was dead, to take him to her husband, swearing and protesting that he would be as loyall unto her as any man in the world might be unto his wise. She acknowledging that he deserved more then he requested, yet loth so soon to marry again, did drive him of as long as she could, till at length not able to gainsay his lawfull request, she married her self unto him, and to the end she might forget her former deceased hus­band, the better thinking it but meer trouble to be cumbred with the remembrance of her dead husband being remarri­ed, she and her new husband went to some bordering town of Castile, where they remained four years, having a child the first year named Philorenus, at my mothers request, she being de­sirous [Page] to have a new Philorenus, séeing she had lost the other. You must in like manner note, that the Captain sith the first hour that he departed out of the Castle with my mother, na­med himself as my father was called (to wit Coreandro) to the end that he might be unknown; which name he retained as long as he lived.

Thus they having long lived (as I said) four years in the borders of Castile, certain mutinies rising in the town of their abode, about the strangers that lived in the same place, they left that town and went into Italy, thinking the further they went from Castile, the more they should frée themselves from the danger that might ensue if they should be known. In this voyage my mother, either by the necessity of her destinies, or the labour of her troublesome journey, fell sick, and passed her fatal day in a certain village of Italy. Her husband the Cap­tain, though he so impatiently took the death of his dear wife, for whom he had brought himself into all these troubles, that he cursed the Fates, and blasphemed the Gods, for ending her life and not rather his own; yet after she was buried, he took his son and travelled on his journey, intending to passe over his life in solitary manner, admitting no occasion of joy or re­creation, but onely such as he might enjoy by the company of his young sonne, whom nature had left him as a pledge of re­membrance of her whom hee so dearly love; and it was his lucke to sojourne in the same village which my father and I dwelled in, being called Cinqueni, as I have before mention­ed where this Captain with his young Philorenus, and my fa­ther with his also, remained a fortnight the one not knowing of the other.

This space of fourteen days being fullfilled, the King of Naples sent two thousand men to burn the same village and slay all the inhabitants thereof, for what reason I cannot now so well remember, and seeing it maketh not for my purpose, I will not stand upon it any longer, but let you know how that my father having had some fore-intelligence of the Kings in­tent (as many more of our neighbours did, among whom I [Page] place the Captain, my mothers second husband) and therefore thought best to flie unto some other place: yet the Kings com­mand being something hastily put in execution it hapned that my father with all the rest were so suddenly assaulted in the night time, y ^e they were compelled to leap out of their beds in their shirts and take their flight, leaving all they had be­hind them: so that neither my father had leasure to take me with him, nor the Captain to save his Philorenus; yet was our luck such, that though no child escaped untimely death, yet we the one not knowing the other, found mercy at the souldiers hands that were sent to execute the Kings pleasure. For they taking pity on us, thought it was then a sacriledge to kill us that were so young, and by the disposition of our bodies séemed likely to prove comely men. In so much that we were both of us priviledged from death and carried to the City of Naples, I by a certain Captain, whose hap it was to light on me, & the other Philorenus by a Sergeant, who séeing his father fled, ran towards him to bath his sword in the poor innocent child his bloud, for spight that his father had by flight escaped his fury: & coming near him hearing him cry, his choller turned into af­fection, and he so loved the child, being about thrée years and a half old, y ^e he having neither wife nor child, intended to carry him to Naples, & bring him up as his own son. Thus we lived in Naples seven years & yet had no knowledg one of the other.

CHAP. XXVI. How Philorenus the elder was brought to the Court by the King of Naples, who sent him Ambassador to the King of Persia.

I Shall intreat you (most excellent Princesse, and ye worthy Gentlemen and shepheards) to mark by the way, that as we were both alike in name, so wee were in like manner so like one the other in favour, in plight of the body, in colour of hair, and in voice, that it was im­possible for any one by the judgement of the eye to discern the [Page] one of us from the other, when I had attained the eighteenth year of my age, and the other Philorenus to the fifteenth year of his age; at which time hee was fully as tall as I and in growth reached to the full proyortion of length and thicknesse that I was of. The reason where of was, that we both attai­ned to our full bignesse at fourteene yeares of our age, in so much that when he reached to fourteen years, he was fully in bignesse equal to me.

This therefore being committed to memory, you shall know, that after I had dwelled three years in Naples with the Captain who had brought me thither, it happened, that the same Captain marrying the daughter of a certain Knight of great account, celebrated the feast of his Wedding in very solemn manner. For not onely the chiefest Noble men of the country were invited thereto, but the King himself also, who disdained not in proper person to honour my Masters Wed­ding day.

The ceremonies of the marriage being finished according to custome, in memory of Hymenaeus, there was a most sump­tuous banquet made ready for the King and those Nobles that were ministred. And it came to passe, that the King casting his eye upon me (who among other my fellows served my ma­sters guests at that feast) liked me so well, that he asked the Captain, whether I was of his affinity or kindred? The Cap­tain said, that I was no kin unto him, but that he esteemed of me as of his son, in that a father can but give life to his son, as hee had done to me, shewing to the King where he had me, and how he brought me from the village Cinqueni. The King glad that he had saved such a proper lad from so unhappy and peremptory death, prayed my master to resign over the title he had to me unto him, promising y ^t it should be both for his pro­fit and my welfare. To make few words, of a Captains boy, I became a Kings Page; and that day taking leave of my old master. I went to the Court, where I so served the King, that I could not but please him; insomuch that his Majesty loved me as dearly as if I had béen some Noble personage, suffering [Page] me to want nothing, allotting me no worse company then his own son, being about the same age that I was of, who affected me as if I had béen his natural brother. Thus I lived in this happie estate about two years, till Fortune remembring that she had brought me to the top of her wheel, began to threatem my haplesse dawnfall from all felicity, into the depth and pro­fundity of adversity, wishing me no better luck then my pa­rents had had in their time, though she had at the first gladded me with such good hap, thereby to make me the more impati­ent to suffer her crosse, and malicious entreatments in time to come. For it is a thing most certain, that among all men that are oppressed with adversity, none can so ill away with their mishap, as they that before lived in great prosperity.

But lest I digresse from the matter, know that the King having had intelligence by certaine Merchants out of Persia, that the King of Persia mustered his men through all his dominions, intending to make a voyage into Spain, and to bring a mighty Army to invade the country of Spain, because the Kings of Castile, Aragon, and Portugal had refused to give their daughters in marriage to his son, fearing lest if Spain were invaded, Italy should become subject, and considering, that he had entered into league with the King of Persia, and divers times joyned with him against other Kingdomes, but loth in this expedition (so likely to turn to his wrack) to become a helper or confederate, purposed to send me into Persia unto the King, to procure a peace between him and the aforesaid Kings of Castile, Aragon, and Portugal. I, though I thought my self altogether unfit to be imployed in such honorable kind of ser­vice, and matters of such importance, yet seeing it was his Majesties pleasure, as I thought it no manners to seem un­willing, so I prepared wy self to put his Majesties pleasure in practise, and to provide all things necessary for such a jour­ney, Therefore knowing the Kings pleasure. and the effect and sum of my message, I took my leave of his Majesty and the Queen, and in like manner of his son Hyppolito (who was so sorry for my departure, y ^t he could scarce bid me farewel (& so [Page] dispatched my selfe from the Court, being accompanied with nine men. What successe I had since my departure from Na­ples, you shall hear afterwards.

CHAP. XXVII. How the younger Philorenus, being taken for the elder, was im­prisoned by the King of Naples his command.

THe second day after I went from Naples, the o­ther Philorenus (son unto my Mother by that Castilian Captain) dwelling in the same Ci­with the Sergeant that brought him from Cinqueni, chanced in the evening time to passe by a Noble-mans house, where Hyppolito the Kings son had been at supper; who standing at the door among certain Gen­tlemen, espyed this Philorenus, and thought undoubtedly that I was the man, and that I had changed my apparel to the end that I should not be known to be Philorenus, which he imagi­ned that I should have done, being unwilling to go in Am­bassage unto the King of Persia, and yet feared to ask leave to stay at home, and to be discharged of that so troulesome a ser­vice, I being unaccustomed to deal in affairs of so great mo­ment and importance.

He therefore stealing from his company, followed my bro­ther (for we came both out of one wombe) and when he saw him in place where least company was, hee tooke him by the slip of his cloak, and calling him by his name Philorenus, bad him not be grieved though he were overtaken by him, seeing it was his lucke first to bee espied by him, that was the best friend that he had in the world. My brother knowing Hyppo­lito the Kings son, began to fal on his knees, to honour him ac­cording to the manner of the countrey, marvelling that the young Prince used such words unto him. But Hyppolito loth that I should be knowne (for the King and all the Nobility knew not but that I was departed from Naples for Persia) [Page] with something an angry countenance, uttered these words. Philorenus, if thou be wise follow my counsell, and leave these tekens of honour, lest thou be bewrayed, and if my request will not serve, let my commandement move thee to be more pru­dent and follow me. Philorenus my brother, ravished with mar­vel what this meant, and fearing to displease him, who might make him repent his offence, did as he commanded. And so they went together to the court, where Hyppolito bearing my brother into his chamber, and shutting up the door lest any of the Courtiers should interrupt them, and know of my being there, (thinking nothing lesse then that the same Philorenus was my Brother, séeing neither I my self knew that I had a Brother, nor my Brother that he had a Brother in the Court, by Fortune lifted to so high estate) began in this manner to speak unto him.

Ah Philorenus, who would have thought that the great dis­cretion and wisedome, whereby you have obtained such love and credit at my fathers hands, had so lost his force and vigor, that it suffereth thee so indiscréetly and fondly to behave thy self, being imployed by his Majesty in a matter which might have beene committed to the chiefest person of the Realme? And art thou so berest of all thy wits and understanding, that thou thinkest we are all so blinde, that because thou hast put on another Garment, wee should not know thee? Thinkest thou that we are so forgetfull of thy favour, that the change of apparel is able to make thée unknown unto us? No, no, Phi­lorenus, and although all other men were taken with oblivi­on of thy Face, yet the Picture of thy Visage, the Lineaments of thy Face, and the very Phisiognomy of thy Csuntenance, is so déeply ingraven in my heart, that no time, no change, no alteration, no colour, nor no deceit is able to rase out the print thereof.

Wherefore I cannot enough marvel Philorenus, that séeing thou knowest how I am affected towards thee (insomuch that thou canst not ask any thing of me that lieth in my power to grant thee, and be repulsed) thou hast notwithstanding so [Page] madly sought so dangerous (if I may say my mind) so coward­ly and base means to shake of the charge committed unto thée by the King; whereas if thou hadst but let me know how thou wert unwilling to be imployed therein, I would have intrea­ted my father, and perswaded him to send some other into Per­sia, that I might have enjoyed your company, for whose absence I doubt not but you perceived how sorry I was. And now, first you know, that though you were never more seen by us or known, yet you should be deprived of all the credit and honor which you had in the Court, being compelled to live in obscu­rity and base manner, wanting both wealth and fame.

Besides also; perpend not onely what injury you offer the King, but also the losse and detriment unto his subjects, and the neighbour kingdomes of Castile, Aragon, and Portugal, in that my fathers intent is frustrated, and an embassage of such moment, serving for the welfare of so many worthy kingdoms, neglected. The consideration whereof, I hope will make you come to knowledge of your fondnesse, yea rather madnesse, in committing so heinous an offence and hurtful trespass, where­by you hade deserved the Kings indignation, who no doubt if he were acquainted with this your franticke kind of dealing, would with no lesse pain then death punish your delict,

But I judge that the Gods tendring thy fortune, have made thee so happie, as that thou shouldest be espied by me before thy sinister doings were bewrayed unto any other, and so re­vealed to the King my father, to the end that I might provide some remedy in this case, and save thée from the danger which otherwise thou wert like to incur.

My brother Philorenus, who all this while stood astonished, not knowing the event of this matter, marvelled what fury haunted the young Prince, to make such a large discourse un­to him; he knew not what he meant by his embassage, or what affair the King should have committed to his charge séeing he had never been near the King, and was altogether unknown unto him; and therefore he knew not what he might imagine of this accident. But knowing that who so commeth near the [Page] fire is in danger to be burned, that who so playeth with the streams may be drowned, and that they that are near Kings are subject to their power, began to fear lest this sport should be turned into spight; and this young Prince his pastime tend to his wrack. And therefore he fel on his knées and made Hippolito this answer.

Most excellent Prince, I am a poor young man, unknown in all places of honour, and especially in the Court; howbeit that I know not how your grace knoweth my name. For I confesse my name to be Philorenus, yet I vow and protest be­fore the Gods and sacred powers of heaven, that I never lived in the Court, never wore more sumptuous apparel then now I do; never spake unto his majesty or your grace, and that I know no more of what embassage you speak, or what charge you talk of, then I knew at the hour when I was first born. Wherefore I beseech your grace to pardon me for I speak the truth, as your grace well knoweth, who taketh pleasure to mock his humble servant.

What Philorenus replied Hippolito, hast thou not told me thy self that thou wert born about the borders betwéen the Kingdomes of Aragon and Castile, that thy father was called Coreandro, thy mother Delbia (for that was our mothers name) and that by reason of the wars betwéen the said Kingdomes, thy father came with thee, and dwelled in the village Cinque­ni, being under my fathers subjection, whence thou were brought to Naples? Is not this most true? if not, say I lie,

God forbid (quoth my brother) that I should be so impudent as to give your grace the lie, séeing that I may in more decent manner deny that which is contrary to verity then so. And séeing I confesse all that to be true which your grace hath spe­cified concerning my parents, my country, and my translation from the place where I was born unto this country, I hope your grace will pardon me if I deny that I never told the least point thereof unto you: for heaven confound me if ever I spake unto your grace before this time.

Hippolito moved to rage, burst out at length into these [Page] words. Well Philorenus (quoth he) I perceive thou art more then mad, and that thou doest openly mock me, for I say that the Gods are not Gods, if they confound thee not for thy fals­hood. It were to be pardoned if thou didst onely offnd against me, but seeing thou callest the Gods as witnesses of thy hor­rible falsities and lies, I cannot forbear it. But I pray thee tel me one thing; hast thou any brother living? No, (quoth my brother.) why then (qd. Hippolito) art thou the same Philorenus that my father the King had from the Captain, upon the same day that the said Captain was married; who said that he brought thee from Cinqueni. True (quoth my brother) I was brought from Cinqueni, but yet I know no Captain that was married, or that gave me to the Kings Majesty. And if it wil please your grace to go with me, or send to the house where I dwell, you shall both know of him that brought me from Cinqueni and all his neighbors, that I have dwelled these seven or eight years with him, even since the time y ^t I was brought from the said village Cinqueni. It is a marvellous matter (qd. Hippolito) Philorenus, that thou wilt go about to perswade me to a tale, and to move me to believe thy lies. For if thou wert a God I durst say thou liest. For thou hast no brother (so thou doest confesse) and I take all the Gods to witnesse that one named Philorenus born in the same place that thou acknow­ledgest thy self to be born in, and of the same parents that thou claimest to be thine, and of such fortune as thou sayest thine was. Then tell me how is it possible, but that thou thy self must be the man. And albeit thou hadst a brother, yet you should not make me believe that he can be so like thee, as that I should be so absurdly deceived. Therefore séeing thou art so obstinate, thou shalt try what thou art able to gain therewith.

Herewith Hypolito taketh him by the hand and leadeth him unto the chamber of presence, where all the Gentlemen and Gentlewomen began to cherish and welcome him, asking the cause of his sudden return and why he had so disguised himself in apparel.

My brother almost out of his wits wist not what to think, [Page] but that either they were all more then foolish, or he born to be scoffed and mocked at: yea he could not a great while be perswaded but that he dreamed. But Hyppolito looking up­on him, and séeing what countenance he bore, burst out into these words, all the Courtiers standing aboot O most cun­ning counterfeit who ever saw the like? No doubt Philore­nus doth not or rather will not remember, that ever he knew any of all this noble company of Gentlemen and Ladies, whereas notwithstanding, they all disdain not to acknow­ledge, yea and claim old acquaintance. As he had so said, the King came into the chamber of presence to sée what the matter was, (for he had already heard something touching my comming as they thought) and séeing my brother, welcommed him after this manner, Ha our Embassadour, you have ei­ther had wings to flie, or you have as much séen Persia as I have seen Jove; but I pray you tell mee what may bee the cause of this your holi-day-coat? Have you met with fooles by the way? or are you a weary of a Courtiers life? if the one, I was well addressed to send such a Legate to Persia, and if the other, I will soon relieve thée from that care.

With that the King being angry at the heart, comman­ded his son Hyppolito to take order that he might be put in­to prison till hee had deliberated what death hee should die. Which thing when distressed Philorenus heard, he fell on his knées and began thus to intreat his Majesty to be mercifull unto him. Most excellent Monarch, I beséech your Majesty by the religion & duty that all mortall men owe to the divine powers, to hear me clear my felf of all such crimes which it should séem that I have committed against your majesty. For I perceive that either it pleaseth your Majesty to exhilirate & glad your Courtiers with my misery, and threaten me impri­sonment and death to give them occasion to laugh at my sim­plenesse and innocencie, or there hath been some other man of my name and like me, that hath committed this heinous of­fence against your Majesty, which most falsly is attributed un­to me. For I protest before heaven and earth that, I am not [Page] that Philorenus (if such an one hath béen here) as I will prove by the souldier that brought me from Cinqueni, with whom I have dwelled ever since I was by him brought to Naples; as he and all his neighbors shall testifie, or Ile die what death your Majesty shall please to appoint.

The King hearing him so soberly protest and swear that he was not the same Philorenus they took him to be, commanded him to tell one of his guard where the same souldier dwelt, which when my brother had done, the King commanded the same man whom my brother said was his master, and four or five of his chiefest neighbors, should the next day come before him.

Insomuch that the same Sergeant being called Signori Va­lentino, accompanied with three or four Gentlemen of great credit dwelling in the same Parish, with him were brought, appeared before his Majesty according to his command and my brother being brought before them, the King asked them whether they knew that fellow?

They all answered yes, and told the King all other circum­stances concerning my brothers Parents, and his comming from Cinquent to Naples, affirming all what they had said, up­on their oaths.

The King marvelled that all things agréed with the Phi­lorenus for whom he took him to be, both his name, the place where he was born, the name of his parents; and other acci­dents onely this different, that he had dwelt with a Captain which gave him to the King, where these men testified that that Philorenus whom they had present, had dwelt with the Sergeant till that present day, and never entred into the Court; insomuch that the K. began to think that there were two brothers of them, and that they themselves knew it not, by reason that they were separated one from the other so timely. But to the end that he might be the surer of this matter, he sent for the Captain of whom he had me. Who being come, and having séen my brother; the King asked him whether he knew any privy token about my body whereby he might know [Page] me, if there were one in the world so like me that he might hardly be known from me. Such token (answered the Cap­tain) I know none, my Soveraign Lord; neither is it neces­sary, for I nor any man that hath eys can doubt of this man, but that it is Philorenus whom I brought from Cinqueni, and I will not onely say so, but also affirm it by oath, and die up­on the same. The other Gentlemen that were present said that he might be deceived, for that they had already deposed the contrary.

To make few words if the King had not been present, they had gone together by the ears, and tried the matter not by words but by wounds rather, and by fight come to knowledge of the right Philorenus, but the King commanded them to re­turn to their mansion place, and to leave the person concern­ing whom the question grew, (to wit my brother) with him, for that he would not be satisfied, but would have him kept in hold till such time as he might send into Persia after me to know whether I were there or no: imagining that if I were found there, then the same Philorenus that they had in the Court should be my brother; and if it were so, the King inten­ded to give him some high office; but if contrarily I were not found in Persia, then it should be manifest that the same Phi­lorenus was no other but the man who he was judged by all the courtiers to be, and both he and his pretended master, with the other Gentlemen that were before the King, should with death be punished for their madnesse, in taking upon them to depose such falsities, and so openly to mock with their King and Soveraign.

Well, they being returned, and my brother clapt in hold, two Knights were dispatched from the court to Persia, who ta­king their journey th [...] same way that I was prescribed to take, at every City that was of any fame, he enquired for me, but in vain; for they passed into Persia, and yet could hear no­thing of me: neither in the way as they went thither, nor in the Court of the King ef Persia, the reason whereof was as followeth.

CHAP. XXVIII. How the elder Philorenti, going on his journey, was taken by Ae­gyptian Robbers. How the other Philorenus escaped out of pri­son by the means of Mistresse Ceraf [...]lla.

AFter I had travelled two days from Na­ples, as I rode with my men through a huge wood, we met with five and twenty Aegyp­tians, who having certain Cells in that Wood, lived upon the spoil of those that passed through the same. These Villains, ugly in countenance, in colour resembling Divels, and in stature Gyants, having espied us, and seeing that we were able to out-run them being on horseback, mar­ched on before us, as if they had not thought of us till they had reached to a place serving fit for their purpose, where our horse hindred us more then they could advantage our valour. For we entred into a Thicket ful of Thorns and Brambles, where we were compelled to alight, and lead our horses by the bridle, and had more trouble to pull them after us, then to pass our selves.

Now the Aegyptians therefore thinking it time to pursue their prey, came all of them towards us, and being most of them armed with demi-pikes and javelins, set upon us so fiercely on the sudden, that we scarce knew whether were the best, to resist their fury, or yeeld to their mercy. But séeing we had no time to deliberate upon the matter, quick expedi­tion was necessary, and I perpending that all the mercy that such villains had was more then cruelty, I thought it better to die in the defence of our honour, then to fall into the hands of such barbarous rascals.

Then I drew my sword, as also all the rest did that were with me, and abandoning our horses, we dealt with the vil­lains in such sort, that we woundes thrée or four of them dead­ly, [Page] but yet we could not escape their hands, by reason that they were so many of them, and had the vantage of us, in that they had half-pikes, and we had none. To be short, the end of the conflict was such that I could more deplore it then avoid it; for the most of my men were slain, the rest escaped by flight, and I being thrust through the arm with a pike, was taken by the Aegyptian villains, and bound hand and foot, and so htey cast me upon one of our horses, and brought me to their cels; whi­ther they also conveyed the horses and my baggage. When I was brought to their cell, they began to consult what they should do with me. For they thought it pity (which affection did not proceed from any good disposition in them, seeing they were bereft of all good qualities, but rather was bred in them by the wil and pleasure of the Gods, who being moved to me­cy would deliver me from the wicked villains) to kill me, sée­ing they had gotten so great a booty by me; and on the other side, they feared that if I should escape, their knavery should be detected, by reason that I did not onely know their wicked kind of dealings, but also the place where they kept thēselves, being the most secret place in the world. But after they had a long time deliberated upon the matter, they came by me and brought me such meat as they had (though I had no great lust to eat) and untied the cords wherewith they had bound me, but they put on a pair of shackles on my legges, for fear I should out-run them. Thus I lived among them the space of nine or ten moneths in such misery, that I wished death every day to deliver me from the wretched life which I led in that pittiful kind of captivity,

But I will return to my brother, whose hap was evil by reason of my mishap. For the knights that were sent into Per­sia to enquire for me, returned to Naples, & informed the King, that they had not heard any thing of me, and that they could as­sure his Majesty, that I had not béen séen in Persia, nor in any place between Naples and Persia, save onely in one town about one days journey from the Court, in which place they had cer­tain intelligence that I had béen seen. Other information they [Page] had none. The Sergeant my brothers master, and the other Gentlemen his neighbours upon this news, fled, fearing lest they should have been unjustly put to death, blaming Fortune for that she dealt so cruelly with them, that they were compel­led by flight to save their lives when they had not in any man­ner deserved death. But the King being informed of their flight, caused all their lands and livings to be confiscatcd, and adjudged to his exchequer, and my brother Philorenus was the same day arraigned and condemned to be torn in pieces with four horses. But it chanced on that day which was appointed for his execution, that the Queen fell in labor, and was delive­red of a daughter to celebrate the feast of whose birth, my bro­thers execution was prolonged thirty days; for the King would not have any such act comitted all the time the Queen lay in child-bed. In the mean time (most gracious Princesse) may you think in what taking my poor brother might be, that wist not how he might escape that cruel death which he was ordai­ned to die, although his conscience cleared him of all offence or crime, whereby he might deserve any punishment.

But at last, Fortune minding either to alleviate his grief, or to bring him into greater troubles, suborned a certain knights daughter which attended on the Queen, to snatch occasion at the delay which she heard the King had comanded to be made concerning the putting of my brothex to death; and to seek means to deliver him out of prison, and thereby to save his life, For this Gentlewoman being called Cerasilla (whom I loved better then my self) thinking, with the King and all the rest of the courtiers, that my brother was the same Philorenus that courted her, and so earnestly made love unto her, that she might eastly perceive that he loved and honored her above all other women; when she heard that Philorenus was condemned, she was exceeding sorry. But the good chance of the Queens child-bearing, by reason whereof the time of his death was prolonged, something asswaged her dolour, and gave her hope, that she might find meanes to recompence the service which she suposed he had done her.

Therefore upon the third day after the young Princesse was born, considering that all the Courtiers were merry, and took more care how they might passe over the time with ma­king good chear, and recreating themselves with divers sorts of pastimes▪ then they did in looking who were present or ab­sent, or who went in or out of the chamber of presence; she step­ped from the Queens privie chamber to her chamber, and there araying her self in mans apparel; (for she had a sute be­longing to her brother, which he had left in her chamber) and taking her apparel under her cloak, she hieth to the Gentle­man that kept my brother, and finding him busie with playing at tables, asked him how it fared with Philorenus? the Gentle­man thinking that she had been Mistresse Cerasillaes brother (for he knew the cloaths, and her brother being but a young youth without any hair on his face, she was not misdoubted to be any other then he himself) told her that Philorenus would perhaps be as merry as the rest, if he knew not the day of his death, which though it were prelonged, yet it abated not his grief. I pray you (quoth the transformed Gentleman) may not a man talk with him? Why not (quoth the Gentleman?) If you please to speak with him, I will open the chamber door where he is, and you may go to him. And with that the Gen­tleman let her in, and went to his tables again with the Gen­tlemen that kept him company. Shee being entred into the chamber where my brother walked up and down very heavi­ly, salute [...] him and spake unto him in this manner.

Philorenus, albeit you perhaps are of opinion that I did in­deed despise the courtesies which you have offered me at di­vers times, as I seemed to make light of them in word, and that I rewarded thy service with inward hate, as I feigned by outward frowardnesse, yet I hope thou shalt in time by trial prove this surmise false, and be forced to confesse that she is not ungratefull whom thou so often hast accused to be cruel. For though I did repay thee with a frown whē I wished thée a favour, and yeelded thee a lowring countenance when I wi­shed thee a pleasing smile, to make proof of thy constancy: I [Page] doubt not, but now séeing I make thee acquainted with the cause, thou wilt not take the effect in ill part.

My brother, admiring at the strangenesse of this speech, wist not what to answer. For he knew not the person that spake unto him, and was in doubt whether it was a man or a woman, her apparel shewing the one, and the course of her talk the other: and therefore he thought best not to interrupt her discourse, but to hear the end of her tale, which she continued on in this manner,

And considering (swéet Philorenus) that the greatest plea­sure that may be done unto any man is to save him from the terriblenesse of untimely death, I am resolved to shew thée no lesse gratuity and recompence for thy faithfull and loyall service, then to frée thée from the Kings rage, or my self to in­cur the same danger that you be in your self. Vnto which pur­pose I have my self put on my brothers cloathes, and brought mine under my cloak to attire you therewith, and so lead you out of this chamber where you are imprisoned, and rid you from the danger which you know that you now are in.

And for as much as delay bréedeth danger, I pray you dis­patch and follow my counsell, for the Courtiers are all so fil­led with wine, that we may passe and repasse without suspi­cion.

My brother was so perplexed, being surprised with glad­nesse and grief together, that he could scarce tell what he should do; for though he suspected that this Gentlewoman mis­took him as the King and the other courtiers did yet he feared least she had been suborned by the King to brin,g him into a fools paradice, and so to agravate his misery. Wherefore as he stood amazed doubting what were best for him to do, she urged him in this manner to make speed.

Loving Philorenus doest thou now make so strange of her, that to save thy life putteth her own in hazard? Hast thou for­gotten whaf pleasure thou wert wont to say I did thée in gi­ving thée leave to speak to me, and art thou so chary now of thy tongue that thou wilt not utter one word? Thou hast of­tentimes [Page] sworn that thou wouldest not spare thy life to do me service; and now I venture mine to do thée pleasure, wilt thou not accept of my service?

My brother considering that the worst that might ensue was death framed her this answer.

Sweet Lady, if I have displeased you with ungratefull si­lence, perswade your self that the onely cause thereof did pro­céed of the joy which I conceived of your presence, whereby I was wrapped in an extasie; insomuch that my tongue and my other instruments of spéech, as I thought to have welcomed you, denied me their accustomed duty, having lost their opera­tion by reason of the excesse of gladnesse which possessed my soul. But I beséech you go not about to undo your self to save me, least in seeking my weal you procure your own woe, & so where but one should suffer death you bring both in danger.

Mistresse Cerasilla glad of his answer, but sorry to see him make no more hast, to do that which she desired, she spurred him forward saying.

Sweet Philorenus doubt not but I am perswaded of thy love towards me, and that I think of thy silence as thou sayest. As for the rest, let me alone I hope where you fear we shall both fall in the trap, that we shall neither of us be snared in the net, and therefore be ruled by me, seeing womens wits have sometimes brought that to passe which mens minds hath admired.

To be short, my brother became mistresse Cerasilla in attire, and was apparelled in her cloaths, whose body was the habi­tacle of my heart, accompanied by the Saint whom I wor­shipped though absent, and in whom my mind dwelled, though my body was in subjection to the villaines that kept me in their cels after they had robbed me and slain my men. Yet if I had then known of the love and affection of my mistresse towards me, and how willingly she would have endeavour­ed to deliver me from the barbarous entertainment of the E­gyptian theeves, if she had known that her faithfull Philore­nus was so afflicted; my misery (though it had been greater) [Page] could not have béen half so troublesome unto me, nor my filthy prison so noisome. But least I be troublesome unto this wor­thy company by digressing from the matter, know that my bro­ther passed for mistresse Cerasilla, and she for her brother, and bidding the Gentleman that was charged with him Adieu, they departed leaving him so busie at his game, that he ten­ded his play more then his prisoner. Insomuch that they ma­king all the haste they could, marched through the Court, and resembling that they went to walk in the fields, they spared not their legs, but sometimes running, sometimes going a round pace, they did advantage their journey in such manner, that the next morning (having travelled all night) they reach­ed to the wood where I was, there thinking themselves out of danger, they rested.

CHAP. XXIX. How Philorenus the younger, and Cerasilla lost each other in the wood: and how the elder Philorenus, was delivered out of the Aegyptians Cell by Cerasilla.

NOw though they had made sufficient provision of money, yet when hunger began to gnaw them, having disgested their meat by their walk or rather flight, they wist not what shift to make for victuals. Insomuch that they went straying up and down the wood to see if they could find any roots or wild fruit growing there, intend­ing to feed on them, till finding the way to some house they might buy other kind of meat. But mistresse Cerasilla, being weary of raunging and overtaken with sleep, lay down amidst the bushes, and prayed my brother also to rest himself a while: but he having more mind to eat then to sleep, bid her take her rest and he would in the mean time seek for some victuals a­gainst she waked. Insomuch that he marked the place where he left her, and went towards the side of the wood whence he might see a chimney smoaking. Whereof glad, though he fea­red [Page] lost he should be mett with, hee ventured and went to the house, where he found a poor old woman sitting by the fire all alone, and desired her of all friendship, to let him have bread for his mony. The woman perceiving that he was some Gen­tleman of account (in mean time may it please you to note that my brother and mistresse Cerasilla had changed apparel in the way. each taking that sute which agreed to their sexe) told him that she had bread, but she feared it was too brown for his eating but he desiring her to let him have it such as it was, she brought him four loaves, which he took, and paying her as much as she asked, to the wood he returned as fast as he could: where he had espied a fountain, and therefore stayed not with the old woman to drink, she proffering him a glasse of Cydar, being a kind of wine made of apples. For he purposed to carry mistresse Cerasilla bread first, and then to lead her to the said fountain, and there with her to quench his thirst. But when he came to the place where he left her, mistresse Cerasilla was not there; for waking out of her sleep, she went to see if she could méet with him; for because he had been something long away (séeing the place whither he went for bread, was about one league from the wood, and he had wandred up and down the wood about two or three hours, ere he came to the wood side whence he espied the smoak) she suspected that he was lost in the wood, and could not find the way to come unto her again. And so it came to passe, that she seeking him lost him, and he not finding her, lost himself. For he was so distracted with sor­row and grief, that as a man abandoning all hope, & in a man­ner dispairing, he sate down, and laying his elbow on the ground to support his head, began in this manner to exclaim against Fortune for her spighfull entreatment,

Ah Fortune, I perceive my destinies have ordained me to be the subject whereon thou mayest work thy power, and shew thy inconstancy: and whereon thou dost plant the banner of thy forces, and hang up the trophees of thy victories: For who is there that is acquainted with the course of my life, that dare deny, but that every part thereof hath bin guided by Fortune, [Page] and subject to her accidentary government? For after the day of my birth (the circumstance whereof may be attributed to no power but to the hidden secrets of dame Nature onely) was it not a chance and accidental cause. that I should with my cradle by my parents be carried out of my country, and live in exile, before I knew what exile, yea what life was? was it not (say I) a token of the sparkles of anger which began to glister in the heart of Fortune, and a manifest sign that she began to menace and threaten me some disastrous hap in time to come? For I lived not many weeks after, but I saw the fire flame, which was kindled of the former sparkles, and I tried the force of her menaces- For before we could reach to any place where we might sojourn, death bereft me of my dear mother, before nature allowed me to acknowledg the benefit which by her I had and did receive.

This done, Fortune seemed not not to have wreaked her anger sufficiently, and as yet became nothing more méek; for after my mother was buried, and her funeral rights celebra­ted, we came to the village Cinqueni, where I was deprived of my father, all the hold of my hope, and the pillar of my well­fare. Now Fortune thought her selfe prettily well reven­ged on me that had never offered her any wrong, and began to turn her frowns into smiles, and her anger into favour. For who can deny, but that it was an especial good turn of Fortune to snatch men out of the cruel claws of griping death, whereas none other might escape the rage and fury of the massacring souldiers that were sent to overthrow the said village, being the place of our habitation? Vnlesse it be so that I had some brother, who (though I knew him not) received the same fa­vour at Fortunes hands that I had, to the end that after wee had been shrined up by Fortune, I in the house of the good Sergeant, and he in the court, we should both of us fall into the gulph of extream misery, and that being led into adversity, we should féel the effect of Fortunes anger, which for a time she dissembled, feigning to favour us, where she procured means to wrong us.

But among other calamities, what can be more grievous unto me, then to be so separated from my brother (if I may by Natures consent claim any such title) that I never should have séen him yet, nor be like to see him hereafter? Neither is it a lesse torment for me, that by him I should be brought into these miseries, and that he should be cause of all my mishap, who no doubt, if he knew it, would if he could redresse my ca­lamitie. But séeing he is not in Persia, assuredly some mis­cheif hath befallen him, wherewith Fortune hath purposed to work both our destructions. The Gods grant that I may pro­phesie falsly, though the apparent shew of all things force me to divine the contrary. And lastly, this latter pinch of For­tunes spight, in that she is absent who is the cause that I am present, (yea, simpliciter that I am, for without her I had now not béen at all) in rancour doth surpass all the malice that hi­therto she hath ever endeavoured, laboured, or enterprised a­gainst me. Ah swéet Cerasilla, courteous Cerasilla, yea most lo­ving Cerasilla, how wilt thou blame and accuse me of mon­strous ingratefulness if thou suspect that I have puposely left thée of free will and counsel, and voluntarily abandoned thee? But I hope thou wilt not hold such opinion of me but rather impute this hapless chance to Fortune, who hath sworn to make me miserable.

And alas whither shall I go, or what way shall I take? since y ^e sweet guide is taken from me in whose cōpany I came hi­ther, my coming is not from imprisonment to liberty, or thral, dom to freedom, or from death to life; but rather from one kind of captivity, bondage & death, into an other; altering the man­ner of my misery, not abating the extremity of my calamity.

Therewith my brother Philorenus, not able speak to any longer for the multitude of sighs which he fetched from his heart, and tears which spouted out of his eys, he wept most bit­terly, in which plight I will leave him a while, and declare unto you what Fortune mtstresse Cerasiila had: who having strayed up and down the wood a long time, and calling for Phi­lorenus as loud as she could, weeping & lamenting his absence [Page] in most grievous manner, at length she espied the cel where I was penned up by the villains, who had that morning shifted me, and taking my apparel with them to sell it, gave me an old garment of theirs to cover my body withal; and so leaving no man but me in the cell, barred the door on the out side and went their way: and Cerasilla having eyed the cell, hoping to find Philorenus my brother there (for she had forgotten her hun­ger) made hast to draw near, & knocking at the door she heard her first Philorenus speak, for whose cause she made such ac­count of the other being my brother. For when I heard one knock, I asked who was there? whereupon she answered. Ah swéet Philorenus! (thinking that I was the other whom she had lost, for our voices were not more different then our fa­ces) what art thou there? I must confesse my self beholding to Fortune for this good hap; but why dost thou not let me in? I having forgotten her voice, it being altered by reason of the affection wherewith in a lamentable manner she pronounced her words, replied. Whatsoever you be whom fortune hath sent to comfort me after my long imprisonment, if you wil sée me, then must you from the out-side undo the door, and remove such bars or stops that hinder or let you from entring séeing I am shut in, and cannot come forth.

Cerasilla marvelling at my spéech, with a knife she cut the string wherewith the cell door was fastened, and opening the door, asked me where I was? insomuch that I looking by the light that came in at the door (for it was dark within) I saw Mistresse Cerasilla stand before the cell, the sight of whose pre­sence cast me into such a trance, y ^t it might have béen thought I had béen metamorphosed, as they that looking on Medusaes head were transformed into stones. But when Cerasilla saw that I neither came, nor gave her any answer, she stepped into the cell, where she saw me lye on the ground, not onely tongue-tyed without speaking, but also leg-tied, being bound with a strong cord. Which sight, although it was sufficient to make her lose her wits, & become as much altered as I was my self: yet the necessity wherein I was requiring aid, moved her to o­vercome [Page] her own passions and to ad her helping hand to wake me out of the extasie wherein I lay. At length being come to my self, I said. Ah what fortune hath sent thée to this solitary wood to deliver me from this misery? Whose presence is more welcome to me, then if some heavenly Godess had come to lose the bands which your most delicate fingers have untwined. and therewith twisted the knot of the true and sincere love, wherewith I most loyally honoured thée for the time that I lived in the Court. Ah Cerasilla had I known that thou hadst béen so mindfull of my service, and that thou didst accept of the pains or rather pangs which I suffered for love of thee, the ca­lamity which I have béen pestred with in this noisom prison, for the space of these ten moneths or more, had not been so grievous unto me as it hath been. For the sweet thought and pleasant conceit which my brains hath béen occupied with, in perpending and remembring your excellent beauty and rare vertues, hath taken more force in the pareke of my understan­ding, and so combred my mind with the delightsome memory of your personage, that it had quite blotted out all thought of the injury which I have received at fortunes hands, and expel­led all such grief from my heart which I did take for the pit­tiful and lamentable entertainment which I have had in this loathsome cell. Where ever since the second day that I departed from the Court for I have béen compelled to abide, being fallen into the hands of certain Egyptian théeves, who haunting these woods, violently set upon me and my men, be­ing either all slain, or some fled, robbed me of all my treasure and baggage that I had with me, and either pittying to kill me outright, or rather supposing they should use me too curte­ously if they ended my misery with death, they have kept me here in this cell in such manner as you find me; leaving me here this morning, and going to some town or other to sell the apparel which I had, seeing the money which they found in my male was much diminished, and their store greatly impaired.

Cerasilla ravished into admiration by the strangenesse of [Page] this accident, was doubtfull at the first of me, thinking that I had been the same Philorenus that came with her from the Court, and whose life she had saved by her policy: but wel per­pending my words, and applying them to the things both pas­sed and present; she remembred that the Knights who were sent into Persia said, that they had heard that I had been seen in a certaine towne within two dayes after I departed from Naples, and besides, she did see that I had on other cloaths then the man whom she left in the woods, which forced her to be­leeve me, and to know how she had been deceived in taking another man instead of me.

CHAP. XXX. How Philorenus the elder came to the Court with Cerasilla; how he came to meet with his brother, and apprehended the Aegypti­an theeves.

I Will not here make mention of such congra­tulations and cherishments as she made me; leaving it unto your discretions to judge how joyfull men be at such happy meetings. In the mean time, it may please you to un­derstand, that Cerasilla told me all that had happened in the Court concerning the other Philorenus, how he had not only my name, but my favour and my fortune, being born where I was born, exiled where I was in exile, and had the same parents that I had for mine; how that he was in the Court taken of all men for me, how that the Knights were sent into Persia, and bringing news that I had not been there, he was condemned to be torn in pieces by four wild horses. And finally, how she had delivered him from dan­ger of death, and lost him in the wood, supposing that it had been he when she heard me speak. Whereat I did the more marvell, by reason y ^t I never heard y ^t I had any brother. But after wee had parleyed of all things, fearing lest we should be [Page] taken together by the villains before we were out of sight of that accursed cell, we went into the wood as deep as we could; partly to escape them, and partly to find Philorenus my bro­ther, for as Cerasilla could not be altogether merry for the hard luck that he was lost, so was I excéeding sorry, by reason that I so gréedily desired to see him; to know whether he were my brother indeed or no. And as we had for the space of one whole day and night ranged up and down the same huge wood, at length we purposed to return to the Court, and to certifie the King of all matters, informing his Majesty of the right truth. Hoping that his Majesty would not onely pardon Cerasilla, who was forced by love to do whatsoever she had practised in going away with Philorenus my brother; but also by proclama­tion recal him again, and the Gentlemen in like manner, that were fled to shun his unjust wrath and anger, restoring them their goods and livings that were confiscated. As in truth his majesty did. For when we were returned to the Court, not without great admiration of the King & Hyppolito the young Prince, with all the rest of those that were in the Court, and knéeling before his Majesty, had declared the whole estate of all such accidents and events as had hapned, he did not onely pardon Cerasilla, but descending from his chair of estate em­braced me and so curteously welcommed me, that I well per­ceived that his Majesty was no otherwise affected towards me, then he was at my departure from the Court.

Furthermore, he rested not▪ but the same day recalled the Gentlemen that had testified how my brother had dwelled with the Sergeant, and not onely restored them their goods and lands, but also bestowed no small gift on the said Ser­geant my brothers master; taking order besides, that my bro­ther should also be recalled, promising that as soon as he were returned to the Court, he would Knight both him and my self: in memorial of that so rare an example of two brothers, that were so like one the other, the one neverthelesse not knowing of the other.

But I to revenge the injury done unto me by those E­gyptian [Page] théeves, and to punish them according as they for the cause of their abhominable and wicked life merited, I obtain­ed leave of the King to take one of the companies that lay in garrison in Naples, for the custody and safeguard both of the City and Court; therewith to march to the Cel where those villains had kept me so long: and coming thither we had such good luck, that we took them all saving one being but newly returned to the cell the night before. But missing one of them I commanded two or three souldiers to go into the cell, to see whether they could find no more there. They finding none but one being bound in such manner as they had used me, thin­king that it was some poor man that the villains had caught (for they could not see what he was in the cell) brought him forth unto me, whom I and all the company that was with me presently knew to be the other Philorenus my supposed bro­ther. Which thing so filled my heart with joy, that I imbraced him before he was unlosed. He not knowing who I was at the first marvelled, but after he had heard me declare unto him how I had found Cerasilla, y ^t had shewed him favour, he percei­ved y ^t I was y ^e same Philorenus whom he was thought to be, & beholding me, at lēgth burst out into these or such like words.

Sir, séeing I neither dream, nor behold my proportion in a looking glasse I confess that both the King had great cause to bear an opinion of me as he did, and these villains to use me as they intended; who meeting me in the wood as I had lost mistress Cerasilla, thinking I had béen the man they robbed & kept in their cel, & because I denied I knew either thē or their cel, they appointed to kil me assoon as their fellow was retur­ned, whereby I perceived that you had béen in their hands, and had got from them, seeing they could as little be perswaded that they had never seen me, as the King & all his courtiers; for in truth I my self, if I had not known as much as by fortunes frowardness I have tried, cōcerning the similitude & likeness between your person and my self. I would now have thought, that you had béen of the nature of the glasse that receiveth the colour of every object body: whereas you say that the Gods [Page] strive against fortune to free us from her frowardnesse, I am constrained to say no lesse, seeing that it hath pleased their Deity by him to lose me from this danger of death, by reason of whom (though not by his procurement) all my troubles and miseries took beginning. Wherefore seeing that our luck is such that as the evil successe of your fortune was cause of my misery, so the recovery of your hap hath bred my blisse, and de­livered me frem the extream perill wherein my life was pla­ced. What may I say lesse, but that the Gods knowing how we have by fortune been wronged, have rescued us from her fury.

But because it would be too long for me to rehearse, and te­dious for you to hear the end of his speech, and the other talk which we had between us, concerning such matters as had happened by reason of our great likenesse, I will onely tel you, that after we had had some conference touching our parents and other matters, we caused those Egyptian villains to be ti­ed to the horse tails, and so trailed along the ground till we came to Naples, where the hangman saved his labour, seeing that no person thought he had done his duty unlesse he had hel­ped to pull and tear the flesh of some part of those Egyptian wretches, that had caused such confusion, and wrought so much harm, had not the foresight of the mercifull Gods hin­dered their intent. Insomuch that within two hours after these Egyptian slaves had entered the gates of the City, they were by the people halled and pulled into a thousand pieces.

I will not here make long rehearsall, how honourably my brother was used by the King, but it shall be sufficient if I de­clare how that the King after he had welcommed my brother in all courteous manner with a pleasant countenance, as wel bewraying grace and mildnesse, as Majesty and glory, remem­bring his promise made unto me in word, did perform no lesse indeed, and Knighted us both together the same day.

Now (most excellent Princes and worthy shepheards) did we think that we had so troden fortune under foot, that she was not able ever to rise again, or impair us any more. Now [Page] lived we as two brothers in all kind of prosperity, and so high hoised to the top of blisse, that we little thought that any power had béen able to cast us down and deprive us of our present felicity. But alack we found the contrary by triall, and were compelled to acknowledge our error by experience. Better had it béen for us with the carefull and waxy Mari­ner to consider that an extraordinary calm, is token of some future tempest to come on the sudden: for then as he at such times striketh his sails, and shunning the dangerous seas, commendeth his bark to the secure haven; so we foreséeing the danger unto which we were subject in our great prosperi­ty, might have escaped the events which brought our adversi­ty. But séeing things past may be deplored not recalled, and repented, not amended; I must needs say that we bought had I wist, at a dear price: as you shall understand by the sequell of this history. But seeing I have not yet mentioned any thing concerning my father, and the Captain my brothers father, since that they fled from C [...]nqueni, at the time that we were brought from thence to Naples, I mean first to let you know what luck they had in their flight, before I go any further in declaring the success we had, so securely triumphing in the Court, after we were delivered from so much misfortune and evill hap as for a time we suffered, onely by the malice of those Egyptian villains which were suborned by fortune to shake the foundation of our felicity.

When Cinqueni the place whence we were brought to Na­ples, was by the souldiers sent by the King to execute his wrath on the inhabitants thereof, pilled and spoiled, Coreandro my father thinking that I was dead (for he had heard that none in all the village were left alive, neither men, womē, nor chil­dren, and he did not know that I was saved by a Captain and led unto Naples) thought to return home again to his coun­trey, and there live among his friends, seeing hee had no o­ther comfort in the world, being by fortunes pestilent hatred, bereft not of goods onely, but of wife and child also. Insomuch that he having resolved to return home to the place of his [Page] birth took his way from the said village along the coasts of I­taly towards Aragon, where after he had marched one day, the next morning rising betimes, to take the advantage of cool Au­rora, before Phoebhs rayes compelled the travellers to seek for shadow amidst their journey, he passed through a little short wood where he heard the other Coreandro, the good captain my brothers father, lament and bewail his hard fortune, in this manner.

Ah Fortune, men paint thée standing upon a Globe, as thereby decyphering thy inconstancy: which their opinion made me always deceive my self with vain hope, trusting that thou wouldest once turn thy frowardnesse into lovingness and thy frowns into favors. But I perceive thou hast made choice of me by experience of mine own miseries and adversity, to oppose my self against al men in thy defence, séeing that where as they all generally hold opinion, that thou art the very es­sence of inconstancy and mutability, each one particularly ex­claiming upon thee, and blaming thee for thy fléeting unsta­blenesse; I in contrary manner am forced and compelled to affirm against them all, that thou art not inconstant or unsta­ble, but rather too much constant persisting and stiff in thy purpose, hard to be moved, stiffe-necked, continuing to the end, tough, and hard to be overcome.

All which may be manifestly proved by the course of my life, by the adventures that by thy appointment have chanced and happened unto me, which all of them have béen so unhap­py, so infortunate, and so unluckie, that it were a hard matter to judge which of them deserveth the superiority in name and title of infelicity. In all which my abversities, thou hast so constantly remained in thy envious and malicious frowardnesse, that in this my latter mishap thou hast not any whit deflected or turned aside from that cruelty which thou didest use against me in all my other misfortunes. What shall I then say? shall I call thee constant because I am forced to say that thou art inconstant or mutable? No, no, constancy is too laudable a vertue to be attributed to such a spightfull and hard-necked [Page] Goddesse. Thou art not constant, because not inconstant, for y ^e extremity which corrupteth y ^e vertue is as contrary to vertue as vertue to vice. Insomuch that I cannot attribute unto thée y ^e name of constant, unlesse it be in envy, spight and cruelty, for so thou art ever, & in hatred, rancor, & malice, doest thou cō ­tinue alwaies. Thy delight is to see others grieved, thy sport to sée others spurnod with the kick of adversity; thy play to see others pained; thy pleasure consisteth in plaguing them y ^t im­plore thy help. Thou laughest at them that weep for their mis­haps to move thee to pity, thou scornest thē y ^t honor thee, thou mockest them that praise thee; thou deceivest them that trust to thee; thou abusest them that flatter thee, and them that des­pise thee, thou endeavourest to be revenged of them; though they of all others least care for thy might, least fear thy power, & therefore are least injured by thee. Fret at them thou may­est and some, stare, and stamp, but hurt them thou canst not, for it passeth thy Deity to overthrow them that with true pa­tience▪ forbearance and sufferance, shield and arm themselves against thy spight and rancor.

Therefore seeing that those that invoke thee most religi­ously, are most unrighteously by thee injured; that those that most deserve to be rewarded, are most punished; and that those that account most of thee, and think of thee most reverently, are most neglected, and most villanously dealt withall by thee. I that have thus long most zealously made thy altar smoak, by reason of the incense which I have always from my cradle of­fered unto thee, will and do now forsake and leave thee, as knowing at last, and acknowledging the errour and heresie wherewith I have thus long been infected. Hereafter shall not Coreandro serve thee any more, or offer thee sacrifice, seeing thou hast not onely spoyled him of his goods and riches, but also deprived him first of his dear and well-beloved Delbia, and now at last, of his dear son Philorenus, whom thou hast ap­pointed to be most barbarously killed and murthered fn his childhood, and left me alive to bewail and lament his untime­la death.

My father hearing the latter end of the Captains plaints, marvelling what he might be that so railed at fortune for an other mans mishap and mischance; for he having heard him repeat the injury which she had offered Coreandro, he thought he had meant of himself, and went into a certain thicket, where he saw the man that so blamed and exclaimed against Fortune for her severe and cruel dealings with Coreandro, in depriving him of his lawfull wife Delbia, and his welbeloved son Phi­lorenus: but because he knew him not, nor remembred that he had ever séen him before that time, marvelled greatly what he should be, and how he came to know him and mee, for he had heard him name both him and me.

Wherefore after he had well looked on him, and throughly beheld him, he spake unto him in this order. Sir, I pray you not to be displeased with me for pressing so near you séeing the cause which moveth me thereunto, procéedeth not from ma­lice, or intent to trouble or injure you any way, but rather from love and affection, desiring and wishing to comfort or pleasure you according to my power, which by Fortunes fro­wardnesse is so impaired and weakened, that my good will is more to be regarded then my ability. I perceive by your face and heavy countenance, that you have some cause to exclaim a­gainst Fortune either for your self, or for some other. But by the way, I am moved by the remembrance of the good amity and great friendship which in times past hath been betwixt me and Coreandro (whose mishap in losing his wife and son I heard y ^u so pittifully to lament) to be so bold as to ask you why Coreandros case so grieveth you, as that he himself could not more bewail his own misfortune, or be more grieved thereat, then you are?

The good Captain not knowing my father more then he was known by my father, framed him this answer. Good sir, though I had had any occasion (as I have had none) to be displeased at your coming to me, yet by reason that you have been so well acquainted with Coreandro, as you say, your coming unto me, could not but have been so welcome unto me, that all displea­sure [Page] would quickly have been banished and forgotten. For the great love and affection which I bear unto that man, and did bear to his wife Delbia, and his son Philorenus, above all other creatures in the world, is the cause that I so lament and be­wail his miserable and pittifull mishap. Wherefore séeing I have answered your question, I pray you tell me where you have been so acquainted with Coreandro? Where (quoth my father?) in Spain, in Aragon, in Italy, at Cinqueni, and in every place where Coreandro himself hath been, insomuch that he was no where, but I was with him, nor I any where but he was by me. But I pray you (quoth my brothers father) do you know him if you see him? Should I not know him (quoth my father?) As well as my self. Why then (quoth the Captain my brothers father) you know that I am Coreandro, do you not? Nay (quoth my father) rather do you know that I am the man, Then I perceive (said the other) that you came to mock with me, and so intreated me not to be displeased with you, intend­ing to give me cause of displeasure before you meant to de­part from me. Nay verily (answered my father) now I mark what the matter is; you knew that I was to passe this way, and therefore you came to this place to lament the misfor­tunes of Coreandro, to draw and entice me to come unto you, and so to be mocked and laughed at. But know whatsoever thou art, that if thou be so favoured of fortune, that thou chal­lengest licence to scoff at them that by fortunes spight are for­ced to grieve for their crosse hap, thou maist so be punished by the just jugement of the revenging Gods, that thou shalt be moved to cry peccavi too late, and to acknowledge thy offence, when it will be too late for thee to repent.

The good Captain hearing my father so earnest, wist not what he might think of the matter; but he began to remem­ber, that his wives first husband was called Coreandro, and that he also had a son called Philorenus. But because he thought that he had been dead long ago, he could not think it should be he; especially because it séemed by him, how that he had lived af Cinqueni, and that his son Philorenus (that is my self) should [Page] have been killed of the same souldiers that had slain his own son, who was also called Philorenus, for the same reason which hath already been told you. For it seemed scarce credible to him, that the other Coreandro and his son, whom he thought both to have been dead long since, should have lived so near him, and that he should not have heard of him; yet he thought best to set aside all anger, that in case it were he, he might shun all occasion of strife and immoderate speeches: and there­fore though he saw my father so hot, yet he nothing changed, spake thus cooly to him. Sir, I neither knew of your coming by this way nor ever saw you or knew you before to my know­ledge, and therefore the Gods punish me with their wrath if I tither scoff or mock with you: but as I came from Cinqueni, being over-burthened with the sorrow which I conceive for the losse of my child, which was killed at the said village by the barbarous souldiers, I entred into this grove, & was forced by the muliitude of my miseries, and greatnesse of my grief to rail at that most cruel Goddesse Fortune, who taketh delight to glut her self with the overthrow of mortal men. And was your son (quoth my father) called Philorenus? Yea, that he was (quoth he.) And was your wife (quoth my father) called Delbia? She was, answered he again. Why then, quoth my father, if thou be Coreandro, thy wife Delbia, and thy son Phi­lorenus, what shall I be with my Delbia, and my Philorenus? For if I am not Coreandro that had to wife Delbia, on whom I begot Philorenus now massacred at Ginqueni, heaven plague me.

The good Knight hearing my father so solemnly protest that he was Coreandro, desired him to make him some copious and true relation of his life, what he was, where he was born, in what place he was married, and by what fortune he was brought into Italy; and how that then he would satisfie him in all points, and so content and certifie him that he should not only know, that he did not jest nor mock with him, but also cō ­fesse and acknowledge, that he had very great reason to think himself mocked of him.

Whereupon my father very largely rehearsed unto him, the whole discourse and history of his life, whereby the good Knight knew that hee was that Coreandro whom hee thought had been dead, and therefore had married his wife Delbia by whom he had his son Philorenus. And presently he told my fa­ther all whatsoever had hapned and chanced between my mo­ther Delbia and him, how he saved her from the villany which the King of Castile intended to use against my mother, how he brought her to her village house to look for him, and not find­ing him there, they went to the city Targonna to seek him: and how they afterwards understood of certainty that he was dead, as he could verifie and prove by divers of his wives friends at the City Targonna.

Besides, he told my father in like manner, y ^t coming out of y ^e Castle to escape the better, he called himself Coreandro. And when he was come forth, he being credibly informed of his death, married Delbia, and that he had within a year after a son by her, whom she would have also named Philorenus, in remem­brance of her first Philorenus, whom she supposed to be dead. In a word, he left nothing untold, but let him know the cause of his wife my mothers death, with his voyage to Cinqueni, and all other things that hapned even till their meeting.

My father greatly rejoyced at this discourse, partly for that he heard such particularities of his wife, of whom what was become, he never had heard any certainty, and partly also, be­cause he was disburthened of that heavie load of false suspici­on, bred in his breast by reason of the King of Castiles odious proclamation made against my mother Delbia. For until the very hour that the good Knight, the other Coreandro my bro­ther Philorenus his father, had informed him of the true veri­ty of all matters concerning my mother Delbia, did he verily think and perswade himself, that my mother of wantonnesse got secretly away from the King of Castile, not to seek him her husband, but to run away with the Knight, and lewdly to live with him, setting aside and quite giving over her kind love, and amiable kindnesse which she was wont to professe to [Page] her quondam dear husband. And therefore now knowing the contrary, although he made excéeding sorrow for her death, yet the perswasion which reason by means of the good Knights true and not dissembled relation, had ingrafted in his heart of her loyalty, did not a little comfort him in this his singular perplexity, both for the losse of so good a wife, and so dear a son. And besides all this, the company of so valiant and worthy a Knight, and vertuous a person, (in all points as little behold­ing to fortune for prosperity as himself, séeing they both la­mented the death of one woman, and especially the pitifull mishap of us their sons (thinking that we were massacred at Cinqueni) which were unto each of them most pleasant objects to remember their Delbia our mother, and most sure pawns and tokens of her chast and loyal love towards them our fa­thers) did breed him such solace, that he thanked the Gods for bestowing so much comfort upon him in this his latter, and greatest extremity. In like manner the good Knight Don Al­vares de Bazora, of late Coreandro, pouring out tears incessant­ly for joy of his good hap in méeting so luckily with my fa­ther, thought himself in ample manner beholding to the Gods for that singular benefit; profesting that he could not, being in that case, have wished for a more blessed day then that, where­in he so happily met with my father. Thus joyning in compa­ny, they marched together towards the City of Targonna in Aragon, intending there to live and die together, enjoying each others presence, glad of each others company, having each of them lost his son. Where I will leave them in this their journey, and return to the rest of mine own fortunes, and my brothers, who now both of us were lifted up to high estate, and so prosperously lived in all kind of soveraign pleasurs, that we thought it as possible for fortune to abase the greatnesse of our weal, as for us to impair the divine estate of the heavenly powers.

CHAP. XXXI. How Mistresse Cerasilla died for sorrow that she could not discern the elder Philorenus from his brother. How he became enamou­red on Aureola, and the conference that passed between them in the Garden.

TO the end that I may let you understand how soon we were forced to recall our minds from that heresie it may please you, most excellent Princesse and noble shepheards, to know, that we (I mean my brother and I) living in this most happy estate, began by reason of our great leasure, which the peaceable quitnesse of the Neapolitan E­state yéelded us, so to give our selves to all kind of sports and pleasures, that we thought that day ill spent, wherein we had not invented some new delight to pleasure our Mistresses withal. Now we invented new kinds of dances, now strange manners of Vaulting, now rare Masques, now new devised Enterludes, and in one word, all kind of toys that Italian wits had bred in times past, we either altered or augmented; wherein we used such dexterity, that we séemed to have been born to that purpose. But howsoever we behaved our selves therein we were so liked of all the Courtiers of both sexes, that our company was gratefull to all men, and shunned by no man. The King the Queen, and Hyppolito the young Prince, so loved and favoured us, that they would not denie us any thing that we could ask. And we, as we found our selves to be brothers (having the same Name, Parents, Countrey, Shape, & fortune) so we swore everlasting friendship, and al­legiance one to another, so loving one the other, that though I know that it were impossible for any man in the world so to love any one as I loved him, yet am I forced by the considera­tion of his wonderfull deserts towards me, and by the tryal which I have had of his loyalty, to doubt whether my love or his were the greatest.

And because we would in all things be alike, and deprive the world of all means to know and discern one of us from the other, we continually apparelled our selves alike, both in the same colour, fashion, and order. Insomuch that it was hard for the best discerning wit that the world could bring forth, to know the one from the other, or to find any difference between us. Which thing, as generally it troubled most of all the cour­tiers, so particularly it was cause of Cerasillacs death, who (as I told you before) bearing me good will, and taking my brother for me, when she conveyed him out of prison, and saved his life, and having lost him in the wood, afterwards also deliver­ed me from the villainous Egyptians, and so was cause of all our blisse. This poor Gentlewoman, loving us both excellent­ly well, and deserving likewise to be honoured of us, for very sorrow that she could not discern me from my brother, pined, and falling into a consumption died. Whereof though we were passing sorry, yet the youthfulnesse of our young hearts receiving the impression of the beauty of a young Gentlewo­man, sister to the Countesse Verina, quickly forgot the fune­rals of Mistresse Cerasilla. Yet because we could not but ac­knowledge that we were in great sort beholding unto her, we bestowed this Epitaph upon her.

But leaving her in her sepulcher, I will return the sister [Page] of Countesse Verina, who being a most beautifull Gentle­woman, named Mistresse Aureola, so inchanted my mind by the commanding force of her swéet face and sugred tongue, that I admiring the much decent colour of the one, and the well governed volubility of the other, was so ravished in the pleasing delight which her perfections caused in my heart, that I judged no woman fair, none witty, and none eloquent, but golden Aureola. Who as she passed all women in comelinesse of body, and pure snow-like whitenesse of skin, so none came near her in those hidden qualities which bred in the brain and fostred in the heart, are made known by the tongue. But to be short, such were her graces both inward and outward, that they pierced my heart in such manner, that I was forced to acknowledge my self her servant, and Cupids captive, be­ing subdued by his policy in using the imperiall beams of her beauty, instead of darts to infringe and break the privi­ledge of my liberty. Well, I loved Aureola, and so loved Au­reola, that for the love of Aureola I could have hated my self.

I then being in this case, began to imploy my brains in sear­ching out manner, and procuring means to make my affection known to the Saint I so truly honoured. And truly in short time not Aureola's self onely, but my brother also, began to perceive the fire which being kindled in my heart, did cast out such a cloud of love-smoak. Now I glad that Aureola knew the manner of my sicknesse, but gladder that she seemed not male-content of my welcontentednesse, and nothing dis­pleased that my brother was acquainted with my passion, see­ing that he was an Alterego, my self in. I will not say another body, (for it was too like mine to be differenced) but another place; thought my self the happiest man that lived.

Ye may judge how much more blessed I would have accoun­ted my self to have been, if I might have doubled my single life by marriage with her. Vnto whom to lay open the pain which punished my heart for the cause of her, I sought occa­sion very diligently. Insomuch that opportunity being [Page] presented unto me within a few days after, and espying her walking by her self and the trées alone in the garden, where her sisters lodging was, I thought it but a negligent part to omit that fortunate hour, and therefore knowing that the Countesse her sister was gone to the Quéen, I posted to my mistresse with a sound courage, hoping to return victorious, or with good hope of victory. Into the Garden I stepped, and ha­ving set on half a dozen paces forwards towards her; I might sée her turn, being at the end of the walk. Whose heavenly face so dazeled mine eys with the glance that she cast from the other end of the garden, that I soon acknowledged, that no Sun could so have dimmed my eys, but the double Titan which like two little worlds of grace are such ornaments to her face, that as they are beholding to it for that it hourdeth them, so is it bounden unto them because it is by them adorned and beau­tified.

At length I came so near her, that manners warned me to salute her, though I was so astonished at her celestial shape, that I could more fixe mine eys to behold her with admira­tion, then fashion my mouth to salute her with civility. Yet love taught me to beware of committing so foul and grosse a fault, as not to give her a courteous good morrow, who was the efficient of my disquiet evenings. Therefore gréeting her after the humblest and lovingest manner my passiō forced me she answered me after this manner. Good morrow sir Knight, you are very maticuous this morning, whatsoever the cause be; but I pray you what weather drove you towards these quarters so early? Truly Madam (quoth I) my good fortune: séeing I have met with no worse company then your swéet self. For as I passed by the Garden wall, by chance looking over with a long neck, I espied you walking by your self a­lone and so I thought it good manners to step near and give you the buen giorno. And if I thought that my boldnesse in pressing so near you, perhaps in such time as you had rather give respite to your solitary delight, then otherwise be trou­bled, should offend you; as I came intending not to displea­sure [Page] you, so I would depart without performing any thing whereby you might have occasion to be discontented. No, no, sir Knight (quoth she) beshrew me if ever I could be offended with good company, neither have I any such melancholy hu­mour as to delight in beeing alone, but that sometimes I am compelled to be solitary for lack of good company. And then I must of necessity walk alone, and recreate my self with viewing natures diligent businesse in beautifying the earth with such pleasant ornaments and fair tapestry, as passeth all artificial industry, I mean these fine herbs and flowers, which both in smell and colour so delight humane sences, that we must needs acknowledge our selves beholding to dame na­ture, for presenting us with such a worthy kind of delectation. But you are now come even in good time to let me know your opinion in one thing that I am breaking my brain upon. What is that Madam (quoth I?) Marry (quoth she) this. You sée here Violets Roses, and Lillies, growing all together in one place, I have béen musing with my self a great while which of all these three should bear away the praise, if question were made which of them were the finest flower; for I promise you, in my mind they seem to strive each with other in excel­lency. They do verily Madam (quoth I) and seeing you de­sire to have my foolish verdite in judgement of their excellen­cy, I think in this case, we ought to have a regard unto na­tures intent, and take advice of her who seemeth to use poli­cy in the manner of the growing of these flowers, that the Rose-bush grows thick and untowardly, the Rose budding out in divers places without order, and seemeth rather to serve for a wall or hedge to environ other flowers, as is apparent by the intent of him that hath planted these roses as the cur­tain running about the bed where he placed the Lillies. In like manner the Violet also groweth confusedly and low, close to the ground to be token humility, and so the Gardener hath planted them in this place to be as it were the foot-cloath and coverlet to shrowd the homely face of the earth from the glo­rious aspect of the stately Lillies, which growing most proud­ly [Page] on one stalk, being erected most straightly, and bearing ma­jestie, séem to challenge the supremacy. Insomuch, Madam, that my opinion, following the intent both of Nature and the planter, is to crown the Lilly with the garland, bearing title of the finest flower, as unto which, I déem all flowers inferiour for divers respects. And therefore no doubt did Juno the Quéen of heaven, challenge the Lilly as presently belonging to her calling it her Rose: for thereby hath and is the Lilly yet cal­led Junonis rosa. By my faith, sir Philorenus (qu [...]th she) you have said prettily well as touching this matter. But yet me thinks we ought to consider the inward vertue of the flowers as well as the outward bravery. The Lilly is stately indéed▪ but yet the Rose it serveth for many good uses, and being either pre­served or cōserved is kept a long time ln Apothecaries shops, to be ministred unto men in their sicknesse, whereas the Lil­ly onely serveth for the sences of smelling or sight, and being fully opened, is either with the wind blown of, or withereth and decayeth in the pride of Phoebus, being mounted in his noon-point. Nay but Madam (quoth I) I think you formed your question which was the sinest flower, which I meant not for the vertues or natural efficacy of the flower, but rather the exteriour shape and shew thereof. And yet I doubt not but the Lilly hath many hidden and secret vertues; for I have have heard that the water of the same flower, yea and of the herb thereof is very good for divers purposes, which by hap you better know then I my self, séeing they be peculiar and proper to your sex. Well, well (quoth she) be it so sir Philorenus; But as you well mentioned, I understand the matter as you do, and move not the question for the interiour quality, but for the exteriour accidents.

Compare then the Rose to the Lilly, what fairer sight can the clearest discerning eye sée then a Rose, so providently for­med Nature, that it séemeth rather to be some artificial col­lection of leaves wrought by science, then a natural bud spread­ing it self abroad, and making shew of such a glorious beauty as all the most learned workmen of Italy cannot do the like.

I perceive Madam (quoth I) that you are an especial favou­rite to the Rose, but for my part the Lill shally bear away the honour: for if you stand upon the form or fashion of the flower, I pray you how can a fairer or better made flower be séen then the Lilly? which being made in the form of a Bell with the Clapper in it, hath béen by divers Ladies called Campana Virginea, the Virgins Bell And to say no lesse then is true, me thinks it well deserves the same name, séeing it doth in state­ly growth, resemble the well-fashioned proportion and stately countenance of maids, in colour their whiteness, and in the yellowness of the séed, the golden locks of their glorious hair: insomuch that divers parts are beholding unto the Lilly for arguments of similitude and comparison which it yéeldeth them, thereby to exorn and commend the whiteness of divers Gentlewomen, whose praises they penned, saying they were Lilly white, like Lillies stately, soft and slick as Lillies, and as the Lilly so sweet. And to aver a very truth, what is there of all sweet swéet scents comparable to the sweet swéetness of the Lilly? Nay stay there sir Philorenus (quoth she) for what swéeter smell can the nicest nose wish for, then that which the Rose yéeldeth: for in my judgement the Rose casteth the most glowing smell of any other flower. The most glowing smell indeed Madam (quoth I;) for it is of such a forcible and strong scent, that it giveth sufficient notice to men, that it is bitter in tast. And to say that which must be said, in my phantasie, it gi­veth too strong a smell to be compared to the sugred sweetness and swéet delicateness of the dainty Lilly, which yéeldeth the choisest smell, and most fragrant scent that can be. But in the mean time sir Philorenus (uuoth she) whilest you magnifie tho Lilly, and I the Rose, the forgotten Violet may justly com­plain of the wrong we offer it, that we so contend & strive to set forth the praise of the Rose and the Lilly, that we give no commendation to it, though it deserve to be highly estéemed: notwithstanding that y ^u said before, that it grew low in token of baseness. And séeing you do so stoutly stand for your stately Lilly me thinks I dare nevertheless compare the base Violet [Page] as you term it, to the proud Lilly. For doth not the sweet Marjoram grow lower then the rank Fern? and yet how far the lower excels the taller in swéetness and virtue, you will not, nay you cannot deny. In like manner the fragrant Time, so beloved of the painful, grows close to the ground, where the Broom sprouts very high; yet is the Time of other virtue than the Broom. And so of many more flowers which I néed not mention, séeing one or two may serve for an instance to falsifie your small reasons. But I pray madam (quoth I) deal not so sophistically with me, as to argue with me a Male conjunctis. For I say not that the Lilly is the finest flower because it grows highest, for so I would grant my reason were but fond­ly grounded; neither do I say, that the Lilly deserves the head praise among all flowers because it grows not confusedly, but in decent and comely order; for there are many flowers that growing disorderly, in swéetness of scent surpass divers well ranked flowers; and lastly, I say not that the Lilly is the excel­lentest flower because it is so swéet a flower: but thus I form my reason. That, stately stateliness, white whiteness, gallant gallantness, and swéet swéetness, all these predominant quali­ties méeting together in the bravo Lilly, make her worthy to be honored as the fairest, finest, and bravest flower that Na­ture hath framed.

By this the Countess Verina being come to her lodging, Mi­stress Aureola was to retire from the garden to her sister, and so I was forced to leave her, having missed of my purpose, and no time to break my mind to her in plain words, although a­midst our dispute concerning the excellency of flowers, I used such passionate looks, that she might well perceive whereto my discourse tended; but howsoever she thought of it, I know not, but our parting was so amiable, that after I had lost the sight of her, I felt that I parted from her without parting. For my body might well be contained in some other place than hers, but my mind followed her wheresoever she went, as trustily as her own shadow.

CHAP. XXXII. How Philorenus the younger was enamoured on Aureola, con­cealing it from his brother; and how his brother came to the knowledge thereof.

IN the mean time (excellent Princes and wor­thy thy shepheards) you may note that my brother loved her (I mean my golden Aureola) as in­tirely as I my self, his love being unknown to me. For though he knew that I loved her, yet was I not as yet acquainted with the love that he bore Aureola. And in truth, because he knew she was the onely air by which I lived, rather then he would do any thing to procure my disquiet, resolved himself to die for love of Aureola, rather then he should opportunate Aureola to love him, and to deprive me of that without which I could not live. Insomuch that although he so loved her, that for her he would willingly have yeelded to death, and resigned his life, yet he no way to offend me, did not onely conceal his love from Aureola, but also occasion being offered him to talk with her, did spend all that time in commendation of me, protesting unto her, that I was so faithfull, constant and loyal, that if she would dain to reward my love with love, and if she did love me, she would have cause to glory of her hap in fancying him, and placing her love on him, who would prove the faithfullest Amant that was in Italy.

Besides this, he made divers verses in praise of her, and together with sundry brave and precious jewels presented them vnto her, saying that I had sent them; whereas in truth I knew not any thing of them. Insomuch that more by his in­dustry then mine own diligence (though I neglected no duti­full service required in that case) at length I obtained the love of mine Aureola. For she loved me so affectionately, that I might judge her love to be of as great force as mine, though indeed it was of such nature, that it was divided between us [Page] both, I mean my brother and me, for we being so like one to other that we seemed to be but one, we could not shun reci­procation in love; but whosoever loved me, could not but love him, and whosoever loved him, could not but love me. And although I had certainly known that Aureola loved my bro­ther equally with me, as well as I did but guesse that it was so, yet had I been nothing sorrie, but rather rejoyced greatly that I had obtained so fair a Lady to be both my love, and my brothers friend. For in verity such was my affection towards him, that I could not wish any thing to my self wholly, with­out wishing part of it unto my brother, being most ready al­ways willingly to part from any thing which I knew he wi­shed, and with a good heart to cease and leave from desiring or wishing any such thing whatsoever he had a mind unto. But my brother marking that Aureola could not tell which of us two she loved best, or which of us was most worthy of her love, and thereby equally loved us both, was very sorry, fea­ring least I might be grieved that I did not my self onely en­joy all the love of Aureola. And therefore he began to exhort me to séek means to be joined unto her in marriage, think­ing that so shee should bee forced to withdraw her love from him, and wholly be addicted to me being her wedded husband. To effect which matter, she continually urged Aureola to make promise of marriage unto me very forcibly perswading her thereto; and telling her that I who thought my life no life but in respect of hers, should never be able to live perfectly un­till such time that I being united and tied unto her in the knot of wedlock, might enjoy her as my wife: untill which thing were brought to passe, I should live a most lamentable life full of dolefull discontent.

Furthermore he promised her, that if she would vouch­safe to condiscend to my honest desire, and his earnest request, he would move the King and Quéene to deale with her si­ster the Countesse, and her other friends, about the contract­ing this marriage, and obtain their good will and consent thereto. Aureola. although she was very unwilling to do so, [Page] yet because he should not think that she would not grant my request for that she equally loved him with me, séemed to grant our request, and to be willing to have the marriage con­trived betwéen her and my self. Yet she would not have any mention made of it unto any of the Court till thrée moneths were ended, for certain respects which moved her to conceal the matter so long. Which were none other (as afterwards we knew by experience) but such as proceeded from her own unwillingness to be tyed to me, and so to be deprived of the love of my brother, For it afterwards was manifested, she so loved us both that she wished in her heart, that she might have béen married to us both; thinking that she should not perfectly have enjoyed one of us, if any other woman had been married to the other▪ judging that we were both but one, and ought not to be separated. And therefore above all things did she desire that she were beloved of us both, séeing we were both engra­ved in her heart, that she might not think of the one, without remembring the other.

But my brother thinking that Aureola had a bonnefoy pur­posed after the time of three moneths expired, to marry with me, made me glad with the news which he brought me of her mind, although himself therewith was utterly spoiled of his felicity and welfare, which I came to know by this means.

It happened even upon the expiring of thrée moneths, on a certain morning betime, that I rising somthing early, walked abroad in the fields without the City, to a little wsod not far off, to recreate my self with a solitary walk, being as it were wearied with the turbulent multitude of people, both Citi­zens and Courtiers. Which wood, when I had but even en­tred, me thought I heard one sorely lamenting his estate▪ and by the voice knowing that it was my brothers, I listened very attentively to know the cause of his complaints, whom I heard thus to cry out against fickle fortune.

Yea, Fortune, yea, Thou art Mistress, and wilt be Mi­stress, Philorenus must testifie the same, and register in the [Page] bottome of his heart, that he was born to be crossed by For­tune I thought that the Gods had forbidden thee to vex me a­ny more, but I perceive thou wilt do what thou wilt, though heaven deny. But accursed mayest thou be of heaven, earth and hell, for so denying mortal wights, that thou séemest to have no Deity, but such as is procured by the glory which thou ta­kest in making men miserable. Yet why do I so blame For­tune, séeing that if another man were in my case, he would think himself infinitely beholding to her, in causing all things to fall out so agreeing to his humour. For thou lovest Aureola, how much thou knowest; then séeing thou hast had sufficient token of her love towards thee, and considering that he that loveth desireth nothing so much as mutualsy to be loved of her whom he doth love. how canst thou complain of Fortune?

Again, when your mind was such that you wished her to be wholly your brothers, and desired that she should be his wife, you sée al things happen to your pleasure, considering that Au­reola hath promised to marry her self to him, and yet you will will exclaim against Fortune: all this is true. But the Hag doth let all things fall out according to my mind, knowing that in doing so she doth most torment me. For she hath made my life so miserable, that no content can be harboured in my disquiet breast, being the very habitacle of restless thoughts.

And in this thing is y ^e means which she useth in vexing me contrary to all other mishaps and evils, in that she vexeth me with effecting those things the effect of which I most wish for and desire. Which thing how strāge it is I leave to the con­sideration of those that have the use of their wits▪ séeing by fortunes envie I am my self deprived of that benefit. Alack, what shall then poor Philorenus do, seeing he is so entangled in the love of Aureola that he must either die or injoy her as his own? and yet so loveth his brother (who cannot in like man­ner live if separated from the same Aureola) th [...]t he will die a thousand deaths rather then be disloyal to him. Die therefore Philorenus, die; and seeing there ore not as wel two Aureolas as [Page] there be two Philorenus's, make thy self lifeless and thy brother happy, he being one Philorenus alone, and enjoying one onely Aureola, And put case thou wert dead, Philorenus, and dead for no other purpose but to make thy brother happy in the highest degrée, oh how swéet a death would such a death be unto thée! But yet thou mightest be deceived; for thou knowest, nay so knowest that thou canst not doubt, but that, that life will be but a bitter life unto him, thou being without life, and so thou mightst by thy death procure to him either a bitter death, or a life worse then any death. What then resteth thrice misera­ble wretch, if that thou canst neither live to thy mind, nor die to thy mind? Die living and live dying, and yeeld thy heart to receive each print of grief; that thou mayest always die, being torn with tormenting pain, and yet never be dead, least thy plague rebound from thée to thy brother: and therefore I bid thée farewel Aureola, farewel, my brother must enjoy thee, and I must suffer you both.

After that he had so shut up his complaint, as if he had sign­ed it with the seal of death, he fell down on the ground, being unable to stand on his feet any longer, & there he lay strugling as if soul and body would have parted, so strong and vehement was the pang that pinched him. Insomuch, that although I was loath to shew my self vnto him there, lest he should know that I had heard and seen him, yet compassion becomming master amongst my affections, for that he needed help in that case, forced me to runne happily to him to aid him. But he no sooner espied me but leaped up again so suddenly that if I had not both seen and heard his former scrikes and cries, I would have surely been perswaded that he did but shew me a tumbling trick, and that he had been exercising his body to some acts of nimblenesse.

And besides also, before I could salute him by reason that I so marvelled at the strangenesse of his change, he spake unto me so chearfully that I could scarce answer him for admiring at y ^e force which his love towards me had suddenly procured him. His legs were scarce able to hold his body, and seeing me [Page] his heart commanded them to support him, his eys which were so hiddē with the tears which he shed, that no man could have séen them, as soon as they beheld me, séemed to have recal­led the flouds that came out of them and to have in a moment swallowed them up, and his face which did as it were swim in tears, seemed to drink up the moisture at my comming, as the morning dew vanisheth in the presence of Phoebus, when he sendeth his golden beams from his fiery chariot, to cherish the pleasant fruits of the earth after they have wept, by rea­son of the dark coldnesse of the mirthlesse night. Wherefore I séeing that my brotherly brother was so loth to make me acquainted with his passions, onely because he would not give me occasion of grief, but kept it all to himself; I dissembled as much as I could, lest I should by letting him know what I knew, quite discomfort him, and truly make him com­fortlesse. And although by reason of that which I knew of him, pity caused such grief in me for his discomfort and pas­sionate torment, that I think if he had not been in place, I had sunk to the ground, for a stronger foundation to hold up my distracted body, oppressed and weighed down by the hea­vinesse of passing sorrow, then my legs, which séemed to shake like the pillors of a Church that is falling, yet neverthelesse for that time, I plucked up my spirits, and though not so wel able as he, yet as wel as I could, I dissembled my passion, and answered him as chearfully as possibly I might, entertaining him with such talk as I thought most expedient, to cause him not to misdoubt of any thing. Insomuch that he neither thought that I had heard him, nor knew that I felt the pain which he himself suffered. And after we had there walked an half hour or thereabout, we returned both of us together to the Court. And as we passed by the Countesse Verina's Garden, he espied the Countesse walking all alone, where­upon he began to urge me, in any case not to let that occa­sion slip, but that I should go unto her, and make her ac­quainted with the love and affection betwéen me and her si­ster Aureola, and that he would go with me to bear me com­pany, [Page] and to perswade the Countess to consent to the contrac­ting of a marriage betwéen me and Aureola. He said further­more, considering the thrée moneths which Aureola appointed to have the matter during that time concealed, were expired, he had the day before spoken with the King concerning this matter, and that his Majesty had promised him to be wholly ours in this point, as he had ever before béen in many other; and besides told him some things which he should make rela­tion of to the Countesse, concerning this match. And to tell the truth, he grew so importunate to have me go to the Coun­tesse in all hast, that I knew not how to shift off this readi­nesse. But because I had purposed to bring that to passe which I will by and by shew unto you. I found this excuse to delay our conference with the Countesse; that mistresse Aureola for certain causes had urged me to promise her, that I would not speak unto her sister concerning any thing touching her, be­fore I forewarned her, or let her know both that I would do it, and the time when I would do it. Which promise (quoth I) being passed, I may not break it.

Whereupon he well contented, séemed to take my excuse so well, that he rather liked of my unwillingnesse to go to the Countesse, then persevered to perswade me thereunto. So that we went both to my lodging, where we began to read certain chronicles of the ancient estate of Italy; things done in times past in the Kingdome of Naples, to drive away the rest of the time till dinner were ready, that we might have some ancient history or other to delight the King and the Queen withall while they dined. For they took such delight in hearing their predecessours déeds and sayings, that we could not have done them a greater pleasure then to rehearse either some pretty saying, or some other worthy act of such Kings or Quéens as had before them swayed the scepter of Naples. But not to be that which I am loath to be, I mean tedious unto you (noble Princes and shepheards,) I will hasten to that which I even now promised to let you know, concerning that which I had certainly of rips counsell in my heart concluded [Page] to do, after I knew by my brothers passions that he himself loved Aureola, and yet continually furthered my desire to his uttermost part.

For indeed I was fully resolved to leave Aureola unto him and my self to the hazard of fortune, and being so resolved, I performed no lesse.

CHAP. XXXIII. How Philorenus the elder, secretly left the Court of Naples; and how his brother and Aureola went to seek him severally.

THe next morning I departed very secretly from the Court, for Cinqueni, thinking to inquire whether I might hear any thing of my fa­ther, and to be certainly informed whether he were slain among the other unhappy inhabi­tants, or by hap fled, and so avoided the furious slaughter which many suffered. But before I departed, on the cover-lid of a looking-glasse that was in my brothers chamber window, I wrote him this farewell,

After my brother had missed me, marvelling where I should be so long, he went to his chamber to drive away the time, and to deceive the tedious hours with some kind of rea­ding exercise, thinking that I had been somewhere abroad in the fields in my solitary haunt, and that I would ere long re­turn to the Court. And leaning on his window, he chanced to spie something written on the cover-lid of his looking glasse, which he might ealsiy do, by reason that I had written with red ink the lid being of white ivory. And so taking it in his hand, he read the verses which I had left there, to yeeld a reason for my sudden departure. But he being ravished in­to admiration, and by admiration led into astonishment, fell in an extasie. Which extasie, he being by himself alone, and therefore deprived of help, in such a case required had almost brought him to his last home. Yet after he had a long time lain in a trance, he came at last to himself again and then be­gan to curse and rail at fortune, for dealing so partially with him in revealing that unto me, the revealing of which onely could make him miserable. Insomuch that now he knew that which before he not once mistrusted, to wit▪ that I the other morning had in the wood heard him lament his ill fortune, whereby I knew that which I also never dreamed of, concer­ning his loving of Aureola. But so grievously did he take my absence, that all his body received the disposition that is cau­sed by a disquiet soul; and his face became the very subject of sorrow, his countenance being mournfull and his eys being grown to be the very seats of tears. Insomuch that whereas no man as yet could suspect or dream that I should be so gone [Page] as I was, yet seeing him so wofully fashioned, straightways judged that he could not be so altered but upon such a cause: and whereas they should have known that he was so distem­pered by reason of my so being gone, they contrarily knew of my being gone by reason that he was so distempered. To be short he was so tortured by the Butchers of Greece, that he was almost deprived of his wits and the use of his understanding: and the rather, because he was brought in doubtfull resoluti­on▪ whether he should leave Aureola and follow me, or leave me and comfort Aureola; lest ranging after me through un­known places, he should both lose me and himself also. He therefore being drawen now to this conclusion, now to that, hung in the air hovering between heaven and earth not know­ing whether he were best by slight reach to the one, or by fal­ling come to the other. So that his mind being thus suspend­ed, he perpended the reasons for both parts, which were most forcible to perswade him to the one or the other; yet in such or­der, that neglecting fully his own case, as one altogether care­less of his own welfare, he referred all matters to the effecting of that which seemed most expedient and necessary to make me happy, and to work my felicity. Insomuch, that he began to consider, that if chance he should have left Aureola, and com­mit himself to the laboursome seeking and uncertain finding of me, the loving Gentlewoman might have taken the absence of us both so heavily, that she might have thereby fallen into some desperate sickness▪ and perchance remediless. Well (quoth he) put the case should die, were it not better that she should die, then that I should suffer my brother to live in de­spair, to run round about the world, to carry hell with him wheresoever he goeth, having his affections like furies and fiends, teaxing & rending his brotherlike heart, to irrisate the barren ground with millions of tears, to disturb the guiltless air with lamentable shrieks & cries▪ accompanied with sighs and sobs, and in a word to be always dying, and yet never die? Death is the lock that shutteth up misery, and endeth all cala­mity and trouble, If Aureola then die, O happy she! but un­happy [Page] I! Nay my swéet brother, thrice unhappy thou, For no doubt if Aureola should die, the pain which thou wouldest sus­tain, the grief which would molest thy soul, and the torment which would ravish thee in the very gulph of all vexation, would so far in extremity pass the anguish wherein thou now doest pine, that it would be greater then the pain which cau­seth the soul to depart from the body, Why then I will rather remain by Aureola, and so both save her life, thine and mine own, though scarce mine own, seeing that I shall scarce be able to live, he being absent. And what will he think, nay what will all the world say, but that I (forsooth) for love of my bro­ther, entertain his love and that I so love him, that to shew my love towards him, I must needs love his Lady, and so defraud him of that wherein his chiefest felicity consisteth; the jewel of his heart, the treasure of his desires, the object of his delight, the subject of his conceits, the hold of his hope, & the onely and chief pillar of his life, and cause of his being, swéet Aureola, worthy to be all this unto him, he deserving to be as much un­to her, none of them both owing less one to the other.

As he was thus quite turning from that mind to the other, and resolving to leave all to follow me, the beams of Aureo­laes beauty reverberating the window wherein he lay musing what he might best do, warned him, that that Sun was in the garden, whose light was able to strive with the Rays of Phoe­bus for force, séeing that his beams may well shine upon men, not in them; whereas y ^e bright lines that glister from the gol­den forehead of Aureola, did penetrate mens bodies, and shine, not upon them onely, but also within them and through them.

He therefore espying Aureola walking in the garden alone▪ wept that he saw not me with her▪ saying, O sacred powers of heaven, séeing that your Deities have been divinely worship­ped by me since my Cradle, why hate ye poor Philorenus your Servant so, that the sight which ought to be unto his eys as gold to the covetous man, is unto him as poyson to them that wish to live long? Not for that I take any disgrace by the gra­cious presence of Aureola, but that my joy is eclipsed, when [Page] I behold her without him by her, who seemed born to be inse­parably joyned with her as white unto snow cold to ice and to use a more familiar comparison, as beauty to Aureola. Having so said, as carried away with a sudden strong gale of wind he hasted to the garden, and having passed the courtesies used in salutation and gréeting, being asked for me (for she knew him by reason of a secret token which we had given to her onely to discern him from me, and me from him) he up and told her all the matter concerning my sudden departure, yet so colouring the cause thereof, that she thought that I was gone, because I despaired that she should love him better then me. For he thought, that so she might be moved to pity, and by pity to shar­pen her affection, which should have encreased her love to­wards me. Whereas if he had let her know the true cause of my absence, that I was gone to leave her to be his, she might have been moved to disdain me, which disdain should have nourished the fire which was kindled in his brest by the affec­tion which she bore him, and so might she have allured him to to leave me in my pilgrimage, and enjoy her, to displease whom he did count it a sacriledge.

But she construing of the matter as my most carefull bro­ther and his brotherlike carefulness enformed and being sub­ject to that custome which by nature is an unseparable com­panion to the desires of all women, I mean to wish and covet that which seems most impossible, and to long for such things as cannot be gotten, or very hardly had: now she heard that I was gone no man knew where, whereas before her love incli­ned rather to my brother then to me, she was so ravished with desire to be with me, that she presently concluded to her self in heart, to take the pains to seek me: and although she did con­ceal the same unto him, and dissembled the passion which she felt by reason of my absence, by words whilest he was by her; yet by deed she sufficiently afterwards shewed it unto all the world.

For after shee was separated from him by the hastiness of her resolution to execute that which she had purposed, she [Page] went to her chamber, where after she had made her handker­chief drunk with sipping up and drinking in the tears which abundantly issued from out her eys▪ most fertilly yielding fruit of the séeds of sorrow sown in them; and having astoni­shed the stones and walls with the admirable shrieks, and mo­ved the lifeless pictures that hung in her chamber to pity, she impoverished her rich apparel by laying it off, and enriched her sisters Cooks wives poor cloaths, putting them on her i­vory body, and so making provision of nothing but a knife to conquer Fortunes envy, if chance she would go about to make her miserable in the highest degrée, by prolonging her life, when as she could not live but discontented, she committed her self to her journey, and her journy to the Gods, calling up­on their Deities to be directed in her way.

O ye sacred powers (called she) that in heaven take care of us poor mortals, who wholly depend upon your favour or dis­favor, if ever my vows have béen acceptable unto you, and my offerings pleasing, let me now have you tender my case, and pity my estate.

For if I have not of wicked wantonness or idle lusts fra­med self a fit subject for love, and made my mind a Tennis-court for the balls of fancy to be tossed to and fro in it, but ra­ther have been conquered by the force of not to be resisted love; then allow me to love and maintain my love in spight of Fortune. Let your imperial power command the winds by their blasts to guide my steps, and by my steps to bring my bo­dy to the blessed place that is made happy by the excellent bur­then of my vertuous Philorenus. O thou lofty coach-man of the stately sky, in whose heavenly body are great hidden Deities, let thy cherishing beams exhilerate no place but that which serveth to support the weight of my wofull and heavie Philo­renus, therefore heavie because mine: that so thy corruscant Rays falling down as a Golden shower of Rain over him, may be as a token and a mark whereby I may direct the course of my voyage. Lastly, O ye Stars, whose twinkling pride doth bewray the stateliness of the Grand-Court and High Pallace [Page] made by nature, and challenged by the soveraign Gods, to be the habitacle and lodging for their Deities, help poor Aureola, help distressed her; and when Phoebus hath stabled his fiery horses all weary with daily toil, and put on you the charge of guarding and watching the sacred seals of heavenly powers, then take Christal wings to your firie body, and flie through the air unto my souls Philorenus, that as he shall understand by your comming, Aureola, even poor she is hasting towards him, so I, wretched I, (nay most happy I, if ever so fortunate as once again to behold him the paragon of vertue, and sole ob­ject of my conceits) following the light which environeth your bodies, may be brought unto him, even him, whose swéet self onely is worthy to be sought for of Aureola. Finally, chast and fair Diana, thou that knowest the purity of my thoughts and art acquainted with the furious assaults wherewith Cupid hath battered the bulwark of my chast mind, and shaken the fort of my constant purpose to inviolable chastity; yet, O mighty Goddess, séeing that I have not filthily or dishonestly nourished fancy with shamefull hope of lust, but am rather o­vercome by such unresistable love, that if it had been attempt­ed against some Goddess, she had been forced to yeeld; I be­seech thee to march before me in your secret night walks, that being comforted by thy divine presence, I be not affrighted by the ugly grimness of the dark night, and so diswaded, or ra­ther discouraged to pass through woods and dales after my Philorenus. O sweet Philorenus, O beautifull Philorenus, O ver­tuous Philorenus! What wood is made so happy by thy mishap, as to shroud thy face so fair from scorching Apollo? What green is made so fortunate by thy misfortune, as to become the bed whereon thou dost rest thy wearied body? What lake is grown to be so blessed by thy curse▪ as to refresh thy tender stomack, falling down thy Alabaster throat into thy Marble belly? Blessed be that wood, that green and that lake which serveth for his scarff, his bed, and his drink; seeing that Nature hath wished, Fortune procured, and the Gods granted them that honourable favour.

Thus Aureola invoking the Gods, and calling upon heaven, betook her self to her uncertain journey. She wist not which way to go, nor whither to go, but went being guided with love and accompanied with hope. In the mean time my brother ha­ving been informed that she was secretly departed the Court, staied not to hear what rumours were spread abroad in the Court of her going, but lest he might be accused of negligence and carelesness of the welfare of so good a brother, inconti­nently went from Naples, but so that he took his leave of the King and Queen, promising to return, his brother being found, unto them again; having acquainted them with the true cause of my so leaving the Court without even any of their Majesties knowledge.

Thus you see (Noble Princes and shepheards) how those whom Nature seemed to have made to live together and be as one, were now by fortune separated so far asunder, that there was little (I will not say hope, for every one of us were prick­ed forward with the spur of hope, being warmed with desire, but) likelihood in reason that ever we should see one another again.

CHAP. XXXIIII. How Aureola came to see the shepheards Pastoral Solemnities, ho­ping to find Philorenus there.

NOw Aureola understanding by a shepheard, that about four days journey from Cinqueni, there was a most solemn feast to be celebrated by the shepheards of that whole Country, to the honour of their God Pan. within three or four days after that she heard of it; where­fore she knowing that I very greatly delighted to be at those Pastoral Solemnities, and considering that the report of the same feast was so famous, and the rumours thereof spread so general, hoped that it might be her good luck to find me there, [Page] supposing that I being warned of the feast to be kept, by the rumor and talk of the shepheards, and being led by the delight which I take in such pastimes, would have come thither to re­create my sorrowfull and distressed mind, with the pleasant sport of the shepheards that celebrated the feast of their God. But she was frustrated of that hope, for coming there she could not hear any thing of me. She arrived there just upon the principal feast day in the morning, where the shepheards and shepheardesses being in number many, gathered there by rea­son of these solemnities, first went all of them into a temple dedicated to Pan, where after they had mumbled I know not what kind of rural service for their pastoral God, they came all out again▪ and fell a dauncing and singing; untill such time that Phoebus being raised to the full height of his course, han­ging right over their heads, they were warned by the messen­gers that he sent from his burning chariot, that they should shun the heat of his fiery beams, & under the roof of their barns shrowd themselves from his scorching rays. There they fell to their meat, and plied Bacchus and Ceres so well, that in Au­reola's opinion they might have held a second feast the next day for their honour. After they had sufficiently recreated or re­freshed themselves with all manner of delicates used in the countrey, they hied to the temple again, where passing the time as they had done in the morning, some kind of afternoon ceremonies added, at length towards evening they returned to their dancing again. Where, in a fair gréen being wal­led in, with most stately Cedars, yeelding a more then plea­sant shadow vp reason that the Sun did cast his beams libe­rally against the sides oi these trees, hasting to his Western Court, they met all together. The grasse, was thick under foot, thick and short, as gréen as greennesse it self, and so be­strewed with all kinds and colours of small flowers, that it séemed rather a footcloath laid there for the Gods to passe o­ver it with their divine féet, then a pavement for homely shepheards to track up and down in. Now over head were di­vers long chains, made of no other thing but flowers, so cun­ningly [Page] twisted and woven together, that the sight of them passed the gallant Ivory in shew, and seemed rather to be ropes of Rubies, Pearls, and Diamonds, and all other kind of Iems and precious Lapidaries, then lines knit of flowers. These chains were crosse wise laid, one overthwarting the other, being many of them in number, and divers in ma­king, and were fastened to the upper branches of the tall Ce­dars that grew about the same Paradice.

In the middest and very centre of these lines and chains, hung by thrée brave chains wrought after the same manner, a most gallant garland with a fair lawrel bush hanging by one line under it, so artificially knit and twisted that both the gar­land and the bush with the lines by which they were fastened, seemed to be wrought by the fine fingers of Diana, and either cast down from heaven unto them, or brought thither by the nymphs of that Country, who had so beautified that place for the shepheards to solemnize their feast day according to the worthinesse and excellency thereof. The garland was to be taken off by him of the enamoured shepheards that could say best for his love, and by him to be given unto her: and the law­rel branch was to be taken down by her of the loving shep­heardesses that bore away the praise of best dancing, and by her to be presented unto her swéet-heart. Insomuch that Au­reola desirous to sée the procéedings of the country youths in their shepheard-like pastimes, was a spectator amongst them, though longer then the desire she had to sée me, could patient­ly allow her, yet till she saw both their dancing and their sin­ging ended. There were about a dozen or half a score of the most choice and select shepheardesses of all that country and part of Italy, being daughters to the richest farmers therea­bout, which maids being all heavenly beauty and contend­ing fairnesse, each purchasing praise even with silence, among them danced for the lawrel bush. Which sight but to Aureo­la, yea and to Aureola, save when she séeketh Philorenus▪ (said she when she rehearsed the sum of her adventures) could not but have béen so delightfull and pleasant, that it would have [Page] made them forget themselves, much more their grief or sor­row. Besides, she remembred that the maid that won the law­rel was called Benedetta, daughter to the old shepheard Rosseo, farmer to her sister the Countesse Verina, and she gave it to a young shepheard named Pardo, son to a rich and wealth? far­mer of great credit, whose name Aureola knew not.

CHAP. XXXV. The Verses of the shepheards, sung by them for the Garland, at their Pastoral solemnity, and how Otto obtained it.

THis being done, all the maids, they as well that had béen spectators as actors in the dance, sate down on the gréen, al orderly ranked, Benedet­ta as the Quéen, placed in the middest of the row, and beheld the action of the young shep­heards, who being far more in number that contended for the garland, then there had maids done for the lawrel, yet Aureola having her mind something too much busied with the cum­bersome remembrance of me, could not so carry away all their names & verses, but that she forgot the greater part of them. But those which she remembred she imparted unto me, as I am ready to do unto this worthy company, seeing I have the papers yet in my pocket. The first shepheard that should have sung, was called Argalo, being a brave young youth, whose face seemed to be made by nature, to tell womens eyes that they should perswade their hearts that he was fair, and whose proportion was such as could not but delight. If any fault was in him to Aureola's judgment, it was that he sustained too state­ly a gate for one of his vocation, being an husband-mans or farmers son; for modest and low behaviour becommeth men of low birth; yet she told me, that his proud erecting of his head and setling of his shoulders, his feet withall, marching as if he had lead a troop of foot-men to muster, did (to her mind) as harbingers deliver their messages, that the inward loftinesse [Page] of his mind was far greater then in shepheards is usuall. These were his verses which he not sung, but with a more then pastoral grace uttered.

The second youth that was ready to say something for the winning of the garland, was called Porcio, and though he was not fair skinned as the former, yet in Aureola's eye deserved as much commendation for comelinesse as he, yeelding a most gracious sight to their eys that beheld the making of his face. These were his verses which he sung to a Citharen, used a­mong the shepheards of that country. And it seemed by the strangenesse of the tune, that not onely that which he sung, but also that which he played was of his composing, having made both the matter and the musick. By which means he was thought to be something well skilled in playing on his in­strument. But O his voice! (said Aureola) it was either like to Orpheus sweet note, or it was Orpheus voice it self, being through many bodies, at length come within Porcio, according as the Pythogoreans hold opinion of mens souls, that after they issue out of their corruptible habitacles, they enter newly into some other to maintain their eternity.

After this Porcio, were some shepheards that sung to the sound of a Harp, some the sound of a Viol, some to the sound of their corn-muse, whose vertues for that they were more passi­onate then passing, and seemed rather to be harbingers of love then of wit, being more pittifull then pithy, she heard them in like manner with a mind mollified with commiseration, un­willing to trouble her memory with the remembrance of thē. But at length she spied a little short dapperdy, busling to come among the rest with a paper in his hand, wherein his verses were written in such manner, that a man might have read them as fast on the backside of the paper, as he on the inside. But whether he had his paper, to assist his weak memory, or to shew his cunning that he could both write and read, Aureo­la knew not. His name was Polemon, and his verses were these: which he did not sing, but thwacked them out (looking in his paper) as if he would have dared Radamanthus that ap­pointeth the shadows their pennance in hell from his infer­nal chair.

Next Polemon, came an old shepheard though never marri­ed, who thinking that he had offended Cupid to let his young and strong years slide and slip away, without doing him ser­vice, purposed to make amends by pining for love in his old days, for such a face had the follow, and a body well befitting [Page] such a face, that he might well love, but never be loved, unless Cupid would be revenged of some Vesta minded maid for neg­lecting and dispising his Deity, and so make her dance in the net of folly with this old lovelesse face, both of them crying Peccavi & penas domus. His name was Schalco, and as Aureola was informed by the shepheardesses of the country, he most importunately made love to the fair shepheardesse Ura, daugh­ter to one of the King of Naples farmers. Which maid so did hate him, that although he was most wealthy, having store and abundance of all manner of country riches, yet she thought her self discredited in that she was loved of him. These were his verses.

Next to old Schalco young Dorus, a pretty stripling to be chamberlain to Cupid, made haste to tell his tale, For as he was rival to Schalco, so he would not omit to say something that might please Ura. And therefore hoping by deriding of Schalco (whom he knew Ura could not abide) he thought to gain her favour. These were his verses.

One more beside this did Aureola mark, whom she there­fore marked, because she judged him worthy to be marked. He was called Otto, (and as she had heard) sonne to a Duke in France, and passing through Italy to sée the country saw the fair shepheardesse called Laurea, of whose beauty and graces, fame had béen very prodigall; and he having séen her with liking, liked her with love, and loved her with constancy. In somuch that to become hers, he ceased to be his own: and lea­ving parents, land, honour, and living, became a shepheard to win the love of Laurea, who once had told him that she might fancy no higher then a shepheard. But oh heavenly Laurea, (quoth Aureola) thy modesty was too great to be of base birth, thy humblenesse too gratious to be of low parents. No, no, nature hath not wronged thy vertuous beauty, and beauty made more beautifull by virtue, but fortune hath envied at thy perfection. Thou wert found in the wood by old Panteo, who possesseth thée as his daughter, and whom thou for thy bringing up doest reverence as thy father; why might not as well hard-hearted Kings as poor beggars have left thée there swadled in base and poor cloaths? Insomuch that Aureola was fully perswaded that Laurea, was some noble born maid, though by fortunes hard intreatment she was not known what she was. Neither did Aureola guesse amisse; for after­wards it was well known that this Laurea was sister to the Dukes son that loved her. It fell out after this manner.

There was great war betwéen the King of Gaul, and the Emperour of Greece. The King sent a mighty army into I­taly, to be revenged of the Italians that had assisted the Em­perour with men and money. Among many other Noblemen that were in the Kings army, was Duke Otto this new be­come shepheards father, with the Dutchess his wife, and young [Page] Otto his onely son, being of two years old, having no more children then him. It chanced that the Kings army was over­thrown▪ and the Duke and all his retinue taken prisoners, saving the Dutchesse who was fled unto a certain wood being all alone, where, after she had béen one moneth nourished by a poor old woman that lived a solitary life in that wood, she was delivered of Laurea, whom she named Sylva, after the place where she was born. Within a wéek after the Dutchesse had beene brought a bed, died their good old hostess, to her great discomfort. But then she takes her child and thinking to march toward some village, she went from the cave about sixe miles, where she espied the village where Laurea was brought up. And pondering with her self how she might passe unknown▪ for that all the inhabitants of tho [...]e countries were enemies to the King of Gaul, she layed her child down by a broom bush because she might go the lighter, meaning to go back to the cave and put on the dead womans cloaths and so to return again presently. But before she could reach to the Cave, she was met withall by a certain Italian Knight, who liked her so, that he secretly conveyed her to his house, not­withstanding that she most earnestly intreated her to let her first go fetch her young babe, which she had left but three or four miles off. For he mistrusted that she had but invented that excuse to delay the time, and fearing lest some other com­pany might pass that way before she found the child, among his men carried her to his house. The same evening Phebus having inclosed his heat within his western tower, the old shepheard Panteo, according to custome, hied to the wood to fetch wood to warm his old limbs the next winter, with the fire he hoped to make of it; and so he found young Sylva by him called Laurea. The Knight being importuned by the Dutches, sent his men to the wood to séek fyr her child, but they could not find it, & therefore could hardly believe but either she lyed, or some body else had taken it up. The Dutchess was daily so­licited by this Knight to yéeld her body to his pleasure, but she would not: he kept her close prisoner 8 yéers, w ^c being expired [Page] the Knight being beheaded by the command of the Nobility of Italy, by reason of some trespass by him committed, and some kind of treason by him put in practise against the state of the countrey) she got away, and came to France, where she found her husband the Duke Otto, but not her son, the young Otto, who was sent by his father into Italy to studie at Padua, to learn the Italian language, and after three or four years space that he had been in Italy, he came acquainted with this Shep­heardess Laurea, towards whom he so hotly pursued his sute, that at length she condiscended to be his wife, Whereof he as glad as if he had gotten a Kingdome, speedily made a journey towards France, intending either to get his fathers good will to marry her, and fetch her home to his Country, or to provide as much money and jewels as he could get, and bid France and friends adieu, for that friend. But when he came home, and found his mother there, whom he thought to have been dead many years since, and heard her talk of her adven­tures, and many other things, how she had had a daughter, and he a sister, and might yet have had, had not Fortune too hardly dealt with her, even as soon as she was born, considering the circumstances of time and place, with other points concern­ing the matter, he found Laurea to be his own natural sister; Whereof he was glad for her sake, that she was not of base li­nage, but sorry was he (I promise you) for his own part, that he might not enjoy that beauty which he so loved. But how­soever he took the matter, he rested not till he had by his fa­thers help and counsel, brought her home to her parents to the extream joy of them all, and all their friends. Thus (noble Princes and shepheards) have you heard the history of Laurea, briefly and verily reported, according as I have been inform­ed since I came to the Lady Felicias Court. But because I will not forget to set down Ottos verses (by reason of which I made this digression in rehearsing his history) which he sung to the sound of a Lute being in shepheards attire; for indéed he had a flock of shéep in the next village, for the cause which I have above declared.

Yet was there one more whom I had almost forgotten, the shepheard Pardo, unto whom Benedetta had given the Lawrell bush; for he hoped to get the garland, that he might have requi­ted her curtesse, but it fell out otherwise then he expected, as I will afterwards tel you. These were his verses, which he sung with a most sweet voice passing by many degrees the common manner of shepheards singing.

When Pardo had done, then was the garland to be given to him that had done best following the judgement of y ^e maids that were present, by whose voices it was to be given. And indeed though Pardo came near it, by reason that the Quéen who had won the Lawrel, had four and twenty voices to give, by reason of her dignity that day, which voices she gave all un­to him for affections sake, (save one which she gave to Otto, be­cause she would give some token of her mind, that she thought he deserved it, though none but Otto should have gotten any [Page] away from her loving Pardo) yet by reason that Otto had all their voices that contended in the dance for the Lawrel with Benedetta, they having each of them half as many voices to give as Benedetta, because they had danced with her, where the others had but each of them their single voices, which also the most of them gave to Otto, few to Pardo. and some to Argale, who began the game; it was Otto's chance that day to win the garland, which he had no sooner looked upon, but he wished it on his Mistress head and could no sooner wish it, but she be­ing by, he performed the same, but with such a grace, that all the shepheards and shepheardesses, whereas they were wont to envie at their King, yet then by force of his vertue were constrained to love him, and glory that they had so worthy a King to honour their solemnities; the end whereof Aureola would not stay, séeing she had missed of that wished encounter which she hoped for.

CHAP. XXXVI. How Aureola in her journey came to Yervedra; how she was overtaken there by Philorenus the younger, taking him to be his brother Philorenus.

BEfore Phoebus had bidden the earth farewell with his weaks countenance untill the next morning. Aureola purposed to reach to a cer­tain village, where she had thought to rest that night, and at the early appearance of Aurora she intended to hasten on her journy. But she being in those quarters, and ill acquainted with those ways, as not over-cunning in finding or going any way, hap­pened to come to a fair path, which flanked the village on the right side; the finenesse of which way so liked her (as com­monly all things that yeeld but even a tast of pleasantnesse, or shew of beauty, present great pleasure and liking unto those that love) that she could not chuse but go that way; which led [Page] her quite past the village six or seven miles before she thought of the village, till being even benighted, she began to wonder that she had not reached to the place she hasted to, having so long travelled without staying or resting either body or mind. For indéed as she went her feet carried her mind so fast o­ver a great deal of ground in a little space, that it forgat how to direct their pace to bring the Coach (her precious body) wherein it did ride, to the place where she had purposed to rest.

But now the knowledge of the place where she was being taken from her by reason of the darkness, which was a sor­rowfull messenger (she being there alone without any company save mine in her mind) that Phoebus had with the obscure curtain of the night closed himself in his bed, wist not what to do; but protecting her body under a large branched tree, from the rain which then fell from the skies, even as tears, witnessing heavens sorrow for her mishap; she laid her tender body down upon the hard earth, which séemed to shake as panting for gladnesse of the swéet new burthen it did bear.

There she thought to repose her wearied body and grieved mind, hoping by sléep (the causer of forgetfulnesse) to make truce with her sorrowfull remembrance for a time. But her restlesse thoughts so waked in her, that however her body was at rest, in mind she travelled still on her quest after me. The night being past, and the morning aproaching, she rose from her bed (soft in no respect, but that soft she had lain there,) and on she went although she knew not whither, yet whither her féet (led with no certainer guide, then Love and Fortune) did carry her. And having coursed through Italy without hearing any thing of me, she visited the coasts of Spain; for she knew that I was born in those quarters, and so began to think, that I might be taken with a desire to take a view of my Coun­try (which she resolved to go to, because it was my Country,) deploring nothing so much, as that she had not the luck to sée it, but with séeking but in it, and yet would she have counted that séeking but a pleasure if she might have found me, the end of her dessrous.

But no, she sought and so sought that she left no place in the Kingdome of Aragon, which she had not seen or rather which had not seen her, and she could not hear so much of me, as whe­ther ever I had been séen or heard of in that countrey before, being the place of my birth: the reason was▪ that I lived in exile with my father as soon as my féet had learned that they had no néed of a bearer. But to be short at length after many a troublesome journey, she came to the village where I was born, called Yervedra, where lodging one night in an old Far­mers house, after she had made some enquity after me, she lear­ned that I was born in the same village: for that old Farmer remembred my name very well, though I think few others could have kept it in memory; but if she had known my fa­thers name, she had by inquiring for him sooner have come to Yervedra. Yet what was she the better? for when she knew that that was the place of my birth and that she could not hear a­ny thing of me there, then began her hope to fail, and to yéeld to dispair, insomuch that weary not so much of going any len­ger as living any longer she wished either that she might find me or death. Yet thanking the old man as heartily and cour­teously as a civil guest may an old and friendly host away she got from Yervedra thinking to go into Castile, and so to sée the beautifulness of that Kingdome which she had so much heard spoken of. But having paced about a mile from Yervedra, she entered into a little Wood, which was nothing either long or large or thick: but so pleasant a place, as that it seemed to be made by nature onely to delight the neighbours that dwelled thereabout. Yet could not this place of pleasure any thing at all mitigate Aureola's grief (now even bringing her to the gates of despair) but rather increased her sorrow. And where­as it was went to be a place where many men came to de­light and recreate their minds in unto her it yéelded a memo­randum of all her misfortunes and adversities; for no soon­er had she entered into that place, but marking the pleasant­ness of it, she began to remember the unpleasantness of her own conceits; then began she to be sorry that she was so grie­ved [Page] with sorrow; afterwards she became angry with her self in finding such humours; next to that she found fault with Nature for making her so unperfect as not able to resist such accidents. But at last, paufing at that chancing word acci­dents, she fell a railing at Fortune, calling her the sole and onely mistress of all mischiefs that happen unto men.

And leaving her there, busie with her bitter invectives a­gainst Fortune (which she did as well as she could do, and could do as well as she would or list to do, being provoked thereto with such affections as anger and despight armed her withal,) I will in brief manner let you know▪ that after he had béen in divers places and countries (having made more spéed and hast in his search then Aureola) at length in the bor­ders of France, it was his luck to meet with Laurea, first called Sylva, whose history I have shortly rehearsed, untill she was brought home to her fathers house by her brother Otto, who had among the shepheards so long courted her, but the rest of her adventures she her self may declare unto this noble company, opportunity being offered, she being now in this house with the Lady Felicia. Yet thus much I must say of her (séeing it concerneth our history) that my brother having found her in the frontiers of France, in a defart all alone, very nigh in the same plight that Aureola was, at first when he saw her before he spake to her, doubted whether it was Aureola, for she was so drowned in fears, that indeed the judgement of the eye could little prevail at first sight, to discern what or who she was.

Nevertheless, gréeting bréeding parley, and parley know­ledge, he found that she was some other Gentlewoman that was pinched with the same pu [...]ishment that tortured Aureo­la's soul. But after long talk, they came to like one of ano­thers company so well, that they purposed to travel together into the Castilian region, over the bordering mountains be­twixt France and Spain. Insomuch, that they came into Castile, before that Aureola had been in Aragon, where in the famous City of Civil, my brother was constrained to leave Laurea, she having béen dangerously sick; yet before he departed from [Page] her, she was so amended that danger of death was past; yet by reason of her weaknesse she was not like to be able to go on her journey in six or seven wéeks after. So that he took his leave of her, promising her, that if he might make the course of his journey serve, so that he might within a moneth or twain return that way, he would come to her again, and so to her no small discomfort, parted from her; travelling towards Aragon, where he happened to passe through the wood where Aureola was lamenting her hard luck, and rayling at fortune for so hardly using her. Insomuch that my brother before he was by her eyed had espied her a far of, and thinking cer­tainly it had been some other kind of woman for that she had but base apparel, having put on the Countesse her sisters maids cloaths, which he knew not, he went softly and used the bushes for a curtain to hide his body from her sight, that he might come so near that he might learn by her words what she was, for at the first sight he streight perceived that who­soever she was she b [...]re the impression of a distressed mind in her face. And therefore listening to her cries he heard her utter these or such like speeches, with her knife unsheathed in her hands.

My Brother knowing her by her voice, and hearing her des­perate resolution, would not stay the end of her tragical Son­net, fearing lest it might have brought unto his eys too tragi­cal a spectacle; but stepping out of the bush behind her, as she was proceeding forward, beginning the next verse thus.

Which my brother thus interrupted, Nay rather sweet Au­reola, let Philorenus die to redeem thee from death. She incon­tinently looking back and thinking that it was I (for that she knew not certainly whether my brother had followed from Naples to seek either of us) fixed her so stedfastly in his face, that her soul seemed to issue out of her body through them, to joyn it self unto him. For she sunk down, and the knife fel out of her weakned hands, her lips were knit, her tongue tied, her eys turned her colour gone, her body as if it had been without life at all.

Which dismal sight so dismaied my brother; that unlesse provident Nature had strengthened him, where he so much [Page] néeded his force, he had certainly véen in no better case then Aureola her self. But falling down by her he strived to wake her out of that unnatural kind of sléep, where with much a doe he felt her crush his hand between her thumb and her o­ther fingers while he pulled her sweet hand, to have some token of recovery. And at length obtaining the power of her sight again, turning her eys towards him, she unsealed her fast closed lips▪ and with a sigh breaking the knots wherewith her tongue was knitted, she said; Ah Philorenus, why doest thou not revenge the injury offered thee, by her that is cause of thy exile? My guilty conscience accuseth me, and therefore crave I pardon. My brother was so galled with that, because he knew that he was the onely cause indeed (though sore a­gainst his will) himself, which made me leave the Court, yet because he had told her that I was gone because she seemed to love him better then me, and perceiving that she now took him for me, purposed for her better comfort to hold her in that opinion: and therefore framed her this answer. Lovely Aureo­la, thou blamest thy self to make me blush who cannot, but be ashamed that I have put thee to all this trouble in taking so tedious and dangerous a voyage▪ fraught with so much grief and sorrow, and onely for my foolish and rash departure, being grounded upon no reason moving me thereto, but onely the force of my passions becomming masters over reason brought me to this absurdity, and thy self to this extremity, wherein I find you in this place, whither no doubt the Gods pittying your case, and hearing your vows, sent me to stay so pittifull and tragicall event as otherwise had happened. For the Gods themselves with tears of bloud, would have deplored the death of such a heavenly person as is Aureola. Why then, what would all the world have done? what mourning would all mortals have made? had they been deprived of that beauty whereof men glory in the East and West, and where not? Ah sweet Aureola, what should miserable Philorenus, (nay and more then thrice miserable, being the cause and author of so great losse) have done, who would have, nay doth yet think that [Page] no [...]orment neither in hell nor elsewhere, would have been sufficiently extream to punish his offence, in offering unto thee, the world and himself, such wrong. Whereupon Aureo­la replied; No no, my heart, thou canst not offer me no wrong unlesse it be in doing thy self injury. For I for my part am in thee I am not thine, but thy self, I am not any more Aureola, separable from thee or any other distinct person different un­to thee, but I am even thine own self. And therefore in hurt­ing thy self thou mayest harm me, not else.

But here may we leave them (noble Princes and shep­heards) talking together of their adventures hapned to each in their journey, noting this (as I have already admonished) that Aureola knew not but that she was with me, and that it was I that came so happily unto her in her uttermost extre­mity. For my brother to comfort her (though so doing he did me displeasure, seeing that I rather wished him that happi­nesse then my self) still dissembled, not revealing unto her who he was, and suffering her to delight her self in that plea­sing opinion, thinking she injoyed my presence which she then wished for above any other in the world, yea and above his own, whom she before seemed to love better then me? Which her change, did so tear his loving and brotherlike-heart, that he was pestred with incredible grief, and yet gloried in him­self that the matter succeeded so well for me, wishing for no­thing else but that he might find me, to give me Aureola, and to see us married. For he doubted not but he might use such means, that if ever he could find me, she should not know but that it was he whom they joyntly together sought, and not I. For whereas Aureola very earnestly urged him to return to Naples to be married, my brother to hinder that purpose spake thus unto her. I have been said he by certain shepheards in­formed, that my brother (you must consider gentle reader, that this is spoken of himself and so to be understood, seeing he is now of Aureola taken for me, in which opinion he did conti­nue her) after he had let you know of my sudden departure, and afterwards had heard that thereupon you were gone se­cretly [Page] from Naples to seek me, he in like manner taking his leave of the King (having of his Majesty license thereto) left Naples and pursued his quest after us both. Wherefore (said he) dear Aureola, let us first seek my, nay our dear beloved bro­ther, that we may all three together return to the Court, and so have our marriage feast celebrated in full joy, no cause of sorrow eclipsing our mirth. Which perswasion printed so good a liking in her heart, that he obteined the same of her: she being ready to go any where, so she went (as she thought) with me. Here (noble Princes and shepheards) seeing the La­dy Felicia expected our coming to supper, will to morrow or some other time, whensoever it shall please your worthinesse to hear the rest, opportunity being thereto offered.

The Dutchesse Brisil with the other Ladies, Gentlemen, and shepheards, thanking Philorenus assured him that he had done them a pleasure more then mean, in that he had taken so much pain as to delight them with that rehearsal of his own fortunes promising that he should find them as ready to plea­sure him. But the Dutchesse above the rest, told him that she hoped as he had begun to delight her with the beginning of his history, so he would work the perfection of her delight so begun, with the end of the same, occasion presenting time and place fit for the purpose as he had promised. And therewith they went altogether into the palace, where the Lady Felicia meeting them at the garden dore, most courteously saluting them, being by them saluted, first the Dutchess Brisil, old Euge­rio next, then Marcelio and his Alcida, with her brother Polydor and his sister Clenarde, and so Lexander with his Ismenia, and then Philorenus with his Petulca, and the rest of the company: which courteously finished, she led them all into a fair statēly hall, most sumptuously and gorgeously furnished, where the cloth was laid, for that the evening bringing something too cold an air with it, she thought it better to sup there then in the bower in the garden, where they had dined, While supper continued, the Nymph Arethea sung this sonnet to the sound of her Lute.

Arethea having ended her Sonnet, the Lady Felicia asked Perierio how he liked it, and whether he thought not, that lo­vers were beholding unto her for so extolling the Saint that ruleth their affection. But he framed her this answer. Di­vine Lady your Nymphs Encomion of love, hath so swéetly toucht mine ears, that they most willingly and readily carri­ed the meaning of her spéeches to my mind, who receiving them with no lesse delight, was moved to think so well of [Page] them that it now comandeth my tongue to let you understand. And in truth Madam, as I am glad that I now love not in respect of divers circumstances so I should be singularly sorry if I thought I should never love again. And more directly to answer your question, I think my self not a little beholding to Arethea, for esteeming so much of Love▪ onely for that I have once loved; much more think I, will such as now féel the fire of fancy glowing in their hearts, make account of her, for making such account of that wherein they have placed their chief felicity.

CHAP. XXXVII, The dispute which happened between Perierio and the Dutchesse Brisil, occasioned by the Song of the Nymph Arethea, in com­mendation of Love.

ALL the company hearing Periecrio speak in this manner, marvelled at the same; for they knew nothing how the Lady Felicia had used him in her study. by giving him the drink of oblivion: And therefore they were amazed to see Perierio, a man before so full of melancholy, and so pathetical, now so freely speak of Love as one not now in Love, whereunto he was before so earnestly addicted, y ^t he seemed to be bound apprentice unto it for ever. But among the rest the Lady Brisil spake unto him in this manner, But I pray you sir, you that ere while so furiously loved, are the hot flees wherein you so madly flamed already quenched? yet they seemed unextinguish [...]ble. I think they be, fair Princesse (an­swered Perierio) for they are not quenched but allayed: and in this degree it is that I commend love, and no doubt but Are­thea so thought of it when she so effectually describe it. Yet am not I of y ^e opinion, answered the Dutchess, for that were nei­ther hot nor cold: whereas if love should do and cause all those [Page] worthy things which Arethea attributeth unto it, no doubt it must be extended to some extream point: or else how should it be able to work so many excellent matters as she speaketh of, nay rather as truth it self averreth even by the mouth of all such as know the excellency of love? You say well quoth Perie­rio) but yet I hope you will likewise grant that as in all o­ther vertues, so in love also there may be an extremity in ex­cesse, which is a vice▪ and not to be defended. An extremity (quoth Brisil) I grant in this, that one may love too coldly, but too hotly one cannot, in my mind. For seeing love is com­mendable as none here gain-say it; the more one doth love, the more doth he that which is worthy of commendation, how shal we then blame him as doing that which is vicious? For love is not to be considered as liberallity or other vertues; for be­ing too easie in giving and bestowing, as more then one is able he falleth from liberallity, and cannot be accounted to be liberall but prodigall: in that he lavishly maketh havock of more then his ability well can allow or reason perswade him. But love the more it possesseth man, the more he loveth, and the more he loveth, the more he possesseth. For though by be­ing liberal without measurs, that ability waineth, and riches decay, yet by loving how extraordinarily soever, love never waxeth lesse nay increaseth. For the more one loveth, the more still doth his power to love grow, and the more able doth he become to love. And so long cannot he fall from love and be accounted no lover, as they that by too much spending fall from [...]eing too liberall to become prodigall. Nay but (quoth Pe [...]o) by loving without reason do we fall from love to madnesse: for frantick I account that love which is not gui­ded by reason By reason! (quoth the Dutchess) why love is too noble a thing to be [...]i [...]d to any respect either of reason or a­ny other thing [...]. For love being considered in it self is a certain kind of mo [...]i [...] [...]f the mind, which moveth of it self, and will not be subject unto any part of the mind; and I hold opinion th [...] reason is governed of love, and not love gui­ded by reason. For when love hath once taken hold of the heart [Page] when it thinketh good, it calleth for the counsell and assistance of reason; but otherwise it will not wait or attend upon rea­son to be directed by it. Neither do I judge them to be reason­able lovers, that in love take counsel of reason, or go about to love with reason. For they that love indéed, unlesse they do many ways surpasse that which reason teacheth them, or do more then by reason they are moved to do; I think their love to be but of a small account, and scarce to be called love. And not to fetch any instance a far of, but even from your self, if you had not left your father and your sisters (as I have heard you say) to séek the Lady in whose beauty your soul danced, and forsaken your country (for so I call the place where your dwelling was planted) to travel through desart places and un­known regions, to find out her who was cause that you lost your self; no doubt you would not have thought that you had lo­ved; nor any man else would have said that you had done so. And yet if you had hearkened to reason undoubtedly you had not left your aged father and comfortlesse sisters deprived of your company, to seek the company of the Lady who fled your company; for reason would have conducted an whole army of arguments to disswade you from that enterprise, which would have been nothing else but to force you to cease from love. For certainly had you stayed at home, you had either not lo­ved at all, or at least but very little béen troubled with passi­on. Insomuch that you sée how that reason and love cannot a­grée together, for they are opposite enemies one to the other. And therefore I cannot see what love it is that y ^u say y ^u would have guided by reason. That love Madam (quoth Perierio) which I onely account love, and not I onely, but all such as will not disgrace the excellency of so worthy a thing as love is. For to let you know how I would have love guided with reason, I understand the matter so, that I would have them that love, therein to shu [...] such inconveniences as bréed shame, infamy, and reproach unto them that love, if they be not avoi­ded. As to love that which ought not to be loved, as Pasiphae loved the Bul by whom she bore Minotaurus, many other things [Page] which might be considered, which onely can be judged by the rule of reason. Besides, I remember many that describe love, (whose descriptions I like not for my part) say, that love is full of dissembling, hypocrisie, strife, debate, brawling, vice, of­fence, quarrelling, envy, hate, jealousie, murther, prodigality, gréedinesse, covetousness anger, and many other mischievous inconveniences: which I think one that loves may very well avoid all, I mean by the help and counsel of reason, which tells us that they ought to be shunned.

Why but good sir (quoth the Dutchess) that love whereof you talk is not love, but lust, the gulph of all mischief: for lust is subject to all such vices, and more; but not love. Why then (inferred Perierio) must you grant, that love not limited by reason, is lust. Nothing so (quoth the Dutchess:) for love in the very nature and essence therof considered (otherwise it is diversly taken) is a knot or bond, which tieth, knitteth and uniteth two hearts inseparably▪ and maketh them one; inso­much that love it self so considered, to attain to the very purity and singularity thereof, is to endeavour and labor by al means whatsoever to the making of them Two hearts One, and to that one thing must all actions be directed. Insomuch, I say, that such persons as will claim the right title of lovers must neither be feared with dangers, nor driven back by force, nor chased with terrour, nor removed with reason, from endevour­ing and working to make themselves deserve to be insepara­bly joyned with that which they love, and to become as the same thing it self and one thing with it. Wherein I pray you cannot this be the onely and very force of love and not of lust? Very well Madam, quoth Perierio. So sir, quoth she, I pray you have you forgotten that you even now said, that you accounted all love not guided by reason, lust? which how grossely it was spoken. I will thus with one small example make you confess your self. Put case the Duke of Florence loveth some Lady ei­ther for her beauty, grace, comliness, vertue, or other gifts by God and nature bestowed on her; which Lady he cannot enjoy as his own, I mean, have her heart united to his, as his is tied [Page] to hers and be loved of her as he loveth her, (for there must be reciprocation in love) unless he spend all his Revenues, his Dukedome, and afterward, having obtained his hearts desire of her, and hath of her heart and his made but one▪ yet cannot enj [...]y her by reason of her parents, that for one reason or other would have her either married to some other, or rather not married at all then to him; and so lives still in body separated from her, though in heart and soul never but by her: his Duke­dome gone and all his wealth consumed, thinking the jewel which he hath thereby gotten of a higher price then all his substance, I mean the love of his Lady, being onely content with this, that she loves him. Now let me ask you this que­stion would not reason, if the Duke had guided his love by the rational measure of his understanding, have counselled him not to lose his credit▪ his wealth his renown, and not to have undone himself for that which he might not fully enjoy (though he enjoyed as he desired? It may be so, Madam, quoth Perie­rio, but what then? Marry this (quoth she) Then his love was not guided by reason; yet there is no man that will, nay, can say, but that it was pure love, not spotted with the blot of any lust: and therefore against your former principle, are you for­ced to confess, that all love, not guided by reason, is not lust.

Perierio marking the subtilty of the Dutchess, in taking hold of his words and going about to canvas him that way, sée­ing she could not go through with her matter, which was to prove, that no love could be too extream great, and that up­right love was not to be guided or governed by reason; he un­willing to let her yet so carry it away, made answer thus: Ma­ny things may be spoken, which divers ways are to be under­stood. For sometimes things properly taken, are improperly applied to sundry purposes. And so when I said, that love not not guided by re [...]son was lust; I understood not lust as it is properly taken for the carnal desire, and libidinous cipidity of y ^e flesh, [...]ut rather for the vice which is committed, by desiring that which ones affections urge him to covet, and so harkening to the lure of his passions, boweth his will to their beck, and [Page] draweth his will to will that which his affections wil: which may be and is improperly called lust also. For as properly it is so called by reason of the filthy desires of the flesh, so impro­perly is it so also called, for the desire of ones passions and af­fections; when one setteth aside the sound perswasion of rea­son, and applieth his will to follow that which his affections move him unto. And thus did I say, that all love not guided by reason was lust, in that they that so love do not what reason willeth them, but what they lift, and what the will of their af­fections as it were forceth them to do.

CHAP. XXXVIII. How Perierio and Marcelio, with the rest of their company, taking leave of the Lady Felicia, departed.

THe Lady Felicia hearing Perierio and the Dut­chess so earnestly each stand to their own say­ings, merrily brake up their gentle cavil, say­ing: I perceive (Gentiles) if my Nymph had not ministred occasion of talk we had béen very silent all supper time. But yet (quoth the Dutchess) with our rude discourse, it may be we have bred trouble to your ears, and this company. Not to me truly quoth Felicia.) Nor to us I dare say for the rest (quoth Marcelo.) As for me (said Alcida) I have conceived great delight in hea­ring the well agreeing strife betwéen the two disputants; considering that though in words they disagreed yet in sense, they both agrée in one: as in spéeches the Dutchess hath show­ed, that love néedeth not to respect reason, so in very déed hath she by example shewed, that she hath vertuously loved, & there­fore her self guid [...] her love with reason. And no doubt quoth ancient Eugerio) where she saith, that love must not be tied to reason, her meaning is, that they which love, ought in such manner to pursue their love, that they do things which are be­yond the common expectation of men; and indéed such things [Page] as may séem to be against reason. so long as they are not con­trary to vertue: for considering, that she would have such as love, not to overrun vertue, in my opinion she cannot be much discrepant from Perierio in that he would have love guided by rea [...]on meaning thereby that he would not have so excellent a thing as love is, disgraced with vice, which cannot be com­mitted by the counsel or consent of reason.

Thus was supper time spent, which being ended and the cloth taken up by the Nymphs, the Lady Felicia with all the company walked out into the fields to recreate themselves, and take the evening air: which done the curtain of darkness being spread all over the air they were warned to return to the Palace, where they were all accompanied to their lodg­ings by the Nymphs. The next morning, Marcelio with his Alcida, and her father Eugerio, and her brother and sister Poly­dor and Clenarde, took their leave of the Lady Felicia, yéelding her as many thanks as they might, and departed thence to end their journy which they had taken to Lisbon, there to celebrate their marriage as they purposed when they took ship. In like manner, the beautifull shepheards Lexander and Ismenia, departed from the Lady Felicia to return home to their vil­lage, being glad they had so hapily met in that place.

Furthermore, Perierio now delivered from the furious pas­sion that overturned his understanding before, merrily taketh leave of the company, and taketh his journey to Salamanca. The Dutchess Brisil remained with the Lady Felicia, until she heard some certainty of Periander, which Felicia said would not be long. The rest of whose histo [...]y, with the event thereof, what hapned to him before he was married to Brisil and crown­ed King of Albion; with the success which Maffeo had, after he departed from Felicia to séek his Eleonora; and lastly, the advē ­tures of Perierio, with the loves of his beautiful, vertuous and noble sisters. Euphilia and Perina, after the death of their aged father, Camillo, if almighty God give me life and leisure, I wil write hereafter for y ^e pleasure of my loving country-men. In the mean time I cōmit my self to their prayers, and them to the tuition of God,