The triumphs of Gods revenge against the crying and execrable sinne of (willfull and premeditated) murther VVith his miraculous discoveries, and severe punishments thereof. In thirtie severall tragicall histories (digested into sixe bookes) committed in divers countries beyond the seas, never published, or imprinted in any other language. Histories which containe great varietie of mournfull and memorable accidents ... With a table of all the severall letters and challenges, contained in the whole sixe bookes. Written by Iohn Reynolds.

THE TRIVMPHS OF GODS REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING, AND EXECRABLE sinne of Murther. (Book 1)

HISTORIE I.

Hautefelia causeth La Fresnay an Apothecary, to poyson her brother Grand Pre and his wife Mermanda, and is likewise the cause that her said brother kils de Malleray her owne hus∣band in a Duell: La Fresnay condemned to bee hanged for a rape, on the ladder confesseth his two former Murthers, and sayes that Hautefelia seduced and hired him to performe them: Hautefelia is likewise apprehended: and so for the cruell Murthers, they are both put to se∣vere and cruell deaths.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vpon his arrivall to his Fathers house, the flowre of all the nobility and gentry of the Country, come to condole with him, for the death of his brothers and sister, as also to congratulate his happy returne (an office and complement which expresseth much affection and civility) they find Grand Pre a brave compleate Gentleman, not in outward pride, but in inward generositie and vertue, not in the vanity of fashions and apparell, but in the perfections and endowments of his mind and body: he is wholy addicted to the exercise of warre, and not to the art of courting of Ladies, his de∣lights are in the campe of Mars and Bellona, and not in the Palace of Venus and Cupid, well knowing that the one will breed him honour and glory, the other shame and re∣pentance; his pastimes are not crisping and powdering of his haire, quarrelling his tay∣lor for the fashion of his clothes, dancing in velvet pumps, and tracing the street in a

neat perfumed Boote with jangling Spurres; yea, hee resembleth not young spruce Courtiers, who thinke no heaven to brave Apparell, nor Paradise to that of their Mi∣stresse beauty: for hee onely practiseth riding of great Horses, Tilting, running at Ring, displaying the Colours, tossing the Pike, handling the Musket, ordering of Ranke and File, thereby to make himselfe capable to conduct and embattaile an Army, and to environ, fortifie, or besiege a City or Castle, or the like; yea, hee spurnes at the Lute and Viall, and vowes there is no musicke to the rattling of the Drumme and Trumpet, and to the thundring of the Musket and Canon: but this warlike and mar∣tiall humour of his shall not last long: Wherin wee may observe the vanity of our thoughts, the inconstancy of our delights, and the alteration and mutability of our resolutions; for now we shal shortly see Grand Pre hate that he loved, & love that he ha∣ted; yea, we shall see him so plunge and drown himselfe in the beauty of a faire & sweet Gentlewoman, as he shall leave Holland for Burgundy, Warre for peace, Armes for Love, and Enemies for a Mistris: but time must worke this alteration and Metamorphosis.

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

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

Now by this time this young gentlewoman (whose name we shall anon know) could not but perceive with what earnestnesse and delight Grand Pre beheld her, and seeing him to be a proper young Gallant, and richly apparelled and followed, shee could not refraine from dying her Lilly cheekes with a Vermillian blush, which gave such grace to her beauty, and so inflamed our poore Grand Pre, as he could no longer resist the in∣fluence of such amorous assaults; and now it is that his thoughts strike sayle to affe∣ction, and his heart doth homage to beauty, so as he revokes his former opinion con∣ceiv'd against the power and dignity of Love, which he now holds erronious, and in his heart vowes that there is no such felicity in the world, as to enjoy the Lady of his desires, whom his eyes and soule chiefely honour and adore: But if he be insnared and imprisoned in the fetters of her beauty, no lesse is she in those of his personage, only she

is more coy and precise in the exterior demonstration there of: for as hee cannot keepe his eyes from gazing on her; so shee seemes but to looke on him by stealth, or if she transgresse that Decorum, she immediately, in outward apparance, checks her eyes from ranging beyond the lists of modesty and discretion.

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

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

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

And here before I proceed farther, I wish the event of this History would give the lye to this ensuing position, that there is no pride nor malice to that of a woman; but I have more reason to feare then hope to believe the contrary: for no sooner have our two young couples reaped the fruites of Marriage, and the felicity of their desires, but

wee shall see the Sunne-shine of their joy overtaken with a difmall storme of griefe, sorrow and misfortune; whereby wee may obserue and learne, that there is no per∣fect nor permanent felicity under the Sunne, but that all things in this world, yea, the World it selfe is subject to revolution and change. The manner is thus:

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

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

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

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

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

Hautefelia having thus broached her inveterat & implacable malice (laughing hereat

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like a Gipsie) betakes her selfe to her rest, leaving her brother not to sleepe, but to drive out the night in watchfulnesse and jealousy: who the next morne (sooner then his accustomed houre) riseth, takes his leave of his Brother and Sister, and so very pensive and sorrowfull rides home.

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

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

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

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

IT is not with blushes, but teares, that I presume to write unto you; for indeede it grieves mee to publish my Husbands folly, which by duety I know I am bound to conceale: neither had I attempted it, but that griefe and necessity throwes me on this exigent: for so it is, that my vn∣spotted chastity is not capable to defend him from jealousy, which makes mee as much triumph in mine owne loyalty, as I grieve at his ingratitude: and not content to wrong me, his folly, or rather his frensie hath reflection on you, whom he takes to be both the object and cause thereof: but as your innocencie can justly warrant and defend mine honour, and your bonour my innocencie from the least shaddow of that crime: so that we may both endeavour, rather to quench then in∣flame this his irregular passion: I most humbly beseech you to refraine our house, and neither to visite mee, nor bee familiar with him, and so peradventure, time may weare away from his

thoughts, that which at present, truth and reason cannot: your relucent Vertues and true gene∣rosity assure mee of this curtesy, the which I will repay with thankes, and requite with prayers, that your dayes may bee as infinite as your perfections, and your fame as glorious as your merits.

MERMANDA.

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

YOur vertues and my conscience, make us as unworthy of your husbands jealousy, as hee of so chast a wife as Mermanda, and so true a friend as Betanford: but as your affection to him hath still shined in your loyalty, so it must now in your patience; sith hee in this base passi∣on of his seeking his own shame, will at last assuredly find out your glory. Had his folly revealed me so much as your discreet Letter, I would have exchanged my pen to a sword, and with the hazard of my life, and losse of my dearest blood, made known as well to him as to the whole World, the truth, both of your chastity and hanor, and of mine honor and innocencie: in the mean time I will both im∣brace and obey your request, and will mannage it with such observance to your Husband, such re∣spect to your vertues, and such regard to mine owne reputation, as I hope he shall rest satisfyed of your chastity towards himselfe, and of mine to you; otherwise I prize Ladies of your perfections at so high a rate, and set Cavaliers of his humour and inclination at so low an esteeme, that I well know how to answer his choller with contempt, and to requite your discretion both with admira∣tion and prayse.

BETANFORD.

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

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

Her husbands father and mother, Grandmont and de Carnye, all this while know no∣thing of this discontent betweene Grand Pre and Mermanda; but their malicious and wretched daughter Hautefelia (whose malice never sleepes) hath spyes in every cor∣ner of her fathers house, who advertise her thereof: whereat she infinitely triumpheth and rejoyceth. But this joy of hers shall be but as breath on steele, or as smoake before the winde.

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

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

GRAND PRE, to the Baron of BETANFORD.

YOu neede no other wit•…•…esse then your selfe to informe you in how high a nature you have wronged mee, and herein your false glory hath made my true shame so apparant, as I had ra∣ther dye then live to digest it: for not to dissemble you my malice, as you have done mee your friendship, I can sooner forget all other offences, then pardon this: therefore finde it not strange that I request you to meete mee, on thursday morning next, at five or sixe, either with your sword, or Rapier on Horse-backe or a foot at Carency, halfe a league from Brie-count Robert, where the Bearer hereof shall expect you, to conduct you safely to a faire Medow, where without seconds I will attend you. It is impossible for me to receive any other satisfaction; for to write you the truth, nothing but your life, or mine, is capable to decide this difference.

GRAND PRE.

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

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

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

They come into the Field with a soft trot, and each having his Enemy in front, and being neere sixe score paces distant, they give spurres to their horses, and part like 〈◊〉〈◊〉 flashes of lightning. At their first meeting, Grand Pre runnes Betanford thorow •…•…e left shoulder, and Betanford onely wounds Grand Pre in the right checke, close under the eye; and beeing excellent Horse men, they turne short, and so

againe, fall to it with bravery and courage: in which encounter Betanford receives a wide wound upon the brawne of his right arme, and Grand Pre another thorow his left side, which undoubtedly had proved mortall, and so ended the Combate with his life, had not his sword glanced on a ribbe, and so ranne outwards; and now they both re∣tire to take breath, resolving to advance with more fury: they part againe, Betanford runnes Grand Pre thorow the necke, and hee Betanford thorow the small of the arme, where meeting with the sinewes and arteries, it causeth the sword to fall out of his hand, whereat hee is extreamely perplexed and amazed.

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

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

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

Betanford, seeing Grand Pre fall, doubted that his wounds were mortall and so alights: whereat his Chirurgion with a loud voyce, cryed out. Dispatch him, Dispatch him: but he calls him villaine for his labour, when remembring the former cour•…•… hee had received of Grand Pre, in regiving him his sword, hee like a true noble Gen∣tleman vowes now to requite it, and so throwing it and his Ha•…•…te awa•…•… hee

with out-spred armes ran to imbrace & assist him; yea, he preferres Grand Pre's life be∣fore his owne, and with all possible speed commands his Chirurgion to bring and hast thither his Coach, and to his best power doth assist Betanford, in setting him up, in or∣dering and binding up his wounds; his Coach being come, hee causeth him to bee layd in softly, and so hee in one Boote, and the two Chirurgions in the other, their Pages and Lackeyes attending them, they drive away to the very next country house, where they hush themselves up privately, and here Betanford resembling himselfe, con∣jureth both the Chirurgions to use their best art and chiefest skill upon Grand Pre, and before hee would have his owne wounds looked unto, hee causeth his to bee opened, they doe it, and both concurre in opinion, that his last wound is mortall; he sees them dresse him, and vowes hee will not forsake him in this extremity, but will bee more carefull of him then of himselfe. Reciprocall and singular demonstrations of courtesy and honour in these two Caveliers, which will make their memories famous to posterity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DE MALLERAY to GRAND PRE.

I should degenerate both from my honour and bloud, if I were not sensible of those wrongs and disgraces you haue offered your Wife and my Sister; they are of that nature, that I know not whether her innocencie deserue more pitie, or your jealousie contempt and revenge: her death and your conscience make me as justly challenge you, as you haue unjustly done the Baron of Betanford: Therefore to morrow at fiue of the clocke after dinner, at the foot of Talon fort, in the meado•…•… ranked with Wallnut trees, bring either a single Rapier, or Rapier and Ponyard, and I will meet you without Seconds; the equitie of my cause, and the unjustice of yours, make mee confident in this hope, that as you lost your blood neere Brie-count Robert, you shall now leaue your life in the sight of Dijon; Iudge how earnestly I desire to trie the temper of your heart and sword, sith already I not onely count houres, but minutes.

DE MALLERAY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Provost likewise is forthwith dispatched from Dijon to Grandmonts house, to ap∣prehend his daughter Hautefelia, and God would have it that shee was ignorant of La Fresnay's apprehension, and more, of his death. The Provost findes her dancing in her

fathers garden, in company of many Gentlemen and Ladies: he sets hands on her; and so exchangeth her mirth into mourning, and her songs into teares: she is brought to Dijon, and examined by a President, and two Counsellors of the Parliament. She impudently and boldly denyes both Murders; saith La Fresnay is her mortall and pro∣fessed enemy, and therefore not to bee believed. But the devill, who hath so long be∣witched and deluded her, either will not, or rather now cannot save her with this poore evasion: shee is adjudged to the Racke, and at the first torment confes∣seth it.

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

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

GODS REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXE∣crable sinne of Murther.

HISTORIE II.

Pisani betrayeth Gasparino of his Mistresse Christeneta. Gasparino challengeth Pisani for this disgrace, and kills him in the field: hee after continueth his suite to Christeneta: shee dissembles her malice for Pisani his death: shee appoynts Gasparino to meete her in a Garden, and there causeth Bianco and Brindoli to murther him: they are all three taken and executed for the same.

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

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

Signiour Emanuel Gasparino, a noble young Gentleman of Cremona, hearing of Vi∣turi his wealth, and of his daughter Christeneta's Beauty and Vertues (the Adamants and Load-stones to drawe mens affections) resolveth with himselfe to seeke her

for his wife: he acquaints none herewith, but an intimate deare friend of his, a young Gentleman of the same City, named Signior Ludovicus Pisani, by descent a Venetian, whom hee prayes to assist and accompany him to Pavia, in seeking and courting the faire Christeneta his Mistresse. Pisani tearmes himselfe much honoured and obliged to Gasparino, and very willingly grants his request; and so they prepare for their journy.

They come to Pavia: Vituri bids Gasparino welcome, and entertaines him respect∣fully and courteously, as also Pisani; he thankes Gasparino for the honour he doth him in seeking his daughter, and like a carefull father takes time to consult hereon: but for Christeneta, she looks not so pleasing nor pleasantly on him as he expecteth; he is deep∣ly in love both with her beauty and other perfections, but he finds her cold in her dis∣course and answers, and very melancholly and pensive: he courts her often (and af∣ter the Italian fashion, with variety of Musicke, Ditties, and ayres) but still he findes her averse, and contrary to his desires, as if her thoughts were otherwise fixed. Gaspari∣no knowes not how to winne her affection, nor how to beare himselfe herein; he con∣sults with Pisani, and prayes him to conferre with Christeneta, and to sound her affection: But it proves often dangerous, still indiscretion, to trust a friend in this case.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet hee is not so unkinde, but gives her a kisse or two at farewell which as much

delights Christeneta, as his refusall doth afflict her: so they part. The rest, time must bring forth.

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

CHRISTENETA to PISANI.

FInde it not strange, that I second my last speech with this my first Letter, and thinke, that, were not my affection intire and constant, I should not thus attempt to reveale it you in lines, which blush not, as my cheekes doe, when I write them. I should offer too palpable violence and injury to the truth, if I tell you not that it is impossible for Christeneta to love any but Pisani, whom I no sooner saw, but deepely admir'd and dearely affected. Now sith my zeale to you is be∣gunne in vertue, and shall be continued in honour, it makes me flatter my selfe with hope, that you will not enforce me to despaire: for if I am not so happy to be yours, I must bee so unfortunate ne∣ver to bee mine owne. Iudge what your absence is to me, sith your presence is my chiefest felicity: which makes me both desire and wish, that either you were in Pavia, or I in Cremona. I can prefixe and give bounds to my Letter, though not to my affection. Hate not her who loves you dearely, otherwise, whatsoever you thinke, I know, your unkindnesse to mee will bee meere cruelty.

CHRISTENETA.

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

PISANI to CHRISTENETA.

YOu discover mee as much affection as I should treachery to my friend, either to accept or •…•…e∣quite it; and were it not for that consideration, which must tend as well to mine owne ho∣nour, as to your content, I would not sticke to say, that Pisani loves Christeneta, because shee de∣serves to be beloved; onely give mee leave to informe you, that as you are too faire to be refused, so I am too honest to betray my friend, especially such a one who is as confident of my fidelity, as I assured of his. Could time reconcile these difficulties with my reputation, my heart would i•…•…∣stantly command my pen 〈◊〉〈◊〉 signify you, that I desire to give you hope, and to take away your de∣spaire; and withall, that Pavia is more pleasing to mee then Cremona, sith Christeneta lives in it, and Pisani in her. I was never heretofore cruell to any, neither doe I resolve to bee unkind to you: for how can I, •…•…th I as truely vow to honour you, as you professe to love me? Live you in this assurance, and I will dye in the same.

PISANI.

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

CHRISTENETA to PISANI.

I May passe the bounds of discretion, but will not exceede those of honour. I have ever learn'd to retaiue this Maxime, that affection which receives end had never beginning. If then I live, I must breath the ayre of your love, as well as this of my life, sith it is the prime and sole cause thereof, as the Sunne is of the light. Your Letter I finde so full of doubts and ambigui∣ties, as I know not wherefore to hope, or why not to despaire: could you dive as deepely into my heart, as I have into your merits, if nature doe not, pitty would informe you, that you ought to preferre the love of a Lady before the respect of a Gentleman, especially sith he may carry his heart from you, and I desire to bring and present mine to you: and how can your absence either rejoyce or comfort mee, sith your presence will not? Thinke what you please, either of me, or of your selfe; onely give me leave to tell you, that I finde doubt a step, and degree to despaire, as despaire is to death: I write rather with teares then Inke. If you will not live my Saint, I must dye your Martyr.

CHRISTENETA.

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

PISANI to CHRISTENETA.

YOur vertue and beauty is enough powerfull to prevaile with mee: but your affection, which addes grace to either, and either to it, makes me forget my respect to Gasparino, to remember my love to Christeneta: but that which gives life to this my resolution, is, that it is impossible for him to hate me as much as you love me; and in this hope I both rejoyce and triumph, that you shall not be my Martyr, but my Mistresse, and I will be both your Saint and your servant: for as you desire to live in my favour, so my chiefest ambition and zeale is to dye in your affection: that which heaven makes me affirme, earth shall not inforce me denye. I will shortly follow, and second this my Letter; till when, you can never so much lament my absence, as I desire your pre∣sence. Let this be your true consolation, sith it is my sole delight and chiefest felicity.

PISANI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gasparino having thus his eyes and senses ore-clouded and vayled with the mis•…•… of revenge, is transported with such bloudy passions and resolutions, as hee is some∣times resolved to pistoll Pisani, either in the streete, or in his bed, and other times to hire two or three Ruffians to murther him the next time hee rides into the Countrey but at last casting his eyes from hell to heaven, and from Satan to God, hee trampleth those execrable resolutions under his feete, and banisheth them from his heart and

thoughts, esteeming them as unworthy of him, as he were of the world, if he should commit them: and so for that time enters in a resolution with himselfe, no more to thinke on Christeneta, and lesse to bee revenged of Pisani, for betraying her from him.

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

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

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

GASPARINO to PISANI.

YOu have given the first breach to our friendship: for sith you have treacherously bereave•…•… mee of my Mistresse, you must now both in honour and justice, either take my life, or yield mee yours in requitall: If you consider your owne ingratitude, you cannot taxe, much lesse con∣•…•…e this my resolution: the Place, the West end of the Parke; the Houre, foure or five af∣ter Dinner; the manner, o•…•… foot, with Seconds; the Weapon, if you please, two single Rapiers, whereof bring you one and I the other, and I will bee content to take the refusall, to give you the •…•…yce. If your courage answer your infidelity, you will not refuse to meet mee.

GASPARINO.

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

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

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

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

Their Seconds withdraw not from their stations, neither can they yet imagine to whose side fortune will incline, they being well-neare as equall in wounds as courage; and now Pisani and Gasparino dressing their Rapiers, and wiping off the blood from them, beginne againe to make tryall on whom Victory is resolved to smile: but they alter the manner of the fight; for now Gasparino fights with judgement, and not with fury, and Pisani with fury, and not with judgement, whereas heretofore they both did the contrary. They traverse their grounds; Pisani is so violent, as hee hath almost put himselfe out of breath, but Gasparino is so wary and cautelous, as hee contents himselfe to breake his thrusts, and resolves not to make any but to the pur∣pose, and upon manifest advantage; the issue answereth his hopes and expectation: for at the very next incounter, as Pisani runnes Gasparino in the necke, hee runnes Pi∣sani

thorow the body, a little below the left pap: and his sword meeting with Cav•…•… Vena (which leads directly to the heart) makes a perpetuall divorce betwixt his body and his soule, and so hee falls starke dead to the ground. Gasparino knowing him dis∣patched, sheathes up his rapier. But Sfondrato and his Chirurgion runue to his assi∣stance, but the affection of the one, and the art of the other were in vaine: for Pisani his life had forsaken his body, and his soule was already fled from this world to another.

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

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

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

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

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

But all these teares are nothing, in comparison of those which our faire Christeneta sheds for the death of her sweet Pisani: For her griefes are so infinitely bitter, 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 teares her haire, disfigureth her face, weepes, mournes, howles, and cries so extre•…•…

that sorrow her selfe would grieve to see her sorrow; yea, she forsakes and abando∣neth all company, throwes off all her rich and glittering garments, and takes on mourn∣full and sad apparell: so as all the perswasions of the world are not capable to give her the least shaddow of consolation: for as shee affirmes, shee neither will, nor can be comforted; onely amidst her teares, if shee admit, or permit any passion to take place in her heart or thoughts, it is choller and revenge against Gasparino, who had be∣reaved her of her onely joy, of her deare and sweet Pisani, whom she loved a thou∣sand times more deare and tenderly then her selfe, and of him she vowes to be reveng'd in the highest degree: Whereby wee may here in Christeneta see the old phrase made good, and verifyed; That there is no affection nor hatred to that of a Woman: for where they love, they love dearely; and where they hate, hate deadly: But leave we her to her sorrowes, and come we againe to Gasparino, who in short time, having ob∣tained his pardon, returnes from Parma to Cremona, where hee is joyfully received of his parents and friends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Nunnes being in their Cells at their Oraisons, heare the flynking of swords, and so they advertise their Abbesse or Governesse thereof, who gives the Alarum in the house. They descend to the Garden, to see what this rumour might be: they finde the Posterne open, and the Alleyes very much sprinkled and gored with blood; they suspect Murther, but neither finde nor see any, either living or dead: they send to ac∣quaint the Prefect and Provost of the City herewith, who repayre to the Garden, and (as before) finde much bloud, but see nobody: they make strict inquiry and search in the Ditches, hedges, thickets, and vaults of the Garden, but finde nothing, only they forget to search the Well: Then, to finde what those Fighters were, they thinke of a Policie, as worthy of them, as they of their office, they give a secret charge to all the ehirurgions of the city to reveale them, if any having new wounds, came that night, or the next morning to them, to be cured; whereupon Rhanuti•…•…, one of the chiefest Chirur∣gions, informes them, that he, about an houre since, had dressed Bianco and Brindoli (two souldiers of the city) of nine severall wounds, which they newly received. The Prefect and Provost advertised hereof, cause them to bee brought before them, whom they found both together, where (no doubt) they had consulted. They enquire who woun∣ded them: They answer, they had a Quarrell betwixt themselves, and so they fought it out. Being demanded againe, where, and when they fought, they looked each on other, and knowing that Christeneta was safe at home, and Gasparino close in the well, they

instantly replyed, It was in the Nunnes Garden at Saint Clayre, and at sixe of the clock in the morning, which agreeing to the Nunnes relation, gave end to this businesse, for that time especially. But though they delude and blinde the eyes of men, yet they cannot, nor shall not those of God: And now, although these murtherers have thus escaped, yet they prepare to forfake and leave Pavia, for feare to be afterwards disco∣vered. But they shall be prevented in their subtleties, for the hand of God will spee∣dily arrest them.

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

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

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

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

The Prefect and Provost (as being inspired from heaven) continue constant in their resolutions, to make a second search in the Garden for Murther; which they doe, and very curiously, leaving no place unsearched: at last it pleased the Lord to put into the Provosts minde to search the Well, which the day before they had omitted. Hee acquaints the Prefect herewith, who with much alacrity approves hereof, and so causing it to be searched, they at last in their hookes bring up some pie∣ces of wrought blacke Taffeta: which by the Lackey was affirmed, and knowne to be the same his Master Gasparino, wore the last time he saw him: whereat they were more eagerly encouraged to search againe most exactly: which they doe, and at last bring up the dead body of Gasparino, when stripping off his cloths, they find his body pierced with thirteene severall wonuds: at the mournefull sight whereof, the whole assembly, but especially his Lackey, cannot refraine from teares, and yet all glorify God for finding of his body, as also for the discovery of the Murtherers, who now they confidently believe are Bianco and Brindoli.

But see the farther mercies of God: for Bianco and Brindoli are but the hands which executed this Murther, and not the head which plotted it: therefore the Magistrates being sure of them, doe now resolve to hye to Prison, and to give them double tor∣ment, thereby to discover out of what Quiver the first arrow of this Murther came. But behold the mercy and justice of God! they are eased of this labour, and the name of the malefactour brought them by a most miraculous and unheard of accident: for when the Magistrates and whole company had often visited Gaspari∣no's naked body, and seene nothing but wounds, a little boy standing by (of some ten yeares of age) espyed a linnen cloth in his mouth, which hee shewed the compa∣ny, which the Prefect causing to be pulled out, found it to be a Cambricke Handker∣cher, and withall, a name in red silke Letters in one corner, which was the very true name of Christeneta.

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

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

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

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

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

Bianco and Brindoli, as they lived unrighteously, so they dyed desperately, and could not be drawn to repent themselves of this their bloudy fact: But as I have understood,

Christeneta was extreamely sorrowfull for her sinnes, but especially for this murther, whereof at her last breath shee infinitely and exceedingly repented her selfe: yea, I have beene informed, that shee delivered a godly and religious speech upon the Ladder, but I was not so fortunate to recover it. May all true Christians reade this History with profit, and profit in reading it, that so God may re∣ceive the glory: and their soules the eternall comfort and consolation.

Amen.

GODS REVENGE AGAINST, THE CRYING AND EXE∣crable sinne of Murther.

HISTORIE III.

Mortaigne under promise of marriage gets Iosselina with child, and after, converting his love into hatred, causeth his Lackey La Verdure, and La Palma to murther both her and her young sonne: the jealousy of Isabella to her husband La Palma is the cause of the discovery hereof: they are all three taken and executed for the same.

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

In the South-east part of France, within a dayes journey of the famous City of Ly∣ons, at the foote of the Mountaine of Tarara, upon the border and bosome of that sweet River Lignon, so famoused by the Minion of honour, and the darling of the Mu∣ses, the Marquesse of Vrse, in his beautifull and divine Astrea: neere Durency (a cer∣taine small Village) there dwelt a poore Country Farmer, named Andrew Mollard, who of late burying his Wife, had one only child left him by her, being a very faire young girle, about the age of twelve yeares old, named Iosselina, whom hee hoped should prove the staffe and prop of his age, and resolved when she grew up in yeares,

and came to womans estate, to marry her to some of his neighbours sonnes, and at his death, to give her all that litle which either his parents, or his owne labor and industry had left or procured him.

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

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

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

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

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

proffers him peares, Grapes, Walnuts, and such homely dainties as his poore cottage could affoord. But wee shall see Mortaigne requite this courtesie of Mollard, with an extreame ingratitude.

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

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

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

Mortaigne perceiving Iosselina's coynesse and obstinacy, is thereat no way the lesse, but rather far the more insnared and inflamed with her beauty; and now perceiving, that all his Visits, Gifts, Speeches and prayers work no desired effect, he hath recourse to that old fallacy and subtill invention, wherby so many silly maids are abused and deceived; hee vowes, that if shee will permit him to enjoy his desire, hee will marry her not∣withstanding that their birth and quallitie were so unequall and different: and this, and onely this battery and allurement, was that which van quished Iosselina's Chastitie, who, poore girle, caught with this snare, in hope to be a Gentlewoman, shooke hands with her may den-head, which shee should have prized and esteemed farre more pre∣cious

then her life: but shee shall pay deare for this her folly; for shee shall live Mor∣taigne's strumpet and never dye his wife.

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

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

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

IOSSELINA to MORTAIGNE.

You have bereaved me of mine honour, the which (had I had as much grace as vanity) I should have esteemed farre dearer and precious then my life. Your promise to make me your wife, was the onely lure, which drew mee to consent to that errour and folly, at the remembrance wher∣of I grieve with shame, and shame with repentanee, especially sith I see you are so farre from per∣forming it, as you hate mee, in stead of loving mee: let the sweetnesse of my youth, and the freshnesse of my beauty (which with many oathes you protested you both admired and adored) judge whether I have deserved this discourtesie of you: but it is a just punishment for my sinne and now I finde too late, though formerly would not beleeve, that the fruits of pleasure are bitter resembling those Pitts that seeme sweet to the Pallat, but prove poyson to the stomacke: and may all mardens beware by my example. If you will not advance my fortunes, yet seeke not to make shipwracke of my life, as you have done of my chastitie: you know, my father is dead, and with him all the meanes which in this World I can either hope or expect, as well for the

maintenance of my selfe, as of your sonne, except from your selfe, the which with millions of sighs and teares, I beg and beseech you afford us, and if not love to me, at least for pitty to him: if you will not grant mee the honour to be a piece of your selfe, yet in nature, you connot deny but your little son is not onely your picture, but your image: therefore if you will not affect mee for his sake, at least doe him for mine, and thinke, that as it will be an extreame ingratitude in you, not to give her maintenance, who hath given you a sonne, so it will be extreame cruelty, not to allow that poore babe wherewithall to live: sith hee hath received both his being and life of you: but I hope you will proove more naturall to him, and more charitable to my selfe: otherwise rest assured, that such disrespect and unkindnesse will never goe long, either unpittied of men, or unpunished of God.

IOSSELINA.

Iosselina having penned this Letter to Mortaigne, shee desirous to draw hope and assi∣stance from all par•…•…s, thinkes it fit likewise to write another to Calintha his Mother, to the same effect: the which shee doth, and sends it by a confident messenger, with ex∣presse charge to deliver them severally: the tenour thereof is thus:

IOSSELINA to CALINTHA.

I Know not in what tearmes either to relate you my misfortune, or reveale you my misery: espe∣cially sith mine owne folly and undiscretion gave life to the first, as your sonne Mortaigne's ingratitude doth to the second, had I beene as wise as now sorrowfull, or as chast, as now repentant, or which is more, had I not then loved him, as much as hee now hates mee, I need not blush as I doe, to write you, that his promise to make mee his wife, hath made me the unfortunate mother of a young sonne whereof hee is the unkind father: I may well tearme my selfe unfortunate, sith I no sooner lost mine honour, but my father, who, for his displeasure of my shame and folly, gave all his meanes from me, which before, right and nature had promised mee: and I may justly terme your sonne Mortaigne unkind, sith hee not onely refuseth to marry mee, but also to allow maintenance, either for my selfe, or his child. It is therefore to you, wanting and despairing of all other meanes friends and hopes, that with many blushes and teares, I presume to acquaint you with the poverty of my fortune, and the richnesse of my misery, the which I humbly request you both to pitie and relieve: at least if you will not, that your sonne may, who is the cause thereof: my love to him hath not deserved your hatred to me: and therefore in excusing my folly, or rather if you please, my youth, I hope you will be so charitable to the poore babe my son, that I shall not want for his sake, nor he for his fathers: or if yot will frowne, and not smile on mee, but rather triumph to see me lan∣guish and faint under the burthen of my poverty, yet vouchsafe to excuse his innocency, though you condemne mine errour: and so, if I must dye miserably, at least let mee carry this one content to my grave, that I may bee sure hee shall live happy. Nature cannot deny this Charity, and Grace will not excuse that cruelty.

IOSSELINA.

Whiles Iosselina flatters her selfe with hope,, that these Letters will procure her her desire and comfort, Mortaigne and Calintha his mother receive them. As for Mortaigne hee like a base Gentleman (whose curtesy was now turned into inhumanity) as much triumpheth in his owne sinne, as rejoyceth in Iosselina's foolish ambition and poverty. It is a felicity to him to thinke, that hee hath abused her youth, and betrayed her cha∣stity: and therefore hee now respecteth her so little, or rather dis-respecteth her so much, as her shame is his glory; her misery, his happinesse; and her affliction, his

content; yea hee no more thinks of her, but with disdaine and envy: for the beauty Varina hath quite defaced and blotted out that of Iosselina, neither doth this cruelty of Mortaigne end in her, but it beginnes in the pretty babe his sonne: for he so farre degenerateth from the lawes and principles of Nature, as hee not onely hates the Mo∣ther for the childes sake, but the child for his mothers sake: yea, hee is so farre from giving either of them maintenance, or both content, as hee scornes the Mother, and will no way either owne or relieve the child: and so burning his Letter, and for∣getting the contents thereof, hee very ingratefully and cruelly resolves to answer it with silence, and this is the best comfort which Iosselina and the poore young babe her sonne receive from Mortaigne. But I feare the worst is to come.

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

CALINTHA to IOSSELINA.

HAving beene so gracelesse to abuse my sonne, I wonder how thou darest be so impudent, as to offend mee with thy Letter, the which I had once thought rather to have burnt then read: but I finde it not strange, that being defective of thy body, thou art so of thy iudgement to thinke, that sith thine owne father gave all from thee, that I, who am a meere stranger to thee (as I wish thou hadst beene to my sonne) should afford or give thee any thing; neither doth this resolution of mine proceed from contempt, but charity; for as thou art a woman, I pitty thee, but as a strumpet, hold it no pity to relieve thee. Now then, despairing of any hope for thy selfe, thou pleadest for thy brat; but sith he is the object of thy shame, as thou art that of my sonne, and withall the cause, why should I looke on the child with compassion, sith I neither can, nor will see the mother but with disdaine and envy? Thou complainest of thy misfortune and misery, without considering that the Starres and Horoscope of thy base birth never pointed thee out for so high an estate, as of a clownes daughter, to become a Gentlemans wife: but thou must adde am∣bition to thy dishonesty, as if one of these two Vices were not enough powerfull to make thee misera∣ble. Thou doest likewise taxe my sonne of unkindnesse towards thee, without considering that hi•…•… love to thee, hath beene cruelty to himselfe: for as thou art like to buy his familiarity with teares, so, for ought I know, may hee thine with repentance: if thou expect any comfort, thou must hop•…•… for no other then this, that as my sonne disdaines to marry thee, so doe I, that either my selfe 〈◊〉〈◊〉

he relieve thee: looke then on thy selfe with shame, on thy child with repentance, whiles my sonne and I will remember yee both with contempt, but neither with pitty.

CALINTHA.

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

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

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

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

Ay me, Iosselina, thou art both the Author and the cause of thine owne misery, and

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now the better to dissemble his malice, he thinkes to reclaime and pacifie Iosselina, and so gives order that shee and her child be lodged in a better Inne in the same village of Villepont, and signifies her that he hath gotten a Nurse, and hath provided mainte∣nance for his sonne, and that shortly he will send his Lackey for him, but withall, that shee must keepe this very secret, because hee will not have his mother Calintha ac∣quainted therwith. Iosselina rejoyceth, and seemes to be revived at this pleasing newes: yea, shee beginnes to forget her former misery, and flatters her selfe with this hope,

that fortune will againe smile on her. So within three dayes, Mortaigne sends his Lac∣key, La Verdure to her for the babe: the which with many kisses and •…•…eares shee de∣livereth him, hoping that Mortaigne his father would bee carefull of his maintenance, and not so much as once dreaming, or conceiving that he had any intent to murther it. But she shall find the contrary; for henceforth she shall never see her babe, nor her babe her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

For La Palma comming home, his wife Isabella (as we have heard) being incensed with anger, and inflamed with jealousie, gives him this bitter entertainement and wel∣come: La Palma (quoth shee) you were very unkind, so soone to forsake your Whore Iosseli∣na. La Palma being pierced to the quicke with this bitter speech of his wife, like

a lewde fellow, gave her first the lye, and then termed her whore in speaking it. She hath fire in her lookes, and hee thunder in his speeches. So after many bitter and scandalous injuries banded one to the other, shee addes rage to her words, and hee a boxe on the eare to his choller, where with he fell'd her as dead to the ground; yea, the servants, and all that beheld it, crye out amaine, as if her soule had already taken her last farewell of her body. At this tumult the neighbours assemble, and deeming Isabella dead, they lay hands on La Palma her husband, and carry him be∣fore the Procurer, Fiscall of La Palisse, who was then in their Village of Villepont, who without further examination commits him to prison, and so goes in person to visit Isabella, who by this time is a little recovered, but not freed from the danger of death: She relates him all that had past betwixt her husband and her selfe: as also of his de∣parture with Iosselina, and of his long stay in Durency; adding withall, that he hath heretofore many times beaten her, and now she hopes, that this blow will not goe unpunished: yea, her rage, or rather Gods providence carries her so fatre, as she con∣stantly averres to the Magistrate, that if Iosselina be not her husbands strumpet, shee constantly beleeves hee is her Murtherer: and to conclude, saith, that her servant∣mayd Iaqueta can say more.

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

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

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

Wherefore, like a wise Magistrate, he holds it fit, the same night to send La Pal∣ma privately to La Palisse, as also his wife Isabella and Iaqueta for witnesses, and rides

thither himselfe, to sit upon his processe, with whom the Lievtennant of that juris∣diction joyned; but for Mounsieur de Vassye the Seneschall, hee (for the regard hee bore to Mortaigne, because hee vehemently suspected he had a deepe and chiefe hand in this businesse) would not bee present, but purposely absented himselfe at a house of his in the Countrey: the next morne La Palma is examined, as also the two wit∣nesses, and Iaqueta is confronted with him, who stands firme to her former disposi∣tion: But hee slatly denyes all. The Procurer and the Lievtennant adjudge him to the Racke. Hee indureth the first torment, but at the second confesseth that he and La Verdure had stifled, and murthered Iosselina in her bed, in his owne house, and had buried her in his Garden, and that they were set a worke and hyred to doe it by Moun∣sieur Mortaigne, who gave them two hundred Frankes to effect it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And this was the bloody end of Mortaigne, and his two hellish instruments, for murthering innocent Iosselina, and her silly and tender infant: May all Maydens learne by her example to preserve their chastities: and men, by La Verdures and La Palma's,

not to be drawne to shed innocent blood for the lucre of wealth and money; and by Mortaignes, to bee lesse lascivious, inhumane, and bloody: thereby to prevent so exe∣crable a life, and so infamous a death.

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

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

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

GODS REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXE∣crable sinne of Murther.

HISTORIE IV.

Beatrice-Ioana, to marry Alsemero causeth de Flores to murther Alonso Piracquo, who was a sutter to her. Alsemero marries her, and finding de Flores and her in adultery, kills them both. Tomaso Piracquo Challengeth Alsemero for his Brothers death. Alsemero kills him treacherously in the field, and is beheaded for the same, and his body throwne into the Sea: At his execution hee confesseth, that his wife and de Flores Murthered Alonso Piracquo: their bodies are taken up out of their graves, then burnt, and their ashes throwne into the ayre.

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

IN Valentia (an ancient and famous City of Spaine) there dwelt one Don Pedro de Alsemero, a Noble young Cavallier, whose father (Don Ivan Alsemero) being slaine by the Hollanders in the Sea fight at Gibralter, hee resolved to addict himselfe to Na∣vall

and sea actions, thereby to make himselfe capeable to revenge his fathers death: a brave resolution, worthy the affection of a sonne, and the Generosity of a Gen∣tleman!

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

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

For comming one morning to our Ladies Church at Masse, and being on his knees in his devotion, he espies a young Gentlewoman likewise on hers next to him who

being young, tender and faire, hee thorow her thinne vaile discovered all the perfecti∣ons of a delicate and sweet beauty, shee espies him feasting on the dainties of her pure and fresh cheekes; and tilting with the invisible lances of his eyes, to hers, he is in∣stantly ravished and vanquished with the pleasing object of this Angelicall counte∣nance, and now hee can no more resist either the power or passion of love.

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

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

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

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

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

Sir, as your devotions can neither bee pleasing to God, nor profitable to your soule, if in this place you account it a felicity to enjoy the sight of so meane a Gentlewo∣man as my selfe, so I cannot repute it to affection but flattery, that this poore beauty of mine (which you unjustly paint forth in rich prayses) should have power either to captivate the eyes, or which is more, to ravish the heart of so noble a Cavalier as your selfe. Such victories are reserved for those Ladies, who are as much your equall, as I

your inferiour: and therefore directing your zeale to them, if they find your affe∣ction such as you professe to mee, no doubt but regarding your many vertues and me∣rits, they will in honour grant you that favour which I in modesty am constrained to deny you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is both a griefe and a scandall to any true Christians heart, that the Church or∣ordained

for thankes giving and prayer unto God, should bee made a Stewes, or at least, a place for men to meet and court Ladies: but in all parts of the Christian world, where the Romane religion reigneth, this sinfull custome is frequently practised, especially in Italy and Spaine, where, for the most part, men love their Curtizans bet∣ter then their God: and it were a happinesse for France, if her popish Churches were freed of thisabomination, and her people of this impiety. But againe to our History.

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALSEMERO to BEATRICE-IOANA.

AS long as you were in Alicant, I deemed it a beaven upon earth, and being bound for Mal∣ta, a thousand times blessed that contrary winde which kept mee from embarking and say∣ling from you: yea, so sweetly did I affect, and so dearely honour your beauty, as I entered into a res•…•…lution with my selfe, to end my voyage e're I beganne it, and to beginne another, which I feare will end mee. If you demand, or desire to know what this second voyage is, know, faire Mistress•…•…, that my thoughts are so honourable, and my affection so religious, that it is the seeking of your favour, and the obtayning of your selfe to my wife, whereon not onely my fortunes, but my life depends. But how shall I hope for this honour, or flatter my selfe with the obtaining of so great a felicity, when I see you have not onely left mee, but which is worse, as I understand, the City for my sake? F•…•…ire Beatrice-Ioana, if your cruelty will make me thus miserable, I have no other consolation left me to sweeten the bitternesse of my griefe and misfortune, but a confident hope, that death will as speedily deprive mee of my dayes, as you have of my joyes.

ALSEMERO.

I know not whether it more grieved Beatrice-Ioana to leave Alicant, without taking her leave of Alsemero, then shee doth now rejoyce to receive this his Letter: for as that plunged her thoughts in the hell of discontent, so this raiseth them to the hea∣ven of joy: and as then shee had cause to doubt of his affection, so now she hath not

not onely reason to flatter, but to assure her selfe thereof: and therefore, though shee will not seeme at first to grant him his desire, yet shee is resolved to returne him an answere, that may give as well life to his hopes, as praise to her modestie. Her Letter is thus:

BEATRICE-IOANA to ALSEMERO.

AS I have many reasons to bee incredulous, and not one to induce mee to beleeve, that so poore a beautie of mine, should have power to stop so brave a Cavallier (as your selfe) from ending so honourable a Voyage as your first, or to perswade you to one so simple as your second; so I cannot but admire, that you in your Letter seeke mee for your Wife, when in your heart, I pre∣sume, you least desire it: and whereas you alledge your life and fortunes depend on my favour; I thinke you write it purposely, either to make tryall of your owne wit, or of my indiscretion, by endeavoring to see whether I will beleeve that which exceeds all beliefe; now as it true, that I haue left Alicant, so it is as true, that I left it not any way to afflict you, but rather to obey my father: for this I pray beleeve, that although I cannot be kinde, yet I will never bee cruell to you: Live therefore your owne friend, and I will never dye your enemy.

BEATRICE-IOANA.

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

ALSEMERO to BEATRICE-IOANA.

YOu have as much reason to assure your selfe of my affection, as I to doubt of yours: and if Words and Letters, Teares and Vowes, are not capable to make you beleeve the sinceritie of my zeale, and the honour of my affection: what resteth, but that I wish you could dive as deep∣ly into my heart, as my heart hath into your beautie, to the end you might bee both Witnesse and Iudge, if under heaven I desire any thing so much on earth, as to bee crowned with the fe∣licitie to see Beatrice-Ioana my wife, and Alsemero her husband? But why should I strive to perswade that, which you resolve not to beleeve, or flatter my selfe with any hope, sith I see I must bee so unfortunate to despaire? I will therefore hencefoorth cease to write, but never to love: and sith it is impossible for mee to live, I will prepare my selfe to die, that the World may know, I haue lost a most faire Mistresse in you, and you a most faithfull and constant Servant in mee.

ALSEMERO.

Beatrice-Ioana seeing Alsemero's constant affection, holds it now rather discretion, then immodestie to accept both his service and selfe, yea, her heart so delights in the greeablenesse of his person, and triumphs in the contemplation of his vertues, that shee either wisheth her selfe in Alicant with him, or hee in Briamata with her: but considering her affection to Alsemero by her Fathers hatred, and her hatred to Pi∣racquo, by his affection; shee thinkes it high time to informe Alsemero with what im∣patiencie

they both indeavour to obtaine her favour and consent, hoping that his discretion will interpose and finde meanes to stop the progresse of these their im∣portunities, and to withdraw her fathers inclination from Piracquo, to bestow it on himselfe: but all this while she thinkes her silence is an injury to Alsemero, and there∣fore no longer to bee uncourteous to him, who is so kinde to her, shee very secretly conveyes him this Letter:

BEATRICE-IOANA to ALSEMERO.

AS it is not for Earth to resist Heaven, nor for our wills to contradict Gods providence, so I cannot denye, but now acknowledge, that if ever I affected any man, it is your selfe: for your Letters, protestations, and vowes, but chiefely your merits, and the hope, or rather the assu∣rance of your fidelity, hath wonne my heart, from myselfe to give it you: but there are some important considerations, and reasons, that inforce mee to crave your secrecie herein, and to re∣quest you, as soone as conveniently you may, to come privately hither to me: for I shall never give content to my thoughts, nor satisfaction to my minde, till I am made joyfull with your sight, and happy with your presence. In the meane time mannage this affection of mine with care and dis∣cretion, and whiles you resolve to make Alicant your Malta, I will expect and attend your com∣ming with much longing and impatiencie. To Briamata.

BEATRICE-IOANA.

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

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

There needes but halfe a word to a sharpe and quicke understanding. Alsemero knowes it is the violence of her affection to him, that leades her to this disrespect and hatred to Piracquo, and because her content is his, yea, rather it is for his sake,

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

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

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

THOMASO to ALONSO PIRACQVO.

BEing more jealous of your prosperitie, then of mine owne; and knowing it many times falls out, that Lovers lose the clearenesse and soliditie of their judgement, in gazing and con∣templating on the Roses and Lillies of their Mistresses beauties: I desirous to prevent your dis∣grace, thought my selfe bound to signifie you, that I here understand by the report of those, whose speeches beare their perswasions with them, that your suite to Beatrice-Ioana is in vaine, and shee unworthie of your affection, because shee hath already contracted her selfe to Alsemero your Rivall: I am as sorry to bee the Herald of this newes, as glad and confident, that as shee hath matched your inferious, so you are reserved for her better: Wherefore Sir, recall your thoughts, tempt not impossibilities, but consider that the shortest errours are best; and though you love her well, yet thinke that at your pleasure you may finde varietie of Beauties,

whereunto hers deserves not the honour to doe homage. I could give no truce to my thoughts, till I had advertised you heereof, and I hope either the name of a brother, or your owne generositie, will easily procure pardon for my presumption.

THOMASO PIRACQVO.

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

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

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

Whiles Piracquo is at dinner with Vermandero, de Flores is providing him of a bloo∣dy banquet in the East Casmate, where, of purpose hee goes, and hides a naked sword and ponyard behinde the doore. Now dinner being ended, Piracquo finds out de Flores, and summons him of his promise: who tells him he is ready to wayt on him: so away they goe from the Walles to the Ravellins, Sconces and Bulwarkes, and

from thence by a Posterne to the Ditches: and so in againe to the Casemates, where∣of they have already viewed three, and are now going to the last, which is the Thea∣ter, whereon wee shall presently see acted a mournefull and bloudy Tragedy. At the descent hereof De Flores puts off his Rapier, and leaves it behinde him, treacherously informing Piracquo thar the descent is narrow and craggy. See here the policie and villany of this devillish and treacherous miscreant.

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

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

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

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

In fine, after many conferences, meetings, and complements, as Alsemero hath

heretofore wonne the affection of Beatrice-Ioana, so now at last hee obtaines likewise the favour and consent of Vermandero her father. And here our two Lovers, to their exceeding great content, and infinite joy, are united, and by the bond of marriage, of two persons made one, their Nuptialls being solemnized in the Castle of Alicant with much Pompe, State, and Bravery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Beatrice-Ioana, notwithstanding her husbands speeches, continueth her intel∣ligence with De Flores; yea, her husband no sooner rides abroad, but he is at Valen∣tia with her; and they are become so impudent, as what they did before secretly, they now in a manner doe publikely, or at least, with Chamber-doores open. Dia∣phanta knowing this to be a great scandall, as well to her Masters honour, as house, a∣gaine informes him thereof; who vowes to take a most sharpe revenge of this their infamy and indignity, as indeed he doth: for hee bethinkes himselfe (thereby to ef∣fect it) of an invention, as worthy of his jealousie, as of their first crime of Murther,

and of their second of Adultery: hee injoyneth Diaphanta to lay wayt for the ve∣ry houre that De Flores arrives from Alicant to Valentia, which shee doth; when in∣stantly pretending to his Wife a journey in the Country, hee very secretly and si∣lently having his Rapier and Ponyard, and a case of Pistols ready cha•…•…ged in his poc∣ket (seeming to take Horse) husheth himselfe up privately in his Studie, which was next adjoyning, and within his Bed-chamber.

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

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

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

But although this earthly Iudge have acquitted Alsemero of this fact, yet the Iudge of Iudges, the great God of Heaven, who seeth not onely our heart, but our thoughts, not onely our actions, but our intents, hath this and something else to lay to his charge: for hee (in his sacred providence, and divine Iustice) doth both remember and observe, first how ready and willing Alsemero was to ingage himselfe to Beatrice-Ioana

to kill Piracquo: then, though he consented not to his Murther, yet how he con∣cealed it, and brought it not to publike arraignement and punishment, whereby the dead body of Piracquo might receive a more honourable and Christian like Sepulchre: and if these crimes of his be not capable to deserve revenge and chastisement, Loe, hee is entring into a new, wilfull, and premeditated Murther, and doth so dishonou∣rably and treacheroubly performe it, as we shall shortly see him lose his life upon an infamous Scaffold, where hee shall finde no heart to pitty him, nor eye to bewaile him.

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

THOMASO PIRACQVO to ALSEMERO.

IT is with too much assurance, that I feare Beatrice-Ioana's vanity, and your rashnesse, hath bereaved mee of a Brother, whom I ever esteemed and prized farre dearer then my selfe: I were unworthy to converse with the World, much lesse to beare the honour and degree of a Gen∣tleman, if I should not seeke satisfaction for his death, with the hazard of mine owne life: for if a Friend be bound to performe the like courtesie and duety to his Friend, how much more a Brother to his Brother? Your Sword hath chastized Beatrice-Ioana's errour, and I must see whether mine be reserved to correct yours. As you are your selfe, meet mee at the foot of Glisse∣ran hill to morrow at five in the morning without Seconds, and it shall be at your choyce, either to use your Sword on Horse-backe, or your Rapier on foot.

THOMASO PIRACQVO.

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

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

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

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

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

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

assemble to see him passe, who as much pitty his person, as execrate and condemne his fact.

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

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

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

GODS REVENGE AGAINST THE CRYING AND EXE∣crable sinne of Murther.

HISTORIE V.

Alibius murthereth his Wife Merilla: hee is discovered, first by Bernardo, then by Emilia his owne daughter: so he is apprehended and hanged for the Fact.

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

IN the Parish of Spreare, some fifteene miles distant from the beautifull and noble City of Brescia (in the Territories of the Venetians) there dwelt a poore countrey man, termed Alibius, who could vaunt of no other wealth left him by his deceased parents, but that hee was a man of a comely stature and proportion, and withall, that they were of an honest fame and reputation: so if his vertues had answered theirs, his poverty had never proved so pernicious and fatall an enemy to him, as to ruine

his fortunes with his life, and his life with his fortunes: or had the vices of his soule not contaminated or stayned the perfections of his body, my pen had slept in si∣lence, and his History layne raked up in the dust of his grave: but sith his actions have exceeded the bounds both of nature and grace, yea, sith hee hath learned of the De∣vill to imbath his hands in poyson, and to imbrue them in innocent bloud, I (incou∣raged by the connivencie and silence of others) not out of any want of charity to the memory of dead Alibius, but in detestation of his bloudy resolution and actions, and chiefely and especially to the comfort and instruction of the living, who may ab∣horre his crime by the sight of his punishment: I have adventured and resolved to give this a place among the rest of my tragicall Histories, that Italie, as well as Brescia, and Spreare (and peradventure the whole Christian world with Italie) may understand thereof.

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

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

But wee need not goe farre for a Second: There is no pestilent Infection, nor infe∣ctious Pestilence to that of haunting and frequenting bad company; for it is a rocke, wherein many have suffered Shipwracke; it is a Fountaine that sends foorth many poysoned streames to those that tast or drinke thereof; yea, it is a Tree, whose fruit is by so much the more bitter to the stomacke, as it seemes pleasing to the palate, like Pilles of poyson candy'd in Sugar: and as that which most delights, most confounds the sense; so use breeding an habite, and habite a second nature, vicious company, whom wee take to bee our dearest friends, doe in fine prove our most dangerous ene∣mies, and so much the more dangerous, sith when wee would forsake them, wee can∣not;

which our Alibius will at last finde true in himselfe: yea, wee shall see him inforced to acknowledge it, as having bought and purchased it with a woefull and la∣mentable experience: for now hee beginnes to love Swearing, Whoredome, and Drunkennesse, that before hee hated; and to hate the Gospel of Christ, and the Pro∣fessours thereof, that before hee loved. A most wretched exchange, where we take from our soules, to give to our senses; and a woefull bargaine, where wee sell God, to buy the Devill.

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

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

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

The fourth reason of his distast of his Wife, was, that seeing time runne on in his swift cariere, and his prodigality still remayning, as also that his maske of his Wife's

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

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

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

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

Having thus pastaway many yeares abroad in service, and very seldome or never either seene Spreare, or visited his Merilla and Emelia: hee at last seeing of the one side, that age beganne to Snow on his head; and that the greatest wealth of a Ser∣ving-man,

was, to have onely a new Livery, and a full belly, to have many verball, but no reall friends, resolved to leave his service, as also his wife and daughter in Spreare: and so to travell to Venice, hoping there in some honest place, and imployment, to serve the Seigniorie, or at least some one of the Magnifico's or Clarissimo's: but then considering the charge of the journey, the weakenesse of his purse, and the uncertainty of his ad∣vancement and preferment, hee resolves for a time to sojourne in Brescia; and to watch if any occasion or accident presented, whereby hee might repaire and raise his fortunes.

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

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

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

Alibius seeing Philatea young, rich and faire, hee lookes on her more often then on her husbands testament: and so wishing his wife Merilla in his adopted kinsmans grave, and himselfe in Philatea's bed, hee bends his purposes and intents that way, as so ma∣ny lines that runne to their Center: yea, so strongly hath the devill possessed him with these hellish designes and bloody resolutions, as his love to Philatea, defacing his respect to Merilla, hee sees her a blocke in his way, and a stop to his preferment, and so concludes that shee must hee remooved and dispatched: to which effect, to draw his sinfull contemplation into bloudy action, hee rides over to Spreare to her; and un∣der colour of tender love and affection, hee in Milke, Wine, and rosted Apples, gives her poyson; when seeing it would not worke his desired effect, hee after takes an oc∣casion, purposely to quarrell with her, and so very lamentably (in presence of their daughter Emelia) reviles and beates her, and returnes to Brescia, still hoping that the

poyson yet might operate, and disperse it selfe in her veines, and that shortly hee should heare newes of her death. Loe here Alibius his first attempt in seeking to mur∣ther his Wife.

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

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

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

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

Returning againe to Brescia, it is not long before Philatea doth againe importune him to provide for the concealing and salving of her shame, alleadging that her time drew on, and that it was more then time to provide her a husband. Alibius, at these her second assummons, beginnes to looke about, and resolves at what rate, or in what manner soever, now to send his Wife into another world; yet (as I thinke, or ever understood) conceales his purpose from Philatea. Miserable wretch! had he not participated more of the nature of a Tyger, then a man, or of a Devill then a Ty∣ger, hee would never have layd violent hands on his owne Wife, whom earth and

heaven had made flesh of his flesh, and of two bodies one; yea, or had hee had so much grace to have considered, that the silver wand he bore before the Podestate, was for the scourging and punishing of sinne: Me thinks it should have made him more charitable, and not so bloudy to attempt it. But what will not lust enterprise, and Revenge execute, if wee neither feare God with our heartes, nor love him with our soules?

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

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

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

In this meane time, Pomerea runnes to the neerest neighbours, and divulgeth the Murther of her Grandmother. Many of the neighbours flock thither, to see this blou∣dy and woefull spectacle: the Corrigadors of Spreare are acquainted herewith: they send for Chirurgions, who visit the dead body, and report shee is both poisoned and beaten to death: they examine poore Pomerea, who relates what shee sees and knowes: the•…•… send every where to search for the Murtherer. By this time the newes hereof

comes to Brescia. Alibius (like a counterfet miscreant) is all in teares, yea, hee sheweth such living affection to the memory of his dead wife, as hee sends every where to find out the Murtherer. But God will not have him escape, for in due time wee shall see him brought forth and appeare to the world in his colours.

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

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

But as Murther pierceth the Cloudes, and cryes for revenge from Heaven, so wee shall see this of Alibius, miraculously discovered, and e're long, severely punished: for when hee thought the storme past, and saw the Skies cleere, when, I say, hee imagined that all rumours and tongues were hushed up in silence, and that hee thought on no∣thing else, but to passe his time sweetly and voluptuously with his new and faire wife Philatea, then, when all other meanes and instruments wanted, to bring this his obscure and bloudy fact to light: Lo, by the Divine providence of God, we shall see Alibius himselfe be the cause, and instrument of his owne discovery.

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

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

It may bee that what Merilla told her husband privately, hee discovered it publike∣ly to Bernardo: who comming (as wee have formerly heard) to Brescia, after his con∣ference with Alibius, hee fell to his old vaine of tippling and carowsing, and there without the North gate of Brescia (which lookes towards Bergamo) having more mo∣ney then wit, and more wine then money, in the middest of his cups, told hee was a Contadyne, or Countreyman of Spreare: that hee knew Alibius as great as now hee bore himselfe, and that hee Murthered his poore wife in the Countrey, to have this

fine one in the City. Which speeches of his hee reiterated and repeated often: yea, so often, as they fell not to the ground, but some of his •…•…ewd companions tooke no∣tice thereof; and one amongst the rest, being inwardly acquainted with Alibius, went and secretly advertised him hereof: who (under-hand) sends away for Bernardo where hee was, and wrought so with him, as since that time he was never seene in Brescia. But this report of his remained behind him.

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

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

The Corrigador being a wise and grave Gentleman, wondering at this lamentable newes, retaines Emelia in his house, and writes away to the Podestate of Brescia hereof: who receives this news on a Saturday at night. The Sunday morning he acquaints the Prefect and chiefest Senators therof: who repayre to his house. The probabilities and circumstances are strong against Alibius. So they all conclude to imprison him: he is at the doore, ruffling in his garded gown and velvet cap, with his silver wand in his hand (as if hee were fitter to checke others then to be controuled himselfe:) wayting to conduct the Podestate to the Domo. Alibius little dreames how neere hee is to danger, or danger to him: hee is by an Isbiere or Serjeant called in to speake with the Pode∣state: and although his conscience inwardly torment him, yet hee puts a good (or at least a brazen) countenance on all, and so very cheerefully comes before him: at his first arrivall, his velvet cap and silver wand (those dignified markes of honour and ju∣stice) are taken from him, and consequently his office: (because these are rewards onely proper to vertue, and not to vice) hee is examined by those worthy Magistrates,

who beare gravity in their lookes, wisedome in their speeches, and justice in their acti∣ons. Alibius hath many smooth words, for the defence of his crime, which with the ayd and varnish of his gracefull gesture, hee strives to extenuate and palliate, but in vaine: for hee hath to doe with those Magistrates, who cannot bee deluded, or carri∣ed away, either with the sugar of a lye, or the charme of an evasion. So they com∣mit him close prisoner, where hee hath both time and leasure to thinke on the foule∣nesse of his fact, and the unnaturalnesse and barbarisme of his cruelty.

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

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

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

Thus these high and Honourable Iudges (being in number two for every division) having dispatcht their businesse (or rather that of the Seigniories) in Padua, Vincensa, Virona and Bergamo, are now arrived in Brescia, in the Castle whereof, (which is both beautifull and conspicuous to the eye) they keepe their Forum and Tribunall. And because this Citie is exempted from the Province, as being particularly indowed with a peculiar jurisdiction, and honoured with many honourable priviledges and pre∣rogatives: therefore (Merilla being Murthered in the Province) Alibius is fetched out of his first prison, and by one of the chiefest and gravest Senators deputed for that

purpose by the Podestate, and Senate, conducted and conveyed to the Castle, there to bee arraigned by those two great Iudges: and although this aforesaid Senator was so wise and religious, as hee seemed to have the art of perswasion in his speeches: yet by the way, using his best oratory and charity to draw Alibius from denyall, to confes∣sion, and from that to contrition and repentance, his heart was still so perverse and obdurate, as hee notwithstanding persevered in his willfull obstinacy, and peremptori∣ly continued and stood upon the points of his innocency, and justification. So strong was the Divell yet with him:

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

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

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

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

And now to close and winde up this History, after the Iury impannelled had am∣ply

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

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

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

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

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

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

other condemned malefactors) an infinite number of the Citizens of Brescia, (of all rankes and of both sexes) assembled to see Alibius take his last farewell of this World.

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

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

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

To God bee all Glory and prayse.

FINIS.