cency to God is the sweetest incense, and a conscience without guilt is a sacrifice of the purest savour'. What, though I be blamed? if my life be lent me, my honour will be recovered; for, as God will not suffer a murder to escape without punishment, so he will not let the wrong of the innocent go to his grave without revenge. Though thou be banished, ABSTEMIA, yet comfort thyself; account each country thine own, and every honest man thy neighbour; let thy life be mean, so shalt thou not be looked into, for envy creepeth not so low as cottages; reeds bend with the wind, when cedars fall with a blast: poor men rely lightly of fortune, because they are too weak for fortune, when higher states feel her force, because they nursle in her bosom3: acquaint not thyself with many, lest thou fall into the hands of flatterers', for the popular sorts' have more eyes

and longer tongues than the rich: seem courteous to all, but converse with few; and let thy virtues be much spoken, though thyself live never so private. Hold honesty more dear than thy life; and be thou never so poor, yet be chaste; and choose rather to starve in the streets, than live daintily at a lecher's table. If, as thou art beautiful, ABSTEMIA, any fall in love with thy favours, and what he cannot win by suits will seek to get by force, and so ravish thee of thy richest glory, choose rather to be without breath, than live with such a blemish'. Thou art friendless in Sicilia, and though thou complainest, thou shalt not be heard: might overcomes right, and the weakest are still thrust to the wall.

"To prevent, therefore, constraint in love in the greatest prince, I have provided (quoth she) a poison in the seal of my ring, as deadly as it is little, resolving as stoutly as Hannibal did, who held the like in the pommel of his sword, and chose rather to die free, than fall into the hands of Scipio. So, before any lecher shall force me to satisfy his passion, I will end my life with this fatal poison. So, ABSTEMIA, shalt thou die more honourably, which is more dear than to live disgraced; enough is a feast; poor wench, what needs these solemn preachings? Leave these secret dumps, and fall to thy lute, for thou shalt have time enough to think of sorrow." And with that she tuned her strings, and in a merry vein played three or four pleasant lessons, and at last sung to herself this conceited ditty.

AN ODE.

What is love once disgraced?
But a wanton thought ill placed,

1 Dearer than life is spotless chastity.
Titus Andronicus.

Which doth blemish whom it paineth,
And dishonours whom it deigneth,
Seen in higher powers most,
Though some fools do fondly boast,
That who so is high of kin,

Sanctifies his lover's sin.

Jove could not hide Io's scape,

Nor conceal Calisto's rape.

Both did fault, and both were framed,

Light of loves, whom lust had shamed.
Let not women trust to men;

They can flatter now and then,
And tell them many wanton tales,
Which do breed their after bales.

Sin in kings is sin we see,

And greater sin, 'cause great of 'gree. Majus peccatum, this I read,

If he be high that doth the deed.

Mars, for all his deity,

Could not Venus dignify;

But Vulcan trap'd her, and her blame

Was punish'd with an open shame.
All the gods laugh'd them to scorn,
For dubbing Vulcan with the horn.
Whereon may a woman boast,
If her chastity be lost.

Shame await❜h upon her face,

Blushing cheeks and foul disgrace;
Report will blab, this is she
That with her lust wins infamy.
If lusting love be so disgrac'd,

Die before you live unchaste:
For better die with honest fame,

Than lead a wanton life with shame.

As soon as PHILOMELA had ended her ditty, she laid down her lute, and fell to her book. But TEBALDO having heard all her secret meditation, was driven into such a maze with the conceit of her incomparable excellency, that he stood as much astonished to hear her chaste speeches, as Acteon to see Diana's naked beauties. Entering with a piercing insight into her virtues, and perceiving she was some greater personage than he at the first took her for, his love was so quailed with the rareness of her qualities, that he rather endeavoured to honour her as a saint, than to love her as a paramour: desire now began to change to reverence, and affection to an honest devotion, that he shamed he once thought any way lust towards so virtuous a creature.

Thus metamorphosed, he stepped into her cabin, and found her reading, to whom he did shew more than accustomed reverence, which PHILOMELA returned with equal courtesy.

At last, he told her, how he had heard her lamentable discourse of her misfortune, and the honourable resolution of her honesty ; which did so tie him to be devoted towards her, that if, when she came into Palermo, his poor house might serve her for a lodging, it and all therein, with himself and his wife, should be at her command. PHILOMELA thanked him heartily for his kind and courteous proffer, and promised to her ability not to be ungrateful.

Well, leaving her under sail towards Palermo, to Seignior GIOVANNI LUTESIO, who, harbouring a hateful intent of revenge in his mind against the Count PHILIPPO, thought to pay him home pat in his lap; and therefore making as speedy a dispatch as might be of his affairs, he takes his journey from Venice towards the Duke of Milan's court, the father of PHILOMELA, to whom he had recounted what had happened to his daughter, what had chanced to him, and how great dishonour was offered to him by her husband.

The Duke, although these news touched him at the quick, yet

dissembled the matter, and began in great choler to upbraid LuTESIO, that no doubt the Earl did it upon just cause, or else neither would he have wronged a wife whom so tenderly he loved, neither rejected a friend whom he so dearly honoured; nor yet the Duke and Senate of Venice would have yielded so peremptory and hard a sentence, as either banishment to him, or divorce to her. To this LUTESIO made reply, that the Earl, to prove his surmised articles true, had suborned slaves, that were Genoese, to perjure themselves.

He shewed the Duke the letters that passed between him and his daughter, and the reason why he wrote them. But all this could not satisfy the Duke's opinion; but he charged his gentlemen to lay hands on LUTESIO, and to carry him to prison until he had further trial of the matter, swearing, if he found him to have played false with his daughter, neither should his banishment excuse him, nor her divorce; for he would have both their lives, for offering dishonour to the house of Milan.

Upon this censure of the Duke, LUTESIO was carried to prison, and the Duke left mightily perplexed; who began to cast in his mind many doubts of this strange chance, vowing in his heart a fatal revenge upon PHILIPPO, for blemishing his daughter's honour with such open infamy.

When thus the Duke was in a heavy suspicion, one of the Genoese, whose conscience tormented him, ran away from Venice, and came to Milan; where coming to the Duke's palace, he desired to speak with his Grace from the Count PHILIPPO. Being brought straight unto him, as soon as he came into his presence, he kneeled down, trembling, and besought him for mercy.

The Duke, astonished at the strange terror of the man, demanded of him what he was, and from whence he came.

The slave told him that he was born at Genoa, and had been