5-10, Pietro di Vinciolo, wife, Ercolano

NOVEL X. 

Pietro di Vinciolo goes to sup at a friend's house; his wife, in the meantime, has her gallant: Pietro returns, when she hides him under a chicken coop. Pietro relates, that a young fellow was found in Ercolano's house, where he supped, who had been concealed by his wife. Pietro's wife blames very much the wife of Ercolano: meanwhile an ass happening to tread on the young man's fingers who lay hidden, he cries out. Pietro runs to see what is the matter, and finds out the trick. At length they make it up. 

The queen had now made an end, and every one was pleased with Federigo's good fortune, when Dioneo thus began: - I know not whether I should term it a vice, accidental, and owing to the depravity of our manners; or whether it be not rather a national infirmity, to laugh sooner at bad things than those which are good, especially when they no way concern ourselves. Therefore, as the pains which I have before taken, and am also now to undergo, aim at no other end but to drive away melancholy, and to afford matter for mirth and laughter, although, charming ladies, some part of the following novel be not altogether so modest, yet, as it may make you merry, I shall venture to relate it. You may do in this case, as when you walk in a garden, that is, pick the roses, and leave the briars behind you. Just so you may leave the vile fellow to his own evil reflections, and laugh at the amorous wiles of his wife, having that regard for other people's misfortunes which they deserve. 

There dwelt not long since in Perugia, a very rich man, named Pietro di Vinciolo, who took to him a wife, more, perhaps, to deceive people, and diminish the bad opinion of him universally entertained in Perugia, than for anything else. Fortune was so far conformable to his inclinations, that the wife he found was a young, buxom, red-haired woman, who required two husbands rather than one. Consequently, they had continual jars and animosities together, whilst she would often argue with herself in this way: 

"This wretch abandons me to follow his infamous propensities. I made choice of him for a husband, and brought him a good fortune, knowing he was a man, and supposing he was fond of what men ought to be fond of. If I had thought he was not a man I would never have had him. He knew I was a woman; why did he take me for his wife if he disliked women? This is not to be borne. Had I been disposed to renounce the world, I would have shut myself up in a nunnery at once. I shall have old age overtake me before I know one good day, and then it will be too late to expect it." Full of such reflections as these, and resolved to indemnify herself for her husband's neglect, she went at last and made her case known to a sanctified old crone, who was perpetually saying over her Pater Nosters, and would talk of nothing else but the lives of the holy fathers, and the wounds of St. Francis. 

"My daughter," said the old woman, when the lady had made known her grievances, and her intention of providing a remedy for them, "the Lord knows you will do quite right; and if it was for nothing else, you and every young woman ought to do the same in order not to lose the good time of youth; for there is no sorer grief to any one of right understanding, than to have wasted precious time. When we are grown old what the devil are we good for, but to sit in the chimney corner, and keep the fire warm? If there's ne'er another can bear true testimony to this, at least I can; for never can I think, without bitter anguish of spirit, on the time I let slip without profit. I did not lose it all, mind; I would not have you suppose I was such a ninny; but I did not get all the good out of it I might. When I call this to mind, and that I am now come to be what you see me, with never a chance of any one giving me a spark of fire to light my tinder, God knows what a heart's grief it is to me. It is not so with men; they are born good for a great many things besides this we are talking of, and the greater part of them are more esteemed in their old age than when they are young. But women are good for nothing but to bear children, or to be made use of to get them, and it is for that they are courted. If you want anything to make this clear to you, you have only to consider that women are always ready, but the men are not; besides, one woman can give enough to do to many men, but several men could not cloy one woman. Since then we are born for this, I say again that you will do quite right to give your husband tit-for-tat, so that when you grow old your soul may have no cause to upbraid your body. In this world everybody gets what he helps himself to, and no more, and this is especially the case with women, who have much more reason than men to make good use of their time while they may; for when we grow old neither our husbands, nor any one else, will look upon us, but they send us into the kitchen to talk to the cat, and count the pots and pans. Nay, what is worse they make rhymes upon us, and jibe us, saying, "Tit bits for the young, refuse for the old." The long and the short of the matter, my dear, is this: you could not have made choice of a fitter person than myself to open your mind to, or one that knows better how to help you. There is not the proudest man that wears a head, but I dare tell my mind to, nor the stubbornest, and most uncivil, but I can make fain to follow my leading. Let me only know who it is that best pleases you, and leave the rest to me. But there is one thing, my dear, I would beg you to bear in mind, that is, that I am a poor body, and I would have you partake the benefit of all my pardons and Pater Nosters." 

It was then agreed that if the old woman should meet a certain gentleman in the street, whom the lady described to her, she should know what to do; and, upon this, the lady gave her a piece of salt meat, and sent her away. In a short time the old woman secretly brought her the person she desired, and others afterwards from time to time, according to the lady's fancy, which was a very lively one, and which she gratified as diligently as the fear in which she stood of her husband would allow her. One evening it happened that Pietro being engaged to sup with a friend of his, called Ercolano, the lady made the old woman bring her one of the handsomest and most engaging striplings in all Perugia; but she and her gallant were no sooner seated at table, than Pietro was heard knocking at the door. She was frightened out of her wits, and wishing to hide the youth somewhere or other, and not knowing where to put him better, she covered him with a hen-coop, which stood in a porch adjoining the supper-room, and throwing an empty sack over it, ran to open the door, saying, "Why husband, you have soon made an end of your supper." - "I have not tasted one morsel." - "How comes that?" -"I will tell you," said Pietro, "how it was." 

"Ercolano, his wife, and myself, were all sat down, when he heard somebody sneeze; this we did not regard for once or twice, but when it happened three, four, or five times, it naturally surprised us: and Ercolano (who was vexed that his wife had made him wait some time at the door before she let him in) said, in a passion, "What is the meaning of this? Who is it that sneezes in this manner?" And getting up from the table, he went towards the stairs, under which was a cupboard, made to set things out of the way, and supposing the sound come thence, he opened the door, when there immediately issued out the greatest stench of sulphur that could be, though we had perceived something of it before. 

Ercolano and his wife had some words about it; when she told him that she had been whitening her veils with brimstone, and had set the pan, over which she had laid them to receive the steam, in that place, and she supposed it continued yet to smoke. After he had opened the door, and the smoke was a little dispersed, he espied the sneezer, who was still hard at it under the pungent influence of the sulphur; but though he continued sneezing, yet he was so near suffocation, that in a very little time more, he would neither have done that, nor anything else. Ercolano, seeing the person at last, cried out, “so, madam! I now see why you made us wait so long at the door, but let me die if I do not pay you as you deserve." The wife, finding that she was discovered, rose from the table without making any excuse, and went I know not whither. Ercolano, not perceiving that his wife was fled, called upon the man that sneezed, and ordered him to come out; but, notwithstanding all he could say, the other never offered to stir, nor indeed was he able. Ercolano at last drew him out by the foot, and was running for a knife to kill him, but I, fearing to be drawn into some difficulty myself about it, would not suffer him to put the fellow to death; but defended him, and called out to the neighbours, who came and carried him away. This spoiled our supper, and I have not had one bit, as I told you." 

The lady hearing this account, saw that other women were of the same disposition with herself, although some proved more unlucky than others. She would gladly have vindicated Ercolano's wife, but that she thought by blaming the faults of other people, to make the way more open for her own; so she began: - "Here is a fine affair, truly! this is your virtuous and good woman, who seemed so spiritually-minded always, that I could have confessed myself to her upon occasion. What is worse, she is old: a fine example she sets to young people! Cursed be the hour of her birth, and herself also; vile woman as she is! to be a disgrace to her whole sex; to be so mindless of her own honour, and her plighted faith to her husband, as not to be ashamed to injure so deserving a person, and one who had been always so tender of her! As I hope for mercy, I would have none on such prostitutes, they should every soul of them be burnt alive." Now calling to mind her own spark who was concealed, she began to fondle her husband, and would have had him go to bed, but he, who had more stomach to eat than sleep, asked whether she had anything for supper. "Yes, truly," quoth she, "we are used to have suppers when you are from home. I should fare better were I Ercolano's wife, my dear; now do go to bed." 

That evening it happened that some of Vinciolo's labourers had come with some things out of the country, and had put their asses, without giving them any water, into a stable near the porch. One of the asses slipped his halter, being very thirsty, and went smelling everywhere for drink, till he came to the coop under which the young man was hidden. 

Now he was forced to lie flat on his belly, and one of his fìngers, by strange ill fortune, was uncovered, so that the ass trod upon it, which made him cry out most terribly. Pietro wondered to hear such clamour in the house, and fìnding it continued, the ass still squeezing the finger close, he called aloud, "Who is there?" Then running to the coop, and turning it up, he saw the young man, who, besides the great pain he had suffered, was frightened to death lest Pietro should do him some mischief. Pietro asked him what business he had there; to which he made no reply, but begged he would do him no harm. "Get up," said Pietro, "I shall not hurt you, only tell me how you came hither, and upon what account! " The young man confessed everything; whilst Pietro, full as glad that he had found him, as his wife was sorry, brought him into the room where she sat, in all the terror imaginable, expecting him. Seating himself now before her, he said, "Here, you that were so outrageous at Ercolano's wife, saying that she should be burnt, and that she was a scandal to you all; what do you say now of yourself? Or how could you have the assurance to utter such things with regard to her, when you knew yourself to be equally guilty? You are all alike, and think to cover your own transgressions by other people's mistakes: I wish a fire would come from heaven, and consume you altogether, for a perverse generation as you are." The lady, now seeing that he went no further than a few words, put a good face on the matter, and replied, "Yes, I make no doubt but you would have us all destroyed; for you are as fond of us as a dog of a stick. You do well to compare me to Ercolano's wife, who is an ugly, hypocritical old woman, and he one of the best of husbands, that gives her what she likes; whereas, you know it is the reverse with regard to us two; I would sooner go in rags, were you what you ought to be, than to have everything in plenty, and you continue the same person you have always been." Pietro found she had matter enough to serve her the whole night, and having no mind to hear more, said "Enough for the present, madam; I will take care that you shall have more comfort for the time to come; only do me the great favour to see and get us something for supper, for I suppose this young spark is fasting as well as myself." - "´Tis very true," she replied, "for we were going to sit down when you unluckily came to the door." - "Then go and get something," he said, "and after supper I will settle this matter in such a way as will leave you no cause for complaint." She, finding her husband was satisfied, went instantly about it, and they all three supped cheerfully together. What followed I cannot pretend to tell you, but it was said next day in Perugia that the husband was revenged in his own way, and the wife not displeased. 

[The greater part of this tale is taken from the ninth book of the Golden Ass, of Apuleius. It also bears a strong resemblance to the thirty-first and thirty-third novels of Girolamo Morlini.] 

If Dioneo's novel was not much laughed at by the ladies it was not for want of mirth, but from modesty. The queen, seeing that there was an end of the novels of her day, arose, and taking the crown from her own head, placed it upon Eliza's, saying, "Madam, now it is your business to command:" Eliza, taking upon herself the honour, gave the same orders to the master of the household, as had been done in the former reigns, with regard to what was necessary during her administration; she then said, "We have often heard that many people by their ready wit and smart repartees, have not only blunted the keen satire of other persons, but have also warded off some imminent danger. Then, as the subject is agreeable enough, and may be useful, I will that tomorrow's discourse be to that effect: namely, of such persons as have retorted some stroke of wit which was pointed at them; or else, by some quick reply, or prudent foresight, have avoided either danger, or derision." This was agreeable to the whole assembly, and the queen now gave them leave to depart till the hour of supper; at that time they were called together and sat cheerfully down as usual. When supper was over, Emilia was ordered to begin a dance, and Dioneo to sing. But he, attempting to sing what the queen disapproved, she said, with some warmth, "Dioneo, I will have none of this ribaldry; either sing us a song fit to be heard, or you shall see that I know how to resent it." At these words he put on a more serious countenance, and began the following 

SONG. 

Cupid, the charms that crown my fair, 

Have made me slave to you and her. 

The lightning of her eyes, 

That darting through my bosom flies, 

Doth still your sov'reign power declare. 

At your control 

Each grace binds fast my vanquish'd soul. 

Devoted to your throne 

From henceforth I myself confess. 

Nor can I guess 

If my desires to her be known; 

Who claims each wish, each thought so far. 

That all my peace depends on her. 

Then haste, kind godhead, and inspire 

A portion of your sacred fire; 

To make her feel 

That self-consuming zeal,

The cause of my decay, 

That wastes my very heart away. 

When Dioneo had made an end, the queen called for several other songs, but his, nevertheless, was highly commended; afterwards, great part of the evening being spent, and the heat of the day sufficiently damped by the breezes of the night, she ordered them all to go and repose themselves till the following day. 

THE FOURTH DAY. NOVEL I. Tancred, Prince of Salerno,

THE FOURTH DAY. 

The sun had now driven all the stars from the heavens, and dispelled the vapours of the night from the earth, when Filostrato arose, and ordered all the company to be called. They walked then into the garden, and dined, when the time came, where they had supped the preceding night. Taking a nap afterwards, whilst the sun was at its height, they returned at the usual time to the fountain side. Here Filostrato commanded Fiammetta to begin, who spoke in a soft agreeable manner, as follows. 

NOVEL I. 

Tancred, Prince of Salerno, puts his daughter's lover to death, and sends his heart to her in a golden cup; she pours poison upon it, which she drinks, and dies. 

Our king has given us a most melancholy subject for this day's discourse; considering, that we who came hither to be merry, must now recount other people's misfortunes, which cannot be related without moving compassion, as well in those who tell, as in those who hear them. Perhaps it is designed as an alloy to the mirth of the preceding days. But whatever his reason may be for it, I have no business to make any alteration in what he has been pleased to decree. I shall, therefore, mention an unhappy story to you, worthy of your most tender compassion. 

Tancred, prince of Salerno, was a most humane and generous lord, had he not in his old age defiled his hands in a lover's blood. Through the whole course of his life he had only one daughter; and happy had he been not to have possessed her. No child could be more dear to a parent than she was, and so loath was he to part with her, that she had been many years of marriageable age before he could bring himself to bestow her on a son of the Duke of Capoa. But she was soon left a widow, and came home again to her father. She was a lady of great beauty and understanding, and continuing thus in the court of her father, who took no care to marry her again, and it seeming not so modest in her to ask it, she resolved at last to have a lover privately. Accordingly she made choice of a person of low parentage, but noble qualities, whose name was Guiscard, with whom she became violently in love, as he did with her. Such being their secret feelings, the lady who desired nothing so much as to be with Guiscard, and did not dare to trust any person with the affair, contrived a new stratagem in order to apprize him of the means. She wrote a letter, wherein she mentioned what she would have him do the next day for her; this she put into a hollow cane, and giving it to him one day, she said, pleasantly, "You may make a pair of bellows of this, for your servant to blow the fire with this evening." He took the cane, supposing very justly that she had some covert meaning, and, opening it at home he found the letter, which filled him with the utmost joy; and he immediately took measures to meet her in the manner she had directed him. 

On one side of the palace, and under a mountain, was a grotto, which had been made time out of mind, and into which no light could come but through a little opening dug in the mountain, and which, as the grotto had been long in disuse, was grown over with briars and thorns. Into this grotto was a passage, by a private stair-case, out of one of the rooms of the palace, which belonged to the lady's apartment, and was secured by a very strong door. This passage was so far out of every one's thoughts, having been disused for so long a time, that nobody remembered anything about it: but love, whose notice nothing can escape, brought it fresh into the mind of the enamoured lady. To keep this thing entirely private, she laboured all alone some days before she could gee the door open; when, having gone down into the cave, and observed the opening, and how high it might be from the bottom, she acquainted Guiscard with these details. He then provided a ladder of cords; and casing himself well with leather, to defend him from the thorns, he fixed one end of the ladder to the stump of a tree which was near, and slid down by the help of it to the bottom, where he stayed, expecting the lady. The following day, therefore, having sent her maids out of the way, under pretence that she was going to lie down, and locking herself up alone in her chamber, she open the door and descended into the grotto, where she met her paramour to their intense mutual satisfaction. Thence she shewed him the way to her chamber, where they were together the greatest part of the day, and, after they had taken proper measures for the time to come, he went away through the cave, and she returned to her maids. He did the same the next night; and he followed this course for a considerable time, till fortune, as if she envied them their happiness, thought fit to change their mirth into mourning. 

Tancred used sometimes to come into his daughter's chamber, to pass away a little time with her. Going thither, quite unperceived, one day after dinner, whilst Ghismond (that was the lady's name) was with her maids in the garden; and, not wishing to take her from her diversion, finding also the windows shut, and the curtains drawn to the feet of the bed, he threw himself down in a great chair, which stood in a corner of the room, leaned his head upon the bed, drew the curtain before him, as if he concealed himself on purpose, and fell asleep. In the meantime, Ghismond, having made an appointment with her lover, left the maids in the garden, and came into her chamber, which she secured, not thinking of any person being there. Then she went to meet Guiscard, who was in the cave waiting for her, and brought him into her chamber; when her father awoke, and was a witness to all that passed between them. This was the utmost affliction to him, and he was about to cry out, but upon second thoughts he resolved to keep the matter private if possible, that he might be able to do more securely, and with less disgrace, what he had resolved upon. The lovers stayed together their usual time, without perceiving anything of Tancred, who, after they were departed, got out of the window into the garden, old as he was, and went, without being seen by any one, very sorrowful to his chamber. 

The next night, according to his orders, Guiscard was seized by two men as he was coming out of the cave, and carried by them in his leathern doublet to Tancred, who, as soon as he saw him, said, with tears in his eyes, "Guiscard, you have ill requited my kindness towards you, by this outrage and shame which you have brought upon me, and of which this very day I have been an eye-witness." Guiscard made no other answer but this: "sir, love has greater power than either you or I." Tancred then ordered that he should be kept in secret custody. The next day he went to his daughter's apartment as usual (she knowing nothing of what had happened), and, after locking the door, said to her, weeping, "Daughter, I had such an opinion of your modesty and virtue, that I could never have believed, had I not seen it with my own eyes, that you would have violated either, even so much as in thought. The recollection of this will make the pittance of life that is left very grievous to me. As you were determined to act in that manner, would to Heaven you had made choice of a person more suitable to your own quality; but this Guiscard is one of the very meanest persons about my court. This gives me such concern, that I scarcely know what to do. As for him, he was secured by my order last night, and his fate is determined. But with regard to yourself, I am influenced by two different motives; on one side, the tenderest regard that a father can have for a child; and on the other, the justest vengeance for the great folly you have committed. One pleads strongly in your behalf; and the other would excite me to do an act contrary to my nature. But, before I come to a resolution, I would hear what you have to say for yourself."  And when he said this, he hung down his head, and wept like a child. 

She, hearing this from her father, and perceiving that their amour was not only discovered, but her lover in prison, with difficulty refrained from breaking out into loud and grievous lamentations, as is the way of women in distress; but she conquered this weakness, and putting on a settled countenance, resolved firmly in her own mind not to outlive her Guiscard, who she supposed was already dead. With the utmost composure, therefore, she spoke to this effect: "Father, it is not my purpose either to deny, or to entreat; for as the one can avail me nothing, so I intend the other shall be of little service. I will by no means bespeak your love and tenderness towards me; but shall first, by an open confession, endeavour to vindicate myself, and then do what the greatness of my soul prompts me to. It is most true that I have loved, and do still love, Guiscard; and whilst I live, which will not be long, shall continue to love him; and if such a thing as love be after death, I shall never cease to love him. To this I was induced, not so much by female frailty, as by his superior worth, and the little care you took to marry me again. It ought to have been plain to you that, as you are made of flesh and blood, your daughter was not stone or iron, and you should have remembered, though now you are old, what is the nature and force of youthful passions; and as your best years have been spent in part in the toils of war, you should the better have known what are the effects of ease and indulgence, not alone on the young, but even on the old. I am then a creature of flesh and blood; I am still young; and for both reasons possessed with desires which have become the more intense because having been married I have known the pleasure derived from gratifying them. Unable, then, to resist their force, I determined to obey their impulse; and, with all the power of my soul, I resolved, that so far as in me lay, no shame should befall you or me from that to which a natural weakness impelled me. In this I was favoured by Love and Fortune, who showed me a very secret way by which, unperceived by any one, I attained my wishes; and this, whoever disclosed it to you, or however you came to know"it, I do not deny. I did not take up with Guiscard by accident, as many do, but I chose him deliberately before all others, admitted him to my chamber with settled forethought, and with resolute perseverance on his part and mine, I long enjoyed my desires. It appears from what you say, that you would have been less incensed if I had made choice of a nobleman, and you bitterly reproach me for having condescended to a man of low condition. In this you speak according to vulgar prejudice, and not according to truth; nor do you perceive that the fault you blame is not mine, but fortune's, who often exalts the unworthy, and leaves the worthiest in low estate. But, not to dwell on such considerations, look a little into first principles, ancl you will see that we are all formed of the same materials, and by the same hand. The first difference amongst mankind, who are all born equal, was made by virtue; they who were virtuous were deemed noble, and the rest were all accounted otherwise. Though this law, therefore, may have been obscured by contrary custom, yet is it discarded neither by nature nor good manners. If then you regard only the worth and virtue of your courtiers, and consider that of Guiscard, you will find him the only noble person, and the others a set of poltroons. With regard to his worth and valour, I appeal to yourself. Who ever commended man more for everything that was praise-worthy, than you have commended him? and deservedly, in my judgment; but if I was deceived, it was by following your opinion. If you say, then, that I have had an affair with a person base and ignoble, I deny it; if with a poor one, it is to your shame, to let such merit go unrewarded. Now, concerning your last doubt, namely, how you are to deal with me, use your pleasure. If you are disposed to commit an act of cruelty, I shall say nothing to prevent such a resolution. But this I must apprize you of, that unless you do the same to me, which you either have done, or mean to do to Guiscard, my own hands shall do it for you. Leave tears then to women; and if you mean to act with severity, cut us off both together, if it appear to you that we have deserved it." 

The prince knew full well the greatness of his daughter's soul; yet he could by no means persuade himself, that she would have resolution enough to do what her words seemed to threaten. Dismissing, then, all thoughts of doing her hurt in person, and intending to wean her affection from her lover by taking him off, he gave orders to the two men, who guarded Guiscard, to strangle him privately in the night, and to take his heart out of his body, and bring it to him.

They executed his commands, and the next day Tancred called for a golden cup, and putting the heart into it, he had it conveyed by a trusty servant to his daughter, with this message: "Your father sends this present to comfort you with what was most dear to you; even as he was comforted by you in what was most dear to him." She had remained unshaken in her resolution since her father left her, and therefore had prepared the juices of some poisonous plants, which she had mixed with water, to be at hand if what she feared should come to pass. When the servant had delivered the present, and the message, she took the cup, without changing countenance, and seeing the heart therein, and knowing by the servant's words that it must be Guiscard 's, she looked steadfastly at the man, and said, "My father has done very wisely; such a heart as this requires no worse a sepulchre than one of gold." Then she lifted it to her mouth and kissed it, saying: "All my life long, even to this last period of it, have I found my father's love most abundant towards me; but now, more than ever: therefore return him in my name the last thanks that I shall ever be able to give him for such a present." Looking then towards the cup, which she held fast in her hand, she said: "Alas! dearest end and centre of all my wishes! Cursed be the cruelty of him, by whom these eyes now see you; although my soul hath long viewed and known you. You have finished your course; such a one indeed as fortune has thought fit to allot you; you are arrived at the goal to which we all tend; you have left the miseries of this world far behind, and have obtained such a sepulchre from your very enemy, as your merit required. Nothing remained to make your obsequies complete, but the tears of her who was so dear to you whilst you were living; and which, that you should not now want, Heaven put it into the mind of ray relentless father to send you to me. And you shall have them, though I had purposed to die unmoved, and without shedding a tear; and when I have done, I will instantly join my soul to yours; for in what other company can I go better and safer to those unknown regions, where, I doubt not, your soul is now expecting mine." 

When she had done speaking, she shed a flood of tears, kissing the heart a thousand times; whilst the damsels who were about her knew neither what heart it was, nor what her words imported; but being moved with pity they joined with her, begging to know the cause of her grief, and endeavouring all they could to comfort her. 

After she had lamented as long as she thought fit, she raised up her head, and wiping her eyes, said, "Thou heart most dearly beloved! All my duty is now performed towards thee; nothing more remains, but for my soul to accompany thine." Upon this she bade them reach the vessel of water, which she had prepared the day before, and pouring it into the cup with the heart, which she had sufficiently washed with her tears, she drank it all off without the least dread or apprehension, and threw herself upon the bed with the cup in her hand, composing her body as decently as she could, and pressing her lover's heart to hers, she lay without uttering a word more, expecting death. 

The maids, when they saw this, though they knew not what it was she had drunk, sent to acquaint Tancred, who, fearing what had really happened, came into the room soon after she had laid herself down, and finding it was too late, began to lament most grievously. "sir," she said to him, 'save those tears against worse fortune that may happen, for I want them not. Who but yourself would mourn for a thing of your own doing? But If any part of that love now remain in you, which you once had for me, the last request I shall make is, that since you would not suffer us to be happy together whilst living, our two bodies (wherever you have disposed of his) may be publicly interred together when dead." Extreme grief would not suffer the prince to reply. Presently finding herself drawing near her end, she strained the heart strongly to her breast, saying, "Receive us. Heaven, I die!" Then closing her eyes, all sense forsook her, and she departed this miserable life. Such an end had the amours of Guiscard and Ghismond, as you have now heard; and the prince, repenting of his cruelty when it was too late, had them buried in one grave in the most public manner, amid the general grief of all the people of Salerno. 

[No tale of Boccaccio has been so often translated and imitated as this one. It was translated into Latin prose, by Leonard Aretine; into Latin elegiac verse, by Filippo Beroald, the commentator on Apuleius; and into Italian ottava rima, by Annibal Guasco de Alessandrus. It forms the subject of not fewer than five Italian tragedies; one of which, "La Ghismonda," obtained a momentary fame by being falsely attributed, by its real author, to Torquato Tasso. An English drama, by Robert Wilmot, which is also founded on this story, was acted before Queen Elizabeth, at the Inner Temple, in 1568 (Dodley's "Collection of Old Plays," vol. ii). The story appeared in French verse, by Jean Fleury; and in the English octave stanza, by William Walter, a poet of the reign of Henry VII. In this country it is best known by the 'sigismunda and Guiscardo" of Dryden. 

The old English ballad of "Sir Cauline and the Daughter of the King of Ireland,” has a strong resemblance to this ballad of Boccaccio, in the secret meeting of the lovers, and the discovery of their transgression; the catastrophe, however, is entirely different. 

The fine arts have also added lustre and celebrity to the tale. There is a beautiful painting attributed to Correggio, in which Sigismunda is represented weeping over the heart of her lover. It was this picture that Hogarth tried to copy and rival, an attempt for which he was severely ridiculed. "The "sigismunda" of Hogarth," says Horace Walpole, "is the representation of a maudlin strumpet, just turned out of keeping, with eyes red with rage, tearing off the ornaments her keeper had given her." See also Churchill's "Epistle to Hogarth.”]