“My rightful Lady,” quoth this woeful man,
“Whom I most dread, and love as I best can,
And lothest were of all this world displease,
Were’t not that I for you have such disease,1 1distress, affliction
That I must die here at your foot anon,
Nought would I tell how me is woebegone.
But certes either must I die or plain;1 1bewail
Ye slay me guilteless for very pain.
But of my death though that ye have no ruth,
Advise you, ere that ye break your truth:
Repente you, for thilke God above,
Ere ye me slay because that I you love.
For, Madame, well ye wot what ye have hight;1 1promised
Not that I challenge anything of right
Of you, my sovereign lady, but of grace:
But in a garden yond’, in such a place,
Ye wot right well what ye behighte1 me, 1promised
And in mine hand your trothe plighted ye,
To love me best; God wot ye saide so,
Albeit that I unworthy am thereto;
Madame, I speak it for th’ honour of you,
More than to save my hearte’s life right now;
I have done so as ye commanded me,
And if ye vouchesafe, ye may go see.
Do as you list, have your behest in mind,
For, quick or dead, right there ye shall me find;
In you hes all to 1do me live or dey;1 1cause me to
But well I wot the rockes be away.” live or die1
He took his leave, and she astonish’d stood;
In all her face was not one drop of blood:
She never ween’d t’have come in such a trap.
“Alas!” quoth she, “that ever this should hap!
For ween’d I ne’er, by possibility,
That such a monster or marvail might be;
It is against the process of nature.”
And home she went a sorrowful creature;
For very fear unnethes1 may she go. 1scarcely
She weeped, wailed, all a day or two,
And swooned, that it ruthe was to see:
But why it was, to no wight tolde she,
For out of town was gone Arviragus.
But to herself she spake, and saide thus,
With face pale, and full sorrowful cheer,
In her complaint, as ye shall after hear.
“Alas!” quoth she, “on thee, Fortune, I plain,1 1complain
That unware hast me wrapped in thy chain,
From which to scape, wot I no succour,
Save only death, or elles dishonour;
One of these two behoveth me to choose.
But natheless, yet had I lever1 lose 1sooner, rather
My life, than of my body have shame,
Or know myselfe false, or lose my name;
And with my death 1I may be quit y-wis.1 1I may certainly purchase
Hath there not many a noble wife, ere this, my exemption1
And many a maiden, slain herself, alas!
Rather than with her body do trespass?
Yes, certes; lo, these stories bear witness.
When thirty tyrants full of cursedness1 1wickedness
Had slain Phidon in Athens at the feast,
They commanded his daughters to arrest,
And bringe them before them, in despite,
All naked, to fulfil their foul delight;
And in their father’s blood they made them dance
Upon the pavement, — God give them mischance.
For which these woeful maidens, full of dread,
Rather than they would lose their maidenhead,
They privily 1be start1 into a well, 1suddenly leaped
And drowned themselves, as the bookes tell.
They of Messene let inquire and seek
Of Lacedaemon fifty maidens eke,
On which they woulde do their lechery:
But there was none of all that company
That was not slain, and with a glad intent
Chose rather for to die, than to assent
To be oppressed1 of her maidenhead. 1forcibly bereft
Why should I then to dien be in dread?
Lo, eke the tyrant Aristoclides,
That lov’d a maiden hight Stimphalides,
When that her father slain was on a night,
Unto Diana’s temple went she right,
And hent1 the image in her handes two, 1caught, clasped
From which image she woulde never go;
No wight her handes might off it arace,1 1pluck away by force
Till she was slain right in the selfe1 place. 1same
Now since that maidens hadde such despite
To be defouled with man’s foul delight,
Well ought a wife rather herself to sle,1 1slay
Than be defouled, as it thinketh me.
What shall I say of Hasdrubale’s wife,
That at Carthage bereft herself of life?
For, when she saw the Romans win the town,
She took her children all, and skipt adown
Into the fire, and rather chose to die,
Than any Roman did her villainy.
Hath not Lucretia slain herself, alas!
At Rome, when that she oppressed1 was 1ravished
Of Tarquin? for her thought it was a shame
To live, when she hadde lost her name.
The seven maidens of Milesie also
Have slain themselves for very dread and woe,
Rather than folk of Gaul them should oppress.
More than a thousand stories, as I guess,
Could I now tell as touching this mattere.
When Abradate was slain, his wife so dear
Herselfe slew, and let her blood to glide
In Abradate’s woundes, deep and wide,
And said, ‘My body at the leaste way
There shall no wight defoul, if that I may.’
Why should I more examples hereof sayn?
Since that so many have themselves slain,
Well rather than they would defouled be,
I will conclude that it is bet1 for me 1better
To slay myself, than be defouled thus.
I will be true unto Arviragus,
Or elles slay myself in some mannere,
As did Demotione’s daughter dear,
Because she woulde not defouled be.
O Sedasus, it is full great pity
To reade how thy daughters died, alas!
That slew themselves 1for suche manner cas.1 1in circumstances of
As great a pity was it, or well more, the same kind1
The Theban maiden, that for Nicanor
Herselfe slew, right for such manner woe.
Another Theban maiden did right so;
For one of Macedon had her oppress’d,
She with her death her maidenhead redress’d.1 1vindicated
What shall I say of Niceratus’ wife,
That for such case bereft herself her life?
How true was eke to Alcibiades
His love, that for to dien rather chese,1 1chose
Than for to suffer his body unburied be?
Lo, what a wife was Alceste?” quoth she.
“What saith Homer of good Penelope?
All Greece knoweth of her chastity.
Pardie, of Laedamia is written thus,
That when at Troy was slain Protesilaus,
No longer would she live after his day.
The same of noble Porcia tell I may;
Withoute Brutus coulde she not live,
To whom she did all whole her hearte give.
The perfect wifehood of Artemisie
Honoured is throughout all Barbarie.
O Teuta queen, thy wifely chastity
To alle wives may a mirror be.”
Thus plained Dorigen a day or tway,
Purposing ever that she would
e dey;1 1die
But natheless upon the thirde night
Home came Arviragus, the worthy knight,
And asked her why that she wept so sore.
And she gan weepen ever longer more.
“Alas,” quoth she, “that ever I was born!
Thus have I said,” quoth she; “thus have I sworn. “
And told him all, as ye have heard before:
It needeth not rehearse it you no more.
This husband with glad cheer,1 in friendly wise, 1demeanour
Answer’d and said, as I shall you devise.1 1relate
“Is there aught elles, Dorigen, but this?”
“Nay, nay,” quoth she, “God help me so, 1as wis1 1assuredly1
This is too much, an1 it were Godde’s will.” 1if
“Yea, wife,” quoth he, “let sleepe what is still,
It may be well par’venture yet to-day.
Ye shall your trothe holde, by my fay.
For, God so wisly1 have mercy on me, 1certainly
1I had well lever sticked for to be,1 1I had rather be slain1
For very love which I to you have,
But if ye should your trothe keep and save.
Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.”
But with that word he burst anon to weep,
And said; “I you forbid, on pain of death,
That never, while you lasteth life or breath,
To no wight tell ye this misaventure;
As I may best, I will my woe endure,
Nor make no countenance of heaviness,
That folk of you may deeme harm, or guess.”
And forth he call’d a squier and a maid.
“Go forth anon with Dorigen,” he said,
“And bringe her to such a place anon.”
They take their leave, and on their way they gon:
But they not wiste why she thither went;
He would to no wight telle his intent.
This squier, which that hight Aurelius,
On Dorigen that was so amorous,
Of aventure happen’d her to meet
Amid the town, right in the quickest1 street, 1nearest
As she was bound1 to go the way forthright 1prepared, going
Toward the garden, there as she had hight.1 1promised
And he was to the garden-ward also;
For well he spied when she woulde go
Out of her house, to any manner place;
But thus they met, of aventure or grace,
And he saluted her with glad intent,
And asked of her whitherward she went.
And she answered, half as she were mad,
“Unto the garden, as my husband bade,
My trothe for to hold, alas! alas!”
Aurelius gan to wonder on this case,
And in his heart had great compassion
Of her, and of her lamentation,
And of Arviragus, the worthy knight,
That bade her hold all that she hadde hight;
So loth him was his wife should break her truth1 1troth, pledged word
And in his heart he caught of it great ruth,1 1pity
Considering the best on every side,
1That from his lust yet were him lever abide,1 1see note 1
Than do so high a churlish wretchedness1 1wickedness
Against franchise,1 and alle gentleness; 1generosity
For which in fewe words he saide thus;
“Madame, say to your lord Arviragus,
That since I see the greate gentleness
Of him, and eke I see well your distress,
That him were lever1 have shame (and that were ruth)2 1rather 2pity
Than ye to me should breake thus your truth,
I had well lever aye1 to suffer woe, 1forever
Than to depart1 the love betwixt you two. 1sunder, split up
I you release, Madame, into your hond,
Quit ev’ry surement1 and ev’ry bond, 1surety
That ye have made to me as herebeforn,
Since thilke time that ye were born.
Have here my truth, I shall you ne’er repreve1 1reproach
1Of no behest;1 and here I take my leave, 1of no (breach of)
As of the truest and the beste wife promise1
That ever yet I knew in all my life.
But every wife beware of her behest;
On Dorigen remember at the least.
Thus can a squier do a gentle deed,
As well as can a knight, withoute drede.”1 1doubt
She thanked him upon her knees bare,
And home unto her husband is she fare,1 1gone
And told him all, as ye have hearde said;
And, truste me, he was so 1well apaid,1 1satisfied1
That it were impossible me to write.
Why should I longer of this case indite?
Arviragus and Dorigen his wife
In sov’reign blisse ledde forth their life;
Ne’er after was there anger them between;
He cherish’d her as though she were a queen,
And she was to him true for evermore;
Of these two folk ye get of me no more.
Aurelius, that his cost had 1all forlorn,1 1utterly lost1
Cursed the time that ever he was born.
“Alas!” quoth he, “alas that I behight1 1promised
Of pured1 gold a thousand pound of weight 1refined
To this philosopher! how shall I do?
I see no more, but that I am fordo.1 1ruined, undone
Mine heritage must I needes sell,
And be a beggar; here I will not dwell,
And shamen all my kindred in this place,
But1 I of him may gette better grace. 1unless
But natheless I will of him assay
At certain dayes year by year to pay,
And thank him of his greate courtesy.
My trothe will I keep, I will not he.”
With hearte sore he went unto his coffer,
And broughte gold unto this philosopher,
The value of five hundred pound, I guess,
And him beseeched, of his gentleness,
To grant him 1dayes of1 the remenant; 1time to pay up1
And said; “Master, I dare well make avaunt,
I failed never of my truth as yet.
For sickerly my debte shall be quit
Towardes you how so that e’er I fare
To go a-begging in my kirtle bare:
But would ye vouchesafe, upon surety,
Two year, or three, for to respite me,
Then were I well, for elles must I sell
Mine heritage; there is no more to tell.”
This philosopher soberly1 answer’d, 1gravely
And saide thus, when he these wordes heard;
“Have I not holden covenant to thee?”
“Yes, certes, well and truely,” quoth he.
“Hast thou not had thy lady as thee liked?”
“No, no,” quoth he, and sorrowfully siked.1 1sighed
“What was the cause? tell me if thou can.”
Aurelius his tale anon began,
And told him all as ye have heard before,
It needeth not to you rehearse it more.
He said, “Arviragus of gentleness
Had lever1 die in sorrow and distress, 1rather
Than that his wife were of her trothe false.”
The sorrow of Dorigen he told him als’,1 1also
How loth her was to be a wicked wife,
And that she lever had lost that day her life;
And that her troth she swore through innocence;
She ne’er erst1 had heard speak of apparence2 1before 2see note
That made me have of her so great pity,
And right as freely as he sent her to me,
As freely sent I her to him again:
This is all and some, there is no more to sayn.”
The philosopher an
swer’d; “Leve1 brother, 1dear
Evereach of you did gently to the other;
Thou art a squier, and he is a knight,
But God forbidde, for his blissful might,
But if a clerk could do a gentle deed
As well as any of you, it is no drede1 1doubt
Sir, I release thee thy thousand pound,
As thou right now were crept out of the ground,
Nor ever ere now haddest knowen me.
For, Sir, I will not take a penny of thee
For all my craft, nor naught for my travail;1 1labour, pains
Thou hast y-payed well for my vitaille;
It is enough; and farewell, have good day.”
And took his horse, and forth he went his way.
Lordings, this question would I aske now,
Which was the moste free,1 as thinketh you? 1generous
Now telle me, ere that ye farther wend.
I can1 no more, my tale is at an end. 1know, can tell
The Elegy of Lady Fiammetta
OR, AMOROUS FIAMMETTA
Translated by Bartholomew Young, 1587
Elegia di Madonna Fiammetta was most likely written between 1343 and 1344. Presented in the form of a first-person confessional monologue, it describes the protagonist Fiammetta’s passion for Panfilo, a Florentine merchant, set against the backdrop of contemporary Naples. Consisting of a prologue and nine chapters, The Elegy of Lady Fiammetta has been characterised as the first psychological novel of Western literature.
In the narrative Lady Fiammetta recounts her tragic love affair with Panfilo, posed as a warning to other women. Lady Fiammetta and Panfilo quickly fall in love and have an affair, only to have it end when Panfilo returns to Florence. Although he promises to return to Naples, she eventually realises that he has another lover. The narrative reveals Fiammetta’s jealousy and despair caused by the affair, rather than the development of her relationship with Panfilo.
An early edition of the novel
CONTENTS
THE FIRST BOOK OF BOCCACE HIS FIAMMETTA
THE SECOND BOOK OF BOCCACE HIS FIAMMETTA
THE THIRD BOOK OF BOCCACE HIS FIAMMETTA
THE FOURTH BOOK OF BOCCACE HIS FIAMMETTA
THE FIFTH BOOK OF BOCCACE HIS FIAMMETTA
THE SIXTH BOOK OF BOCCACE HIS FIAMMETTA
THE SEVENTH BOOK OF BOCACE HIS FIAMMETTA
FIAMMETTA SPEAKETH TO HER BOOK
Fiammetta in a twentieth-century painting by Cilly Mully von Oppenried, 1881
THE FIRST BOOK OF BOCCACE HIS FIAMMETTA
IN THE TIME when the revested earth doth show itself more pleasant and fair than in any other season of the year: born of most noble parents, and received here of bountiful and favourable Fortune, I came into this World.
Collected Works of Giovanni Boccaccio Page 360
