Puslapio vaizdai
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Clo. One good woman in ten, Madam, which is a purifying o' th' song: 'would God would serve the world fo all the year! we'd find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parfon. One in ten, quoth a'! an we might have a good woman born but every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well; a man may draw his heart out, ere he pluck one.

Count. You'll be gone, Sir Knave, and do as I command you?

Clo. That man that should be at a woman's command, and yet no hurt done! tho' honesty be no Puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the furplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am going, forsooth, the business is for Helen to come hither.

Count. Well, now.

[Exit

Stew. I know, Madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.

Count. 'Faith, I do; her father bequeath'd her to me; and she herself, without other advantages, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds: there is more ow ing her than is paid, and more shall be paid her than the'll demand.

Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her than 1 think she wish'd me; alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; the thought, I dare vow for her, they touch'd not any stranger fenfe. Her matter was, the lov'd your fon: Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two eftates; Love, no god, that would not extend his might, only where qualities were level; Diana, no queen of virgins, that would fuffer her poor knight to be furpris'd without rescue in the first assault, or ransom afterward. This she deliver'd in the most bitter touch of forrow that e'er I heard a virgin exclaim in; which I held it my duty speedily to aquaint you withal; fithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you foniething to know

it.

Count. You have discharg'd this honeftly, keep it to yourself: many likelihoods inform'd me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance, that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you, leave me; stall

ftall this in your bosom, and I thank you for your honeft care; I will speak with you further anon.

SCENE VII. Enter Helena.

[Exit Steward.

Count. Ev'n so it was with me when I was young;
If we are nature's, these are ours: this thorn

Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;

Our blood to us, this to our blood, is born;
It is the show and feal of nature's truth,
Where love's ftrong paffion is impress'd in youth;
By our remembrances of days foregone,

Such were our faults; O! then we thought them none.
Her eye is fick on't; I obferve her now.

Hel. What is your pleasure, Madam?

Count. Helen, you know, I am a mother to you.
Hel. Mine honourable Mistress.

Count. Nay, a mother.

Why not a mother? when I faid a mother,
Methought you faw a ferpent; what's in mother,
That you start at it? I say, I'm your mother,
And put you in the catalogue of those,
That were enwombed mine; 'tis often seen,
Adoption strives with nature; and choice breeds
A native flip to us from foreign feeds.
You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan,
Yet I express to you a mother's care.
God's mercy! maiden, do's it curd thy blood,
To fay, I am thy mother? what's the matter,
That this diftemper'd messenger of wet,
The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eyes?
Why, that you are my daughter?
Hel. That I am not.

Count. I fay I am your mother.

Hel. Pardon, Madam.

The Count Roufillon cannot be my brother;
1 am from humble, he from honour'd name;

No note upon my parents, his all noble.
My mafter, my dear lord he is; and I
His fervant live, and will his vassal die:

He muft not be my brother.

VOL. III.

B

Count

Count. Nor I your mother?

Hel. You are my mother, Madam; would you were

(So that my Lord, your fon, were not my brother) Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers, (I can no more fear than I do fear heav'n,) So I were not his fifter: can't no other, But I your daughter, he must be my brother?

Now I fee

Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law;
God shield you mean it not, daughter and mother
So strive upon your pulse. What! pale again?
My fear hath catch'd your fondness.
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your falt tears' head; now to all fenfe 'tis grofs,
You love my fon; invention is afham'd,
Againit the proclamation of thy paffion,
To fay thou doft not; therefore tell me true;
But tell me then 'tis so. For, look, thy cheeks
Confefs it one to th' other; and thine eyes
See it fo grofsly shown in thy behaviour,
That in their kind they speak it: only fin
And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,
That truth fhould be suspected; speak, is't so?
If it be so, you've wound a goodly clew:
If it be not, forfwear't; howe'er, I charge thee,
As heav'n fhall work in me for thine avail,
To tell me truly.

Hel. Good Madam, pardon mẹ.
Count. Do you love my fon?-
Hel. Your pardon, noble Mistress.
Count. Love you my fon?

Hel. Do not you love him, Madam?

Count. Go not about; my love hath in't a bond,
Whereof the world takes note: come, come, difclofe
The ftate of your affection; for your paffions
Have to the full appeach'd.

Hel. Then, I confefs,

Here on my knee, before high heav'ns and you,
That before you, and next unto high heav'n,

I love your fon.

My friends were poor, but honeft; fo's my love.
Be not offended; for it hurts not him,

That he is lov'd of me; I follow him not

By

By any token of prefumptuous fuit;
Nor would I have him, till I do deferve him;
Yet never know, how that defert shall be.
I know I love in vain, ftrive againft hope;
Yet, in this captious and intenible tieve,
1 ftill pour in the waters of my love,
And lack not to lose still: thus, Indian-like,
Religious in mine error, I adore

The fun that looks upon his worshipper,
But knows of him no more. My dearest Madam,
Let not your hate encounter with my love,
For loving where you do, but if yourself,
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,
Did ever in so true a flame of liking
Wish chaftly, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself and love; O then give pity
To her, whose state is fuch, that cannot chuse
But lend, and give, where the is fure to lose;
That feeks not to find that which fearch implies;
But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies.

Count. Had you not lately an intent, speak truly,
To go to Paris?

Hel. Madam, I had.

Count. Wherefore? tell true.

Hel. I will tell truth; by grace itself, I swear.
You know, my father left me fome prescriptions
Of rare and prov'd effects; such as his reading
And manifeft experience had collected

For general fov'reignty; and that he will'd me,
In heedfull'ft refervation to bestow them,
As notes, whose faculties inclufive were,
More than they were in note: amongst the rest,
There is a remedy, approv'd, fet down,
To cure the defperate languishings whereof
The King is render'd loft.

Count. This was your motive for Paris, was it, speak?
Hel. My Lord your fon made me to think of this;

Elfe Paris, and the medicine, and the King,

Had from the converfation of my thoughts

Haply been abfent then.

Count. But think you, Helen,

If you should tender your supposed * aid,
He would receive it? He and his physicians
Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him;
They, that they cannot help. How shall they credit
A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,
Embowell'd of their doctrine, have left off

The danger to itself?

Hel. There's fomething hints

More than my father's skill, (which was the great'st
Of his profeffion,) that his good receipt

Shall for my legacy be fanctified

By th' luckiest stars in heav'n; and, would your Honour But give me leave to try success, I'd venture

The well-loft life of mine on his Grace's cure,

By such a day and hour.

Count. Dost thou believe't?

Hel. Ay, Madam, knowingly.

Count. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love;

Means and attendants; and my loving greetings
To those of mine in court. I'll stay at home,
And pray God's bleffing into thy attempt:
Begone, to-morrow; and be sure of this,
What I can help thee to, thou shalt not mifs.

ACT II. SCENE I.

The Court of France.

[Exeunt.

Enter the King, with divers young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war. Bertram and Parolles. Flourish cornets.

King. FAREWELL, young Lords: these warlike

principles

Do not throw from you: you, my Lords, farewell;
Share the advice betwixt you. If both gain,
The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis receiv'd,
And is enough for both.

1 Lord. 'Tis our hope, Sir,

After well-enter'd foldiers, to return
And find your Grace in health.

King. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart

* Propping, supporting.

Will

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