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you withal ; sithence*, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it.

Count. You have discharged this honestly; keep it to yourself: many likelihoods informed me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance, that I could neither believe nor misdoubt : Pray you, leave me : stall this in your bosom, and I thank you for your honest care : I will speak with you further anon.

[Exit Steward.

Enter Helena. Count. Even 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 seal of nature's truth, Where love's strong passion is impress'd in youth: By our remembrances of days foregone, Such were our faults; or then we thought them none. Her eye

is sick on't; I observe her now. Hel. What is your pleasure, madam ? Count.

You know, Helen, I am a mother to you.

Hel. Mine honourable mistress.

Nay, a mother;
Why not a mother? When I said, a mother,
Methought you saw a serpent: What's in mother,
That you start at it? I say, I am 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 slip to us from foreign seeds:
You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan,
Yet I express to you a mother's care :
God's mercy, maiden ! does it curd thy blood,
To say, I am thy mother? What's the matter,
That this distemper'd messenger of wet,
The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye?

* Since.

Why? --That you are my daughter?

That I am not.
Count. I say, I am your mother.

Pardon, madam ; The count Rousillon cannot be my brother : I am from humble, he from honour'd name; No note upon my parents, his all noble: My master, my dear lord he is; and I His servant live, and will his vassal die : He must not be


brother. Count.

Nor I your mother? Heb. You are my mother, madam; 'Would you


(So that my lord, your son, were not my brother),
Indeed, my mother!-or were you both our mothers,
I care no more for *, than I do for heaven,
So I were not his sister : Can't no other,
But, I your daughter, he must be my brother ?
Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-

God shield, you mean it not! daughter and mother,
So strive t upon my pulse : What, pale again?
My fear hath catch'd

your fondness : Now I see The mystery of your loneliness, and find Your salt tears' head I. Now to all sense 'tis gross, You love my son ; invention is asham'd, Against the proclamation of thy passion, To say, thou dost not: therefore tell me true; But tell me then, 'tis so :-for, look, thy cheeks Confess it, one to the other; and thine eyes See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours, That in their kinds they speak it: only sin And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue, That truth should be suspected: Speak, is't so? If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue; If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee, As heaven shall work in me for thine avail, To tell me truly.

* j. e. I care as much for: I wish it equally. + Contend. I The source, the cause of your grief. s According to their nature.


Good madam, pardon me!
Count. Do you love my son?

Your pardon, noble mistress !
Count. Love you my son ?

Do you not love him, madam? Count. Go not about; my love hath in't a bond, Whereof the world takes note; come, come, disclose The state of your affection ; for your passions Have to the full appeach'd. Hel.

Then, I confess, Here on my knee, before high heaven and you, That before you, and next unto high heaven, I love your son :-My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love: Be not offended ; for it hurts not him, That he is loy'd of me: I follow him not By any token of presumptious suit; Nor would I have him, till I do deserve him; Yet never know how that desert should be. I know I love in vain, strive against hope; Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve, I still pour in the waters of my love, And lack not to lose still: thus, Indian-like, Religious in mine error, I adore The sun, 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 chastly, and love dearly, that your Dian Was both herself and lovet; O then, give pity To her, whose state is such, that cannot choose, But lend and give, where she is sure to lose ; That seeks not to find that her search implies, But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies.

* i. e. Whose respectable conduct in age prores that you were no less rirtuous when young.

tie. Venus.

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 some prescriptions Of rare and prov'd effects, such as his reading, And manifest experience, had collected For general sovereignty; and that he willd me In heedfullest reservation to bestow them, As notes, whose faculties inclusive were, More than they were in note* : amongst the rest, There is a remedy, approv’d, set down, To cure the desperate languishes, whereof The king is render'd lost. Count.

This was your motive For Paris, was it? speak.

Hel. My lord, your son made me to think of this; Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king, Had, from the conversation of my thoughts, Haply been absent 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, Embowelld of their doctrinet, have left off The danger to itself? Hel.

There's something hints,
More than my father's skill, which was the greatest
Of his profession, that his good receipt
Shall, for my-legacy, be sanctified
By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your

But give me leave to try success, I'd venture
The well-lost life of mine on his grace's cure,
By such a day, and hour.

* Receipts in which greater virtues were enclosed than appeared. + Exhausted of their skill.


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 blessing into thy attempt : Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this, What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.



SCENE I. Paris. A room in the King's palace.

Flourish. Enter King, with young Lords taking

leave for the Florentine war; Bertram, Parolles, and attendants. King. Farewell, young lord, these warlike prin

ciples, Do not throw from you :-and you, my lord, fare

Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all,
The gift doth stretch itself as ’tis received,
And is enough for both.
I Lord.

It is our hope, sir,
After well-enter'd soldiers, to return
And find your grace in health.

King. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart
Will not confess he owes the malady
That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords;
Whether I live or die, be you

the sons Of worthy Frenchmen ; let higher Italy (Those 'bated, that inherit but the fall Of the last monarchy *), see, that you come Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when

i. e. Tbose excepted who possess modern Italy, the remains of the Roman empire.

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