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: Clo. One good woman in ten, Madam, which is a pu-, rifying o'th' fong: 'would God would serve the world to all the year! we'd find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I wete:the parfon. One in ten, quoth a'! an we might have a good woman born but every blazing ftar, 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' honelty 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 businefs is for Helen to èome hither.
[Exit. . Count. Well, now.
Stew. I know, Madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.
Count. 'Faith, I do; her father bequeath'd her to me; and the herself, without other advantages, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds: there is more owa ing her than is paid, and more. Mhall be paid her than the'll demand.
Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wish'd me; alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touch'd not any stranger sense. Her matter was,
fon: Fortune, The said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love, no god, that would not extend his might, only where qualities were level; Diana, no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poer knight to be surpris'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 lofs that may happen, it concerns you foniething to know it.
Count. You have discharg'd this honestly, keep it to yourself: many likelihoods inform'd ime of this -before, which hung lo tottering in the balance, that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you, leave me;
ftall tliis in your bosom, and I thank
for care; I will speak with
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 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; 0! then we thought them none.
eye is fick on't; I observe 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 said a mother,
Methought you saw a serpent; what's in mother,
start at it? I say,
And put you in the catalogue of those,
That were enwombed mine ; 'tis often feen,
Adoption ftrives 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, do's it curd thy blood,
To say, 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 say I am your mother.
Hel. Pardon, Madam.
The Count Roufillon cannot be
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 my brother. -
Count. Nor I
mother? Hel. You are my mother, Madam; would you were
Lord, your fon, were not my brother) Indeed
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?
Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law;
God hield you mean it not, daughter and mother
So strive upon your pulse. What! pale again?
My fear hath catch'd your fondness.- Now I fee
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tears' head; now to all senfe 'tis gross,
You love my fon; invention is asham'd,
Against the proclamation of thy passion,
To say thou dost not; therefore tell me true ;
But tell me then 'tis fo. For, look, thy cheeks
Confess one to th' other; and thine eyes
See it so grossly shown in thy behaviour,
That in their kind they speak it: only fin
And hellifh obstinacy tie thy tongue,
That truth fhould be suspected ; speak, is't so?
If it be fo, you're 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 me.
Hel. Your pardon, noble Mistress.
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, disclose
The state of your affection; for your passions
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'ni,
My friends were poor, but honest; fo's my love.
Bé not offended; for it hurts not him,
That he is lor'd of me; I follow him not
By any token of prefumptuous fuit;
Nor would I have him, till I do deserve him;
Yet never know, how that defert shall be.
I know I love in vain, ftrive against hope;
Yet, in this captious and intenible lieve,
I fill pour in the waters of my love,
And lack not to lose still: thùs, Indian-like,
Religious in mine error, I adore
The fun that looks upon his worshipper,
But knows of him no more. My deareit 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 fiaine of liking
With chaftly, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself and love; O then give pity
To her, whose state is such, that cannot chufe
But lend, and give, where she is sure to lose;
That seeks not to find that which search iinplies;
But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where the dies.
Count. Had you not lately an intent, speak truly,
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 manifest experience had collected
For general fov'reignty; and that he will'd me,
In heedfull’ft refervation to bestow them,
As notes, whose faculties inclusive were,
More than they were in note: amongst the rest,
There is a remedy, approv'd, fet down,
To cure the desperate 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 ;
Else Paris, and the medicine, and the King,
Had from the converfation of my thoughts
Haply been absent then.
Count. But think you, Helen,
If you should tender your fupposed * 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 doctrine, have left off
The danger to itself?
Hel. There's something hints
More than my father's skill
, (which was the great'st
Of his profession,) that his good receipt
Shall for my legacy be sanctified
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 thalt 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:
Begone, to-morrow; and be fure of this,
What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.
[Exeunt. ACT II. SCENE I.
The Court of France. Enter the King, with divers young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war. Bertram und Parolles. Flourish cornets.
King. AREWELL, young Lords: these warlike
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.
i Lord. 'Tis 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