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,
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?
Why? that you are my daughter?
Hel.

Count. I say, I am your mother.
Hel.

That I am not.

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 my brother.

Count.

Nor I your mother?

Hel. You are my mother, madam; 'Would you

were

(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-

in-law;

God shield, you mean it not! daughter, and mother, So strive2 upon your pulse: What, pale again?

(1) i. e. I care as much for: I wish it equally. (2) Contend.

i

My fear hath catch'd your fondness: Now I see
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tears' head.1 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 kind2 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.

Hel.

Good madam, pardon me!

Your pardon, noble mistress!

Count. Do you love my son?

Hel.

Count. Love you my son?

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, dis

close

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 lov'd of me: I follow him not
By any token of presumptuous 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;

(1) The source, the cause of your grief.
(2) According to their nature.

Yet, in this captious and intenable 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,1
Did ever, in so true a flame of liking,
Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself and love; 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.

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

Count.

Madam, I had.

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 will'd 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.

For Paris, was it? speak.

This was your motive

Hel. My lord your son made me to think of this;

(1) i. e. Whose respectable conduct in age proves

that you were no less virtuous when young.

(2) i. e. Venus.

(3) Receipts in which greater virtues were enclosed than appeared.

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,
Embowell'd of their doctrine,1 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

honour

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.

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

[Exeunt.

(1) Exhausted of their skill.

ACT II.

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

well:

Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all, The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis receiv'd,

And is enough for both.

1 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,1) see, that you come Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when The bravest questant2 shrinks, find what you seek, That fame may cry you loud: I say, farewell.

2 Lord. Health, at your bidding, serve your

majesty!

King. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them; They say, our French lack language to deny, If they demand: beware of being captives, Before you serve. 3

Both.

Our hearts receive your warnings.

(1) i. e. Those excepted who possess modern

Italy, the remains of the Roman empire.

(2) Seeker, inquirer.

(3) Be not captives before you are soldiers.