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

Count. Do you love

Hel.

my son?

Your pardon, noble mistress!

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: e 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
ever, in so true a flame of liking,

Did

Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself and love ;2 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.

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 will'd me
In heedfullest reservation to bestow them,
As notes, whose faculties inclusive were,
More than they were in note :3 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.

If

Count.

you

But think you, Helen,

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 principles,

Do not throw from you :-and you, my lord, farewell:

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.

King. Farewell.-Come hither to me.

[The King retires to a couch. 1 Lord. O my sweet lord, that you will stay be

hind us.

Par. 'Tis not his fault; the spark2 Lord. Ò, 'tis brave wars! Par. Most admirable: I have seen those wars. Ber. I am commanded here, and kept a coill with; Too young, and the next year, and 'tis too early. Par. An thy mind stand to it, boy, steal away bravely.

Ber. I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock, Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry, Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn, But one to dance with !2 By heaven, I'll steal away. 1 Lord. There's honour in the theft.

Par.

Commit it, count. 2 Lord. I am your accessary; and so farewell. Ber. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortured body.

1 Lord. Farewell, captain.

2 Lord. Sweet monsieur Parolles !

Par. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good metals :You shall find in the regiment of the Spinii, one captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here on his sinister cheek; it was this very sword entrenched it: say to him, I live; and observe his reports for me.

2 Lord. We shall, noble captain.

Par. Mars dote on you for his novices! [Exeunt Lords.] What will you do? Ber. Stay; the king

[Seeing him rise. Par. Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have restrained yourself within the list of too cold an adieu: 'be more expressive to them;

(1) With a noise, bustle.

(2) In Shakspeare's time it was usual for gentleen to dance with swords on.