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By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults, or then we thought them none.
Her 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 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 opprest 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 distemper'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 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 heav'n,
So I were not his fister: 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 ftrive upon your pulse! what, pale again?

My

My fear hath catch'd your fondness. - Now I fee (6)
The myst'ry of your loneliness, and find
Your falt tears' head; now to all sense 'tis gross,
You love my fon; invention is asham'd,
Against the proclamation of thy paffion,
To say, thou dost not; therefore tell me true;
But tell me then, 'tis fo. For, look, thy cheeks
Confess it one to th' other; and thine eyes
See it so grofly shown in thy behaviour,
That in their kind they speak it: only fin
And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,
That truth should be suspected; fpeak, is't so?
If it be so, you've wound a goodly clew :
If it be not, forswear't; howe'er, I charge thee,
As heav'n shall work in me for thine avail,

To tell me truly.

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Hel. Good Madam, pardon me.

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, disclose The state of your affection; for your passions Have to the full appeach'd.

(6)

Now I fee

The myst'ry of your loveliness, and find
Your falt tears' bead:

-] The Mystery of her Loveliness is beyond my Comprehension: The old Countess is saying nothing ironical, nothing taunting, or in Reproach, that this Word should find a place here; which it could not, unless sarcastically employ'd, and with some Spleen. I dare warrant, the Poet meant, his old Lady should fay no more than this: " I now find the Mystery of your creeping into "Corners, and weeping, and pining in secret." For this Reafon I have amended the Text, Loneliness. The Steward, in the foregoing Scene, where he gives the Countess Intelligence of Helen's Behaviour, says;

Alone She was, and did communicate to berself ber own Words to ber own Ears.

Hel.

1

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 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 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; 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 fun that looks upon his worshipper,
But knows of him no more. My dearest Madam,
Let not your hate incounter with my love,
For loving where you do; but if your self,
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 such, that cannot chufe
But lend, and give, where she is sure to lose;
That seeks not to find that, which search implies;
But, riddle-like, lives sweetly, where she dies.

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

Bel. Madam, I had.

Count. Wherefore? tell true.

Hel. I will tell truth; by Grace it self, 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 fov'reignty; and that he will'd me,
In heedfull'st 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,

1

To

L

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 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,
Embowell'd of their doctrine, have left off
The danger to it self?

Hel. There's something in't

More than my father's skill, (which was the great'st
Of his Profeffion,) 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. Doft 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:
Begone, to morrow; and be sure of this,

What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.

[Exeunt.

ACT

ACT

II.

SCENE, the Court of France.

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

Flourish Cornets.

KING.

FArewel, young Lords: these warlike principles

Do not throw from you: you, my fare

wel;

Share the advice betwixt you. If both gain,
The gift doth ftretch it self 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
Will not confess, it owns the malady

That doth my life besiege; farewel, young Lords;
Whether I live or die, be you the sons

Of worthy French men; (6) let higher Italy

(6)

- let bigber Italy

(Those bated, that inberit but the Fall

(Those

Of the last Monarchy ;) fee, &c.) This seems to me One of the very obfcure Passages of Shakespear, and which therefore may very well demand Explanation. Italy, at the time of this Scene, was under three very different Tenures. The Emperor, as Successor of the Roman Emperors, had one Part ; the Pope, by a pretended Donation from Constantine, another; and the Third was compos'd of free States. Now by the last Monarchy is meant the Roman, the last of the four general Monarchies. Upon the Fall of this Monarchy, in the Scramble, several Cities set up for Themselves, and became free States: Now these might be faid properly to inherit the Fall of the Monarchy. This being premised, now to the Sense. The King says,

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