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rence 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 poor * knight to be surprised without rescue in the first assault, or ransom afterward : This she deliver'd in the most bitter touch of sorrow, that e'er I heard a virgin exclaim in : which I held my duty, speedily to acquaint you withal ; fithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you Something to know it.
Count. You have discharg'd this honestly; keep it to yourself: many likelihoods inform'd 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.
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 shew and seal of nature's truth, Where love's strong passion is imprest in youth: • By our remembrances of days foregone, Such were our faults, Oh! 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.
Count. Nay a mother;
* knight] votary, one of her train.
stall]--confine, conceal. = these]-affections. . By our remembrances According to our recollection.
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 feeds :
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. That I am not.
Count. I say, I am your mother.
Hel. 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'd care no more for't, 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 strive upon your 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. Now to all sense’tis gross,
You love my son ; invention is alhamid,
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 it one to the other, and thine eyes
See it so grosly shewn in thy behaviours,
That in their kind they speak it ; only sin
And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,
That truth should be suspected: Speak, is't so ?
If ic be so, you have wound a goodly clue;
If it be not, forsweart : 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 my son ?
Hel. Your pardon, noble mistress !
Count. Love you my son ?
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 confess,
Here on my knee, before higi heaven and you,
That before you, and next unto high heaven,
I love your son:
e loveliness ; lowliness-this depression of your fpirits.
flhould be suspected : ]-hould not appear.
My friends were poor, but honest; fo'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;
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 deareft 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 fame of liking,
Wish chastly, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself and love ; 0 then, give pity
To her, whose state is such, that cannot chuse
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
& captious and intenible]-capable of receiving, but not of retaining. black not to lose]-cease not to love. cites ]-shews, proves. k your Dian]-Diana in your person.
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, fet down,
cure the desperate languishings, 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 ;
Elle Paris, and the medicine, and the king,
Had, from the conversation of my thoughts,
Haply, been absent then.
Count. But think you, Helen, i
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 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
This well lost life of mine on his grace's cure,
By such a day, and hour.
Count. Dost thou believe't?
As notes, &c.]-receipts, wherein more was contain'd than met the cye.
m Embowelld of their doctrine, ]-Having exhausted their skill.
* bints,]-whispers, persuades me.
o for my legacy, ]—the credit of it.