SCENE III.-Rousillon. A Room in the COUNTESS'S Palace.

Enter COUNTESS, Steward, and Clown.

Count. I will now hear: what say you of this gentlewoman?

Stew. Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty, and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.

Count. What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah. The complaints I have heard of you, I do not all believe; 't is my slowness that I do not: for I know you lack not the folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours.

Clo. "Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.

is no heritage and I think I shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue of my body; for they say barnes are blessings.

Count. Tell me thy reason why thou will marry. Clo. My poor body, madam, requires it. I am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs go, that the devil drives.

Count. Is this all your worship's reason? Clo. Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are.

Count. May the world know them ?

Clo. I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry that I may repent.

Count. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wicked

ness.

Clo. I am out of friends, madam; and I hope to have friends for my wife's sake.

Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave. Clo. You are shallow, madam: e'en great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me which I am a-weary of. He that ears my land

spares my team, and gives me leave to inn the crop: if I be his cuckold, he's my drudge. He that comforts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh and blood, loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my flesh and blood is my friend; ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage: for young Charbon the puritan, and old Poysam the papist, howsoe'er their hearts are severed in religion, their heads are both one; they may joll horns together, like any deer i' the herd.

Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave?

Clo. A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way:—

For I the ballad will repeat,

Which men full true shall find:
Your marriage comes by destiny,
Your cuckoo sings by kind.

Count. Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you

more anon.

Stew. May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you: of her I am to speak. Count. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; Helen I mean.

Clown sings.

Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,
Why the Grecians sackéd Troy?

Fond done, done fond,

Was this King Priam's joy.
With that she sighed as she stood,

With that she sighed as she stood,
And gave this sentence then:
Among nine bad if one be good,
Among nine bad if one be good,

There's yet one good in ten.

Count. What, one good in ten? you corrupt the song, sirrah.

Clo. One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying o'the song: 'would God would serve the world so all the year! we'd find no fault with the tythe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth a'!-an we might have a good woman born but for every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 't would 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 should be at woman's command, and yet no hurt done!-Though honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart.-I am going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither. [Exit Clown.

Count. Well, now.

Stew. I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.

Count. Faith, I do : her father bequeathed her to me; and she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds. There is more owing her than is paid; and more shall be paid her than she 'll demand.

Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her than, I think, she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate to herself, her own words to her own ears: she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son. Fortune, she 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 poor knight to be surprised, without rescue in the first assault, or ransom afterward. This she delivered 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; sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it.

Count. You have discharged this honestly; keep it to yourself: many likelihoods informed 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.

Enter HELENA.

[Exit Steward.

I care no more for than I do for heaven,
So I were not his sister. Can't be other
But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?
Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daugh-
ter-in-law :-

God shield you mean it not! "daughter," and "mother,"

So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again?
My fear hath catched your fondness: now I see
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tears' head. Now to all sense 't is gross,
You love my son: invention is ashamed,
Against the proclamation of thy passion,
To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true;
But tell me then, 't is so:-for look, thy cheeks
Confess it, th' one to th' other; and thine eyes
See it so grossly 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 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 my son?
Hel.

Your pardon, noble mistress!

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 loved 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 dearest madam,
Let not your hate encounter with my love,
For loving where you do: but if yourself,
Whose agéd honour cites a virtuous youth,
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 proved effects, such as his reading And manifest experience had collected For general sovereignty; and that he willed me In heedfullest reservation to bestow them, As notes, whose faculties inclusive were

If you should tender your supposéd 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,
Embowelled 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
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.

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 't is received, And is enough for both.

1st Lord.

It is our hope, sir, After well-entered 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) see that you come Not to woo honour, but to wed it: when The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek, That fame may cry you loud. I say, farewell. 2nd 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.

Both. Our hearts receive your warnings.
King. Farewell.-Come hither to me.

[The KING retires to a couch. 1st Lord. O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us!

Par. 'Tis not his fault: the spark— 2nd Lord. O, 'tis brave wars! Par. Most admirable: I have seen those wars. Ber. I am commanded here, and kept a coil with "Too young," and "the next year," and "'t is too early."

Par. An thy mind stand to it, boy, steal away

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

1st Lord. Farewell, captain.

2nd 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.

2nd 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; for they wear themselves in the cap of the time there do muster true gait; eat, speak, and move under the influence of the most received star and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed. After them, and take a more dilated farewell.

Ber. And I will do so.

Par. Worthy fellows, and like to prove most sinewy swordmen.

[Exeunt BERTRAM and PAROLLES.

Enter LAFEu.

Laf. Pardon, my lord [kneeling], for me and for my tidings.

King. I'll fee thee to stand up.

Laf. Then here's a man stands that has brought his pardon.

I would you had kneeled, my lord, to ask me mercy; And that, at my bidding, you could so stand up. King. I would I had; so I had broke thy pate, And asked thee mercy for 't.

Laf. Good faith, across. But, my good lord, 'tis thus:

Will you be cured of your infirmity?

King. Now, fair one, does your business follow us?

Hel. Ay, my good lord. Gerard de Narbon was my father:

In what he did profess, well found.
King. I knew him.

Hel. The rather will I spare my praises towards him:

Knowing him is enough. On his bed of death
Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one,
Which, as the dearest issue of his practice,
And of his old experience the only darling,
He bade me store up, as a triple eye,
Safer than mine own two; more dear. I have so:
And, hearing your high majesty is touched
With that malignant cause wherein the honour
Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power,
I come to tender it, and my appliance,
With all bound humbleness.

King.

We thank you, maiden:
But may not be so credulous of cure.
When our most learned doctors leave us, and
The congregated college have concluded
That labouring art can never ransom nature
From her unaidable estate,-I say, we must not
So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope,
To prostitute our past-cure malady
To empirics; or to dissever so

Our great self and our credit, to esteem
A senseless help, when help past sense we deem.
Hel. My duty, then, shall pay me for my pains:
I will no more enforce mine office on you;
Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts
A modest one, to bear me back again.

King. I cannot give thee less, to be called

grateful:

Thou thought'st to help me; and such thanks I

give

As one near death to those that wish him live: But what at full I know, thou know'st no part; I knowing all my peril, thou no art.

Hel. What I can do can do no hurt to try, Since you set up your rest 'gainst remedy.