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SCENE VI. Changes to the Countess's at Roufillon.

Enter Countess, Steward, and Clownsc.

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Count. I will now hear; what say you of this gen

tlewoman?

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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 defervings, when of our selves we publish them.

Count. What does this knave here? get you gone, firrar the complaints I have heard of you, I do not all believe, 'tis my flowness that I do not; for I know you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make fuch knaveries yare.

Clo. 'Tis not unknown to you, Madam, I am a poor fellow.

Count. Well, Sir.

Clo. No, Madam; 'tis not so well that I am poor, tho' many of the rich are damn'd; but if I have your Ladyship's good-will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.

Count Wilt thou needs be a beggar!

Clo. I do beg your good-will in this cafe.
Count. In what cafe?

Glo In" Hbel's cafe, and mine own; service is no heritage, and I think I shall never have the blessing of God, till I have iffue of my body; for they fay, bearns are blessings.

Count. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt 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.

Gount. Thy marriage fooner than thy wickedness.

Gls.

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Clo. I am out of friends, Madam, and I hope to have friends for my wife's fake.

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Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave. Clo. Y' are shallow, Madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am weary. of. He that ears my lands, spares my team, and gives me leave to inne the crop. If I be his cuckold, he's my drudge. He that comforts my wife, is the cher isher of my flesh and blood; he that cherisheth my fleshm and blood, loves my flesh and blood; he that lovesist my flesh and blood, is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife, is my friend. If men could be contented tort be what they are, there were no fear in marriage: for s young Charbon the Puritan, and old Poyfon the Paro pist, howsoe'er their hearts are sever'd in religion, their id heads are both one; they may joul horns together, like any deer i' th' herd.

Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth'd and ca20

lumnious knave?

Clo. A prophet, I, Madam; and I speak the truthofs

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the next way. "For I the ballad will repeat, which men full trucem

" shall find;

" Your marriage comes by destiny, your cuckow fings

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by kind.

Count. Get you gone, Sir, I'll talk with you more

anon.

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

Clo. Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,

"Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
"Fond done, fond done; for Paris, he,

"Was this King Priam's joy.

"With that she sighed as she stood,

"And gave this sentence then;

Among nine bad if one be good,

"There's yet one good in ten.

M.

[Singing.

Count. What, one good in ten? You corrupt the

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fong, firrah.

Clo.

Clo. One good woman in ten, Madam, which is a purifying o'th' fong: 'would God would ferve the world fo all the year! we'd find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parfon. One in ten, quoth a'! an we might have a good woman born but every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 'twould 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 that should be at a woman's command, and yet no hurt done! tho' honesty be no Puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the furplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am going, forsooth, the business is for Helen to come hither. [Exit.

Count. Well, now.

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

Count. 'Faith, I do; her father bequeath'd her to me; and she herself, without other advantages, may lawfully make title to as much love as the finds: there is more owing her than is paid, and more shall be paid her than fhe'll demand.

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Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her than I think the wish'd me; alone she was, and did commu nicate to herself her own words to her own ears; the thought, I dare vow for her, they touch'd not any ftranger sense. Her matter was, she lov'd your fon: Fortune, she said, was no goddefss, that had put fuch dif ference betwixt their two eftates; Love, no god, that would not extend his might, only where qualities were level; Diana, no queen of virgins, that would fuffer her poor knight to be furpris'd without rescue in the first affault, or ransom afterward. This she deliver'd in the most bitter touch of forrow that e'er I heard a virgin exclaim in; which I held it my duty fpeedily to acquaint you withal; fithence, in the lofs that may happen, it concerns you fomething to know it.

Count. You have difcharge'd this honestly, keep it to yourself: many likelihoods inform'd me of this before, which hung fo tottering in the balance, that I could neither believe nor mifdoubt. Pray you, leave me:

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stall this in your bosom, and I thank you for your honeft care; I will speak with you further anon.

[Exit Steward.

SCENE VII. Enter Helena.

Count. Ev'n 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 show and feal of nature's truth,
Where love's ftrong paffion is impress'd in youth;
By our remembrances of days forgone,
Such were our faults; O! then we thought them none.
Here eye is fick on't; I observe her now. اسس
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 faid a mother,
Methought you saw a ferpent; 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 flip to us from foreign feeds.
You ne'er opprefs'd 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 fay, I am thy mother? what's the matter,
That this distemper'd messenger of wet,
The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine cyes?
Why, that you are my daughter?
Hel. That I am not.

Count. I fay 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 fervant live, and will his vassal die :
He must not be my brother.

Gount. Nor I your mother ?

Hel.

Hel. You are my mother, Madam; would you were (So that my Lord, your son, were not my brother) 1 Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers, (I can no more fear than I do fear 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-inlaw;

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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 fee
The mystery of your lonelinefs, and find
Your falt tears' head; now to all sense 'tis grofs,
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 so. For, look, thy cheeks.

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eyes.

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Confefs it one to th' other; and thine

See it so grofsly shown in thy behaviour,
That in their kind they speak it: only fin
And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,

That truth should be suspected; speak, is't fo?
If it be so, you've wound a goodly clew:
If it be not, forswear't; howe'er, I charge thee, J
As heav'n fhall 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?

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Hel. Do not you love him, Madam?

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Count. Go not about; my love hath in't a bond, Whereof the world takes note: come, come, disclofe The state of your affection; for your passions

Have to the full appeach'd.

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; fo's my love.
Be not offended; for it hurts not him,

That he is lov'd of me; I follow him not

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