Indeed, my

(So that my lord, your son, were not my brother,)

mother!—or were you both our mothers, I care no more for, 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 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 kind they speak it; only sin
And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,
That truth should be suspected: Speak, is't so?

f 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!
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, disclose ,

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: 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 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, Did ever, in so true a flame of liking, Wish chastly, and love dearly, that Was both herself and Love; () 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.

your Dian

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: amongst the rest,

, There is a remedy, approv'd, set down, To 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; 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 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

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?
Hél. 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.

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. Farewel, young lord, these warlike prin-

ciples Do not throw from you:—and you, my lord, fare

wel:-
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. Farewel, young lords;
Whether I live or die, be

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, farewel. 2 Lord. Health, at your bidding, serve your ma

jesty! King. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them;