Count. What does this knave here? get you gone, Sirrah: 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 such knaveries yours. Clo. 'Tis not unknown to you, Madam, I am a poor fellow. Count. Well, Sir. Clo. No, Madam; 'tis not fo 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, Ibel 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. Clo. In Ibel's cafe, and mine own; fervice is no heritage, and, I think, I fhall never have the bleffing of God, 'till I have Iffue of my body; for they say, bearns are bleffings. I am Count. Tell me thy reafon why thou wilt marry. Clo. My poor body, Madam, requires it. driven on by the Flesh; and he must needs go, that the devil drives. Count. Is this all your worship's reafon? Clo. Faith, Madam, I have other holy reason, 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, fooner than thy wickedness. Clo. I am out of friends, Madam, and I hope to have friends for my wife's fake. Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave. Clo. Y' are fhallow, Madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am weary of; he, that eares my land, fpares my team, and gives me leave to inn the crop; if I be his cuckold, he's my my drudge; he, that comforts my wife, is the cherifher of my flesh and blood; he, that cherisheth my flesh and blood, loves my flesh and blood; he, that loves my flesh and blood, is my friend: ergo, he, that kiffes 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 Poyfam the papift, howfoe'er their hearts are fever'd in religion, their 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 calumnious knave? Clo. A prophet, I, Madam; and Ispeak the truth the next way. For I the ballad will repeat, which men full true fhall find; Your marriage comes by destiny, your cuckow fings 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. * Clo. Was this fair face the caufe, quoth fhe. Why the Grecians facked Troy? Fond done, fond done; for Paris, he, Was this King Priam's joy. With that the fighed as fhe flood, Was this fair face the caufe, quoth fhe, Why the Grecians Jacked Troy? Fond done, fond done; [Singing. Was this King Priam's joy.] This is a Stanza of an old Ballad, out of which a Word or two are dropt, equally necessary to make the Senfe and the alternate Rhime. For it was not Helen, who was King Priam's Joy, but Paris. The third Line therefore should be read thus, Fond done, fond done, for Paris, he. And And gave this fentence then; Court. What, one good in ten? You corrupt the fong, Sirrah. 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 tythe-woman, if I were the Parfon; one in ten, quoth a'! an we might have a good woman born but every blazing ftar, or at an earthquake, 'twould ménd 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' honefty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the furplis of humility over the black gown of a big heart: I am going, forfooth, the business is for Helen to come hither. [Exit. Count. Well, now. Stew. I know, Madam, you love your gentlewoman intirely. Count. Faith, I do; her father bequeath'd her to me; and fhe herfelf, without other advantages, may lawfully make title to as much love as fhe finds; there is more owing her, than is paid; and more fhall be paid her, than fhe'll demand. Stew. Madain, I was very late more near her, than, I think, fhe wish'd me; alone fhe was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; fhe thought, I dare vow for her, they touch'd not any ftranger fense. Her matter was, the lov'd your fon; Fortune, fhe faid, was no Goddefs, that had put fuch difference betwixt their two eftates; Love, no God, that would not extend his might, only where qualities were level; Diana, no queen of Vir gins, that would fuffer her poor Knight to be surpriz'd without refcue in the first affault, or ransom afterward. This fhe deliver'd in the most bitter touch of forrow, that e'er I heard a virgin exclaim in; which I held it my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; fithence, in the lofs that may happen, it concerns you fomething to know it. Count. You have discharg'd this honeftly, keep it to yourfelf; many likelihoods inform'd me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance, that I could neither believe nor mifdoubt; pray you, leave me; ftall this in your bofom, and I thank you for your honeft care: I will speak with you further [Exit Steward. anon. V'N fo it was with me, when I was young; Count. If we are nature's, these are ours: this thorn Doth to our rofe of youth rightly belong; Our blood to us, this to our blood, is born; It is the flow and feal of nature's truth, Where love's frong paffion is impreft in youth ; Such were our faults, or then we thought them none. 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, Adop r Adoption ftrives with nature; and choice breeds God's mercy! maiden, do's it curd thy blood, Count. I fay, I am your mother. The Count Roufillon cannot 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 can no more fear, than I do fear heav'n,) So I were not his fifter: can't no other, But I your daughter, he must be my brother?Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-inlaw; God fhield, you mean it not, daughter and mother * A native flip to us from foreign seeds.] The Integrity of the Metaphor requires we should read fleads, i. e. Stocks, Stools, (as they are called by the Gardeners,) from whence young Slips or Suckers are propagated Against |