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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 seal of nature's truth,
Where love's strong passion is impreft in youth ;
By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults, or then we thought them nonc.
is fick on't; I observe her now.
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 said a mother,
Methought, you saw a serpent; what's in mother,
That you start at it? I Yay, I'm 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 seeds.
You ne'er oppreft me with a mother's groan,
Yet I express to you a mother's care :
God's mercy! maiden, do's įr 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 eyes?
Why, that you are my daughter?
Hel. That I am not.
Count. I say, 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 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 care no more for, than I do for 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-in
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 (0)
The mystry of your loneliness, and find
Your fált tears head; now to all sense 'tis gross,
You love my son; invention is alhamd,
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 th' other; and thine eyes
See it so grosly 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 so?
If it be so, you've wound a goodly clew :
If it be not, forswear't; howe'er, I charge thee,
Now I fee
The mys'try of your loveliness, and find
Your Salt tears head :
The Mystery of her Loveliness is beyond my Comprehension: The old
Countess is saying nothing ironical, nothing taunting, or in Reproach,
that this Word Mould find a place here ; which it could not, unless far-
castically employ'd, and with some Spleen. I dare warrant, the Poet
meant, his old Lady should say no more than This: " I now find the
“ Mystery of your creeping into Corners, and weeping, and pining in
“ secret”. For this Reason I have amended the Text, Loneliness. The
Steward, in the foregoing Scene, where he gives the Countess Intelli-
gence of Helen's Behaviour says;
Alone She was, and did communicate to herself her own Words to her
The Author has used the Word Loneliness, to fignify a Person’s being
alone, again in his Hamlet.
We will bestow our selves: read on this book ;
That sew of such an Exercise may colour
As heav'n 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, comé, 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 heav'ns and you, That before you, and next unto high heav'n, 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 shall be: I know, I love in vain , strive against hope; Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve, I still pour in the water of my love, And lack not to lose still; thus, Indian-like, Religious in mine crror, I adore The Sun that looks upon his Worthipper, But knows of him no more. My dearest Madam, Let not your hate incounter with my love, For loving where you do, but if your self, Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth, Did ever in so true a flame of liking With chastly, and love dearly, that your Dian Was both her felf and Love; O 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, which 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 it self, I swear;
You know, my father left me fome Prescriptions
Of rare and prov'd effects, such as his Reading
And manifest Experience had collected
For general sov'reignty; and that he willd me
In heedfull’st 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 loft.
Count. This was your motive for Paris, was it, (poak?
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,
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 thall they credit A poor unlearned Virgin, when the Schools, Embowell'd of their Doctrine, have left off The danger to it self?
Hel. There's something in't
More than my father's skill, (which was the great'tt
Of his Profeffion) that his good receipt
Shall for my legacy be fan&ified
By th’ luckiest stars in heav'n; and, would your Honour
But give me leave to try success, id venture
The well-loft 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 halt have my leave and
Means and attendants; and my loving greetings
To those of mine in Court. I'll itay at home,
And pray God's Blessing into thy attempt :
Begone, to morrow; and be sure of this,
What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.
SCENE, the Court of France.
Enter the King, with divers young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war. Bertram and Parolles.
Arewel, young Lords: these warlike principles
Do not throw from you : you, my Lords, fare-
Share the advice betwixt you. If Both gain,
The gift doth stretch it self as ’tis receiv’d,
And is enough for both.
i Lord. 'Tis 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, it owns the malady
That doth my life besiege; farewel, young Lords ;
Whether I live or die, be you the Sons
Of worthy French men; (10) let higher Italy
(Those bated, that inherit but the Fall
Of the last Monarchy;) see, that you come
let higher Italy
(Those bated, that inherit but the Fall
Of the last Monarchy ;) fee, &c.] This seems to me One of the very obscure Passages of Shakespeare, and which therefore may very well demand Explanation. Italy, at the time of this Scene, was under three very different Tenures. The Emperour, as Succeffor of the Roman Em