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stranger sense. Her matter was, she lov'd your son ; Fortune, she said, was no goddess, (8) 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 fuffer her poor Knight to be surpriz'd without rescue in the first assault, or ransom afterward. This the deliver'd in the moft bitter touch of sorrow, that e'er I heard a virgin exclaim in; which I held it my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; fithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it.

Count. You have discharg'd this honestly, keep it to yourself; many likelihoods in form’d me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance, that I could neither believe nor misdoubt; pray you, leave me; ftall this in your bosom, and I thank you for your honest care; I will speak with you further anon.

[Exit Steward.
Enter Helena.
Count. Ey'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;
(8) Fortune, she said, was no goddess, &c. Love, no god, &c. com-
plain'd against the Queen of virgins, &c.] This pafiage Aands thus
in the old copies.

Love, no god, that would not extend bis mighe only where qualities were level, Queen of virgins, that would suffer ber foor Knight, &c. 'Tis evident to every senfible reader that something must have flip'd out here, by which the meaning of the context is render'd defective. There are no traces for the words, [complain'd against the) which i take to have been first conjecturally supply'd by Mr. Rowe. But the form of the sentence is intirely alter'd by their insertion; and they, at beft, make but a botch. The steward is speaking in the very words he overheard of the young Lady; fortune was no goddess, she faid, for one reason; love no god, for another ;---what could he then more naturally subjoin, than as I bave amended in the text?

Diana no Queen of virgins, that would suffer her foor Knight to be surpriz'd without rescue, &c. For in poetical history Diana was as well known to preside over cbaflity, as Cupid over love, or Fortune over the change or regularion of our circumstances.


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It is the fhow and seal of nature's truth,
Where love's strong passion is imprest in youth;
By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults, or then we thought them none.

is fick on't; I observe her now. Hel. What is your pleasure, Madam? Count. Helen, you

ow, 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 say, 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 slip to us from foreign seeds.
You ne'er oppreft me with a mother's groan,
Yer I express to you a mother's care :
God's mercy! maiden, do's it card thy blood,
To say, I am thy mother? what's the matter,
That this diftemper'd meffenger of wet,
The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eyes?
Why, that you are my daughter?

Hel. That I am not.
Count. Ifay, I am your

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

Count. Nor I your mother?

Hel. You are my mother, Madam; would you were, (So that my Lord, your fun, 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 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 ftrive upon your pulse! what, pale again ?
My fear hath catch'd your fondness.--Now I see (9)
The myft'ry of your loneliness, and find
Your sált tears head; now to all sense 'tis gross,
You love my son ; invention is alham'd,
Against the proclamation of thy passion,
To say, thou doft 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 fo grolly shown in thy behaviour,
That in their kind they speak it: only fin
And hellish obftinacy 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,
As heav'n fhall work in me for thine avail,
To tell me truly.

Hel. Good Madam, pardon me.
Count. Do you

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,

- Now I see I be myft'ry of your loveliness, and find

Your salt tears bead :- -} The mystery of her loveliness is beyond my comprehension: The old Countess is saying nothing ironical, nothing taunting, or in reproach, that this word should find a place here; which it could not, unless sarcastically 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 intelligence of Helen's behaviour lays;

Alone she was, and did communicate to berself ber own words to ber The author has used the word loneliness, to fignify a person's being clone, again in his Hamlet.

We will bestow ourselves: read on this book;
That shew of such an exercise may colour
Your loneliness.


love my

Own ears.

fon :

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 heav'ns and you,
That before you, and next unto high heav'n,
I love

My friends were poor, but honeft; fo'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 fieve,
I ftill pour in the water of my love,
And lack not to lose ftill ; 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 incounter 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 chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself 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 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 sov'reignty; and that he will'd me
In heedfull'it 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, 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 phyficians 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 in't More than my father's skill, (which was the great'a Of his profession) that his good receipt Shall for my legacy be sanctified By th' luckieft ftars in heav'n; and, would your Honour But give me leave to try success, I'd venture The well-loft life of mine on his Grace's cure, By such a day and hour. Count. Doft 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 : Begone, to-morrow; and be sure of this, What I can help thee to, thou halt not miss. [Exeunt.


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