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Count. What does this knave here? get you gone, Sirrah: the complaints, I have heard of you, I do not all believe ; 'tis my slowness that I do not, for, I know, you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours.
Clo. 'l is not unknown to you, Madam, I am a
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 ladyibip's good will to go to the world, Ifbel the woman and I will do as we may.
Count. Wilt thou needs be a beggar ?
Clo. In Isbel's case, and mine own; service is no heritage, and, I think, I shall never have the blessing of God, 'till I have issue of my body; for they say, 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 reason, such as they are.
Count. May the world know them ?
Clo. I have been, Madam, a wicked creature, as you and all fleih and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry, that I may repent.
Count. Thy marriage, sooner 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 shallow, 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 drudge ; he, that comforts my wife, is the cherisher 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 kisses my wife, is
friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage; for young Charbon the puritan, and old Poysam the papilt, howsoe'er their hearts are sever'd in religion, their heads are both one; they may joul horns together, like
deer i' th' herd. Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth'd and calumnious knave ?
Clo. A prophet, I, Madam; and I speak the truth the next way. For I the ballad will repeat, which men full true
shall find; Your marriage comes by destiny, your cuckow fings
by kind. Count. Get
you gone, Sir, I'll talk with you more
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 cause, quoth she.
(Singing. Why the Grecians facked Troy? Fond done, fond done; for Paris, he, Was this King Priam's joy. With that she sighed as she stood,
* Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,
Why the Grecians facked Troy?
Was this King Priam's joy. ] This is a Stanza of an old Ballad, out of which a Word or two are dropi, cqually necessary to make the Sense 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 gave this sentence then;
Court.' What, one good in ten? You corrupt the song, Sirrah.
Clo. One good woman in ten, Madam, which is a purifying o' th' fong: 'would, God would serve the world so all the year! we'd find no fault with the tythe-woman, if I were the Parson; one in ten, quoth a’! an we might have a good woman born but every blazing star, 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' honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplis 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 gentlewonnan intirely
Count. Faith, I do; her father bequeath'd her to me; and the herself, without other advantages, may Jawfully make title to as much love as she finds; there is more owing her, than is paid; and more shall be paid her, than she'll demand.
Stew. Madain, I was very late more near her, than, I think, she wilh'd me; alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touch'd not any stranger sense. Her matter was, the lov'd your son; Fortune, she said, was no Goddess, 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 Vir
Count. If we are nature's, there are ours: this
gins, that would suffer her poor Knight to be surpriz'd without rescue in the first assault, or ransom afterward. This she deliver'd in the most 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 informd me of this before, which hung fo tottering in the balance, that I could neither believe nor rnisdoubt; pray you, leave me;
stall this in your bosom, and I thank you
Our blood to us, this to our blood, is born;
Hel. What is your pleasure, Madam?
Adoption strives with nature; and choice breeds
that you are my daughter?
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) 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-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 falt tears' head; now to all sense 'tis gross, You love my son ; invention is alham'd,
* A native slip to us from foreign seeds.] The Integrity of the Metaphor requires we should read steads, i. e. Stocks, Stools, (as they are called by the Gardeners,) from whence young Slips or Suckers are propagated.