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It is the show and feal of nature's truth,
Where love's strong paffion is impreft in youth ;
By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults, or then we thought them none,
Her eye

is fick on't; I observe her now. -
Hel. What is your pleasure, Madam
Count. Helen, you know, I am a mother to you.
Heli Mine honourable mistress.

Count. Nay, a mother ;
Why not a mother: when I said a mother,
Methought, you saw a ferpent; what's in mother,
That

you
ftart at it? I say, I'm your

mother. ;
And put you in the catalogue of those,
That were enwombed mine; 'tis often feen,
Adoption ftrives with nature; and choice breeds
A native flip to us from foreign feeds.
You ne'er opprest me with a mothor's groan,
Yet I express to you a mother's care :
God's mercy! maiden, do's it curd 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 ain not.
Count. I say, I am your mother.

Hel. Pardon, Madam.
The Count Rousillon 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 'vaffal 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 fon, were not my brother) Indeed, my mother! -or were you both our mothers I care no more for, than I do for heay'n, So I were not his filter: can't no other, But I your daughter, he must be my

brother? Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law;

Ged

.

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 fee (9)
The myft'ry of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tears head; now to all fense 'tis gross,
You love my son ; invention is asham'd,
Against the proclamation of thy passion,
To say, thou dott not; therefore tell me true;
But tell me then, 'tis so. 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 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 my fon?
Heb Your pardon, noble mistress.
Count. Love you my

fon?
Hel. Do not you love him, Madam ?
Count. Go not aboutį my love hath in't a bond,
(9)

Now I fee
The myffry of your loveliness, and find

Your salt sears 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 myftery of your creeping into corners, and weeping, and “ pining in secret.” For this reason I have amended the text, lone. liness. The fteward, in the foregoing scene, where he gives the Countess intelligence of Helen's behaviour says;

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

We will be tow ourselves : read on this book ;
That thew of such an exercise

may

colour Your loneliness.

Whereof

love

Whereof the world takes note: come, come, disclose
The state of your affection; for your paffions
Have to the full appeach'd.

Hel. Then, I confers,
Here on my knee, before high heav'ns and you,
That before you, and next unto high heav'n,
I love your fon :
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 3
Yet never know, how that desert Mall be:
I know, I love in vain; strive against hope's
Yet, in this captious and intenible fieve,
I still pour in the water of my love,
And lack not to lose fill; thus, Indian-like,
Religious in mine error, I adore
The sun that looks upon his worshipper,
But knows of him no more. My deareft 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
With chastely, and love dearly, that your Dias
Was both herself and love; O then, give pity
To her, whose state is such, that cannot chule
But lend, and give, where he is sure to lose ;
That feeks not to find that, which search implies;
Bet, riddle-like, lives sweetly, where the dies.

Count. Had you not lately an intent, (peak 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 lefc me fome prescriptions
Of rare and proy'd effects, such as his reading
And manifest experience had collected
For general fou'reignty; and that he willd me
In heedfull’it reservation to bestow them,

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As notes, whose faculties inclufive were,
More than they were in note: among the rek,
There is a remedy, approv'd, fet 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 fon made me to think of this ;
Else Paris, and the medicine, and the King,
Had from the conversation of my thoughts
Haply been abfent then.

Count. But think you, Helen, If yoa 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 fall 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 int More than my father's kill, (which was the great'. Of his profeffion) that bis good receipt Shall for my legacy be fanctified By th' luckiest Itars in heay'n ; and, would your Honoar But give me leave to try fuccefs, I'd ventore The well-loft life of mine on his Grace's core, 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 fure of this, What I can help thee to, thou fhalt not miss. [Exeunt.

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ACT

II.

SCENE, the Court of France.

Enter the King, with divers young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war. Bertram and Parolles.

Flourish Carnets.

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KING
Arewel, young Lords; these warlike principles

Do not throw from you: you, my Lords, farewel;
Share the advice betwixt you. If both gain,
The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis receiv'd,
And is enough for both.

1 Lord. 'Tis our hope, Sir,
After well-enter'd foldiers, 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 fons
Of worthy French men; (10) let higher Italy

(Those (10)

mlet big ber Italy 4. (Tbose bated, tbar inberit but I be fall

Of ibe last monarchy ;) See, &c.] This seems to me one of the very obscure passages of Sbokespeare, and which therefore may very well demand explanation. Italy, at the time of this scene, was under three very different tenures. The Emperor, as luccetjor of the Roman Emperors, bad one part; the Pope, by a preended donation from ConJentine, another; and the third was cumpos'd of free ftates. Now by the last monoroby is meant the 'Roman, che last of the four general monarchies. Upon the fall of this monarchy, in the scramble, several cities set up for themselves, and became free fates: Now these might be said properly to inperit the fall of the monarchy. But the Emperor could not be said to inherit ine fall of the monarchy, any more than a fon, who inherits an impair's efiate, could be said to inherit the fall of his father's eftate : Tho' those, who had defrauded the father, might be said to inherit the fall of his estate, Much less could the

Pope,

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