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As mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know
Her eftimation home.

Count. 'Tis paft, my Liege;

And I beseech your Majefty to make it

(39) Natural rebellion, done i'th' blade of youth, When oil and fire, too ftrong for reason's force, O'erbears it, and burns on.

King. My honour'd Lady,

I have forgiven and forgotten all;

Tho' my revenges were high bent upon him,
And watch'd the time to shoot.

Laf. This I must say,

But first I beg my pardon; the young Lord
Did to his Majefty, his Mother, and his Lady,
Offence of mighty note; but to himself
The greatest wrong of all. He loft a Wife,
Whole beauty did astonish the Survey

Of richeft eyes; whofe words all ears took captive;
Whose dear perfection, hearts, that scorn'd to serve,
Humbly call'd Miftrefs.

King. Praifing what is loft,

Makes the remembrance dear. Well call him hither;

We're reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill

All repetition: let him not ask our pardon.
The nature of his great offence is dead,
And deeper than oblivion we do bury

Th' incenfing relicks of it. Let him approach,

(39) Natural Rebellion, done i'th' blade of Youth,] If this Reading be genuine, the Metaphor must be from any Grain, or Plant, taking Fire: but, I own, it seems more in Shakespeare's way of Thinking to fuppofe

He wrote;

Natural Rebellion, done i'th' blaze of Youth,

i. e. in the Fervour, Flame, &c. So He has exprefs'd himself, upon a like Occafion, in Hamlet,

When the Blood burns,

Lends the Tongue Vows.

I do know,
how prodigal the Soul
These Blazes, O my Daughter, &c.

Ar fo, again, in his Troilus and Creffida;
For Hector, in bis Blaze of Wrath, fubfcribes
To tender Objects.

A

A ftranger, no offender; and inform him,

So 'tis our will he should.

Gent. I fhall, my Liege.

King. What fays he to your Daughter? Have you fpoke?

Laf. All, that he is, hath reference to your High-.

nefs.

King. Then fhall we have a Match. I have letters

fent me,

That fet him high in fame.

Enter Bertram.

Laf. He looks well on't.

King. I'm not a day of feason,

For thou may'ft see a fun-fhine and a hail
In me at once; but to the brightest beams
Distracted clouds give way; fo ftand thou forth,
The time is fair again.

Ber. My high-repented Blames,
Dear Sovereign, pardon to me.
King. All is whole,

Not one word more of the confumed time,
Let's take the inftant by the forward top,
For we are old, and on our quick'ft decrees
Th' inaudible and noiseless foot of time'
Steals, ere we can effect them. You remember
The Daughter of this Lord?

Ber. Admiringly, my Liege. At first
I ftuck my choice upon her, ere my heart
Durft make too bold a herald of my tongue:
Where the impreffion of mine eye enfixing,
Contempt his fcornful perfpective did lend me,
Which warp'd the line of every other favour;
Scorn'd a fair colour, or exprefs'd it ftoll'n,
Extended or contracted all proportions
To a most hideous object: thence it came,
Than fhe, whom all men prais'd, and whom my felf,
Since I have loft, have lov'd, was in mine eye
The duft that did offend it.

King. Well excus'd:---

That thou didst love her, ftrikes fome scores away
From the great 'compt; but Love, that comes too late,
Like a remorseful Pardon flowly carried,

To the great Sender turns a fowre offence,
Crying, that's good that is gone: our rafh faults
Make trivial price of serious things we have,
Not knowing them, until we know their Grave.
Oft our displeasures, to our felves unjust,
Destroy our Friends, and, after, weep their duft:
Our own love, waking, cries to see what's done,
While fhameful hate fleeps out the afternoon.
Be this fweet Helen's knell; and now, forget her.
Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin,
The main confents are had, and here we'll ftay
To see our Widower's fecond marriage-day:

Count. (40) Which better than the first, O dear heav'n, blefs,

Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cease!

Laf. Come on, my Son, in whom my Houfe's Name Must be digefted: give a favour from you To sparkle in the fpirits of my Daughter, That the may quickly come. By my old beard, And ev'ry hair that's on't, Helen, that's dead, Was a sweet Creature: fuch a ring as this, The laft that e'er fhe took her leave at Court, I saw upon her finger.

Ber. Her's it was not.

King. Now, pray you, let me fee it. For mine eye, While I was fpeaking, oft was faften'd to't: This ring was mine; and, when I gave it Helen, I bad her, if her fortunes ever ftood

(40) Which better than the firft, O dear Heav'n, blefs,

Or, e'er they meet, in me, O Nature, ceafe!] I have ventur'd, against the Authority of the printed Copies, to prefix the Countess's Name to these two Lines. The King appears, indeed, to be a Favourer of Bertram: but if Bertram fhould make a bad Husband the fecond Time, why should it give the King fuch mortal Pangs? A fond and disappointed Mother might reasonably not defire to live to fee fuch a Day: and from her the Wish of dying, rather than to behold it, comes with Propriety.

Neceffitied

Neceffitied to help, that by this token

I would relieve her. Had you that craft to reave her Of what should ftead her moft?

Ber. My gracious Sovereign, Howe'er it pleases you to take it fo,

The ring was never her's.

Count. Son, on my life,

I've seen her wear it, and fhe reckon'd it

At her life's rate.

Laf. I'm fure, I faw her wear it.

Ber. You are deceiv'd, my Lord, fhe never faw it;
In Florence was it from a cafement thrown me,
Wrap'd in a paper, which contain'd the Name
Of her that threw it: (41) Noble fhe was, and thought
I ftood ungag'd; but when I had subscrib'd
To mine own fortune, and inform'd her fully,
I could not answer in that courfe of honour
As fhe had made the overture, the ceaft

In heavy fatisfaction, and would never
Receive the ring again.

King. Plutus himself,

That knows the tinct and multiplying Medicine,
Hath not in Nature's mystery more science,

Than I have in this ring. "Twas mine, 'twas Helen's,
Whoever gave it you: then if you know,

That you are well acquainted with your felf,
Confefs 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement
You got it from her. She call'd the Saints to furety,
That he would never put it from her finger,
Unless she gave it to your felf in bed,

(Where you have never come) or fent it us
Upon her great disaster.

Ber. She never saw it.

(41)

noble She was, and thought

I flood engag'd;] I don't understand this Reading; if We are to underftand, that She thought Bertram engag'd to her in Affection, infnar'd by her Charms, this Meaning is too obfcurely exprefs'd. The Context rather makes me believe, that the Poet wrote,

noble She was, and thought

I ftood ungag'd;

i. e. unengaged; neither my Heart, nor Perfon, difpos'd of.

King. Thou fpeak'ft it falfely, as I love mine honour; And mak'ft conject'ral fears to come into me, Which I would fain fhut out; if it should prove That thou art so inhuman - 'twill not prove fo And yet I know not-thou didst hate her deadly, And she is dead; which nothing, but to close Her eyes my félf, could win me to believe, More than to fee this ring. Take him away.

[Guards feize Bertram. My fore-paft proofs, howe'er the matter fall, Shall tax my fears of little vanity,

Having vainly fear'd too little. Away with him,
We'll fift this matter further...

Ber. If you fhall prove,

This ring was ever hers, you fhall as easie
Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence,

Where yet the never was.

[Exit Bertram guarded.

Enter a Gentleman.

King. I'm wrap'd in difmal thinkings.
Gent. Gracious Sovereign,

Whether I've been to blame or no, I know not:
Here's a petition from a Florentine,

Who hath for four or five Removes come fhort
To tender it her felf. I undertook it,

Vanquish'd thereto by the fair grace and speech
Of the poor Suppliant, who by this, I know,
Is here attending: her business looks in her
With an importing vifage, and fhe told me,
In a fweet verbal brief, it did concern
Your Highness with her felf.

The King reads a Letter.

Upon his many proteftations to marry me, when his Wife was dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Now is the Count Roufillon a Widower, his vows are forfeited to me, and my Honour's paid to him. He ftole from Florence, taking no leave, and I follow him to this Country for juftice: grant it me, O King, in you it beft lyes; otherwife a feducer flourifhes, and a poor Maid is undone.

Diana Capulet.

Laf.

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