SCENE III.
Rousillon. A Room in the Countess's Palace.
Enter Countess, Steward, and Clown8 note
.
Count.
I will now hear: what say you of this
gentlewoman?
-- 335 --
Stew.
Madam, the care I have had to even your
content9 note, I wish might be found in the calendar of
my past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty,
and make foul the clearness of our deservings,
when of ourselves we publish them1 note
.
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 yours2 note
.
Clo.
'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a
poor fellow.
Count.
Well, sir.
Clo.
No, madam, 'tis not so well, that I am
-- 336 --
poor; though many of the rich are damned: But,
if I may have your ladyship's good will to go to
the world3 note, Isbel the woman and I4 note
will do as we
may.
Count.
Wilt thou needs be a beggar?
Clo.
I do beg your good-will in this case.
Count.
In what case?
Clo.
In Isbel's case, and mine own. Service is
no heritage5 note: 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 reasons,
such as they are.
Count.
May the world know them?
Clo.
I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as
you and all flesh 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 sake.
Count.
Such friends are thine enemies, knave.
-- 337 --
Clo.
You are shallow, madam; e'en great
friends7 note
; for the knaves come to do that for me,
which I am a-weary of8 note
. He, that ears my land9 note
,
-- 338 --
spares 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 cherishes 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 my 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 papist1 note, howsoe'er their hearts are severed in
religion, their heads are both one, they may joll
horns together, like any deer i' the herd.
Count.
Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and
calumnious knave?
Clo.
A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth
the next way2 note
:
-- 339 --
For I the ballad will repeat,
Which men full true shall find;
Your marriage comes by destiny,
Your cuckoo sings by kind3 note
.
Count.
Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you
more anon.
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 cause4 note
, quoth she,
[Singing.
Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
Fond done5 note
, done fond,
Was this king Priam's joy.
-- 340 --
With that she sighed as she stood,
With that she sighed as she stood6 note,
And gave this sentence then;
Among nine bad if one be good,
Among nine bad if one be good,
There's yet one good in ten7 note
.
-- 341 --
Count.
What, one good in ten? you corrupt the
song, sirrah.
Clo.
One good woman in ten, madam; which is
a purifying o' the song: '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
or every blazing star8 note
, or at an earthquake, 'twould
mend the lottery well9 note; 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 should be at woman's command,
and yet no hurt done!—Though honesty be no puritan,
yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice
of humility over the black gown of a big
heart1 note
.—I am going, forsooth: the business is for
Helen to come hither.
[Exit Clown.
-- 342 --
Count.
Well, now.
Stew.
I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman
entirely.
-- 343 --
Count.
Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her
to me; and she herself, without other advantage,
may lawfully 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.
Madam, I was very late more near her
than, I think, she wished me: alone she was, and
did communicate to herself, her own words to her
own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they
touched not any stranger sense. Her matter was,
she loved 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 level1 note; Diana, no
queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight
to be surprised, without rescue, in the first assault,
or ransome afterward2 note
: This she delivered in the
most bitter touch of sorrow, that e'er I heard virgin
exclaim in: which I held my duty, speedily to acquaint
-- 344 --
you withal; sithence3 note, in the loss that may
happen, it concerns you something to know it.
Count.
You have discharged this honestly; keep
it to yourself: many likelihoods informed me of
this before, which hung so tottering in the balance,
that I could neither believe, nor misdoubt: Pray
you, leave me: stall this in your bosom, and I
thank you for your honest care: I will speak with
you further anon.
[Exit Steward.
Enter Helena.
Count.
Even so it was with me, when I was young:
If we are nature's4 note
, 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 impress'd in youth:
By our remembrances5 note of days foregone,
Such were our faults;—or then we thought them none6 note
.
Her eye is sick on't: I observe her now.
-- 345 --
Hel.
What is your pleasure, madam?
Count.
You know, Helen,
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 am 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 seeds7 note
:
You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan,
Yet I express to you a mother's care:—
God's mercy, maiden! does it 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 eye8 note
?
Why?—that you are my daughter?
Hel.
That I am not.
Count.
I say, I am your mother.
Hel.
Pardon, madam;
The count Rousillon cannot be my brother:
-- 346 --
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 heaven,
So I were not his sister9 note
: Can't no other,
But, I your daughter, he must be my brother1 note
?
Count.
Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law;
God shield, you mean it not! daughter, and mother,
So strive2 note
upon your pulse: What, pale again?
My fear hath catch'd your fondness: Now I see
-- 347 --
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tears' head3 note
. Now to all sense 'tis gross,
You love my son; invention is asham'd,
Against the proclamation of thy passion,
To say, thou dost not: therefore tell me true;
But tell me then, 'tis so:—for, look, thy cheeks
Confess it, one to the other; and thine eyes
See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours,
That in their kind4 note they speak it: only sin
And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,
That truth should be suspected: Speak, is't so?
If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue;
If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,
As heaven 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!
-- 348 --
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, 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 heaven and you,
That before you, and next unto high heaven,
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 should be.
I know I love in vain, strive against hope;
Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve5 note
,
I still pour in the waters of my love,
And lack not to lose still6 note
: thus, Indian-like,
-- 349 --
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 encounter with my love,
For loving where you do: but, if yourself,
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth7 note,
Did ever, in so true a flame of liking,
Wish chastly, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself and love8 note
; O then, give pity
To her, whose state is such, that cannot choose
But lend and give, where she is sure to lose;
That seeks not to find that her 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 true9 note.
-- 350 --
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 sovereignty; and that he will'd me
In heedfullest reservation to bestow them,
As notes, whose faculties inclusive1 note were,
More than they were in note: amongst the rest,
There is a remedy, approv'd, set down,
To cure the desperate languishes, whereof
The king is render'd lost.
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 physicians
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 doctrine2 note
, have left off
The danger to itself?
Hel.
There's something hints,
More than my father's skill, which was the greatest
Of his profession, that his good receipt3 note
-- 351 --
Shall, for my legacy, be sanctified
By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your honour
But give me leave to try success, I'd venture
The well-lost 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 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 attempt4 note:
Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this,
What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.
[Exeunt.
-- 352 --
James Boswell [1821], The plays and poems of William Shakspeare, with the corrections and illustrations of various commentators: comprehending A Life of the Poet, and an enlarged history of the stage, by the late Edmond Malone. With a new glossarial index (J. Deighton and Sons, Cambridge) [word count] [S10201].
