Count.

I will now hear. What say you of this gentlewoman? 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.

'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.

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 ladyship's good-will, Isbel, the woman, and I will marry.

Count.

Wilt thou needs be a beggar?

Clo.

Service is no heritage, and, I think, I shall never have the blessing of Heaven, 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. 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.

Clo.

Y'are shallow, madam; for the knaves come to

do that for me, which I am weary of. He that eares* ^note my land, spares my team, and gives me leave to inne 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 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 papist, howsoe'er their hearts are sever'd in religion, their heads are both one: they may joul horns together, like any deer i'th' herd.

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 cause, quoth she, [Singing.
Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
Fond done, fond done;—for Paris, he
Was this king Prima's joy.
With that she sighed as she stood,
And gave this sentence then;
Among nine bad, if one be good,
There's yet one good in ten.

Count.

What, one good in ten? You corrupt the song, sirrah.

Clo.

One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying o'th' song. 'Would Heav'n 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 mend the lottery well: a man may draw his heart out now, ere he pluck one.

Count.

You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you.

Clo.

I am gone, madam.

Count.

Well, now.

Stew.

I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman intirely.

Count.

Troth, I do; her father bequeath'd her to me; and she herself, without other advantages, 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 wish'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, she 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. 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.

Count.

You have discharg'd this honestly, keep it to yourself; many circumstances inform me of this before. Pray you leave me; stall this in your bosom, and I thank you for your honest care; I will speak with you further, anon.

Count.
Ev'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;
It is the show and seal of nature's truth,
Where love's strong passion is imprest in youth. Enter Helena.

Hel.
What is your pleasure, madam?

Count.
Helen, you know, I am a mother to you.

Hel.
Mine honourable mistress,

Count.
Nay, a mother;
Why not a mother? 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 opprest me with a mother's groan,
Yet I express to you a mother's care.
Heaven's! maiden, do's it curd thy blood,
To say, I am thy mother? What's the matter?
Why weep that you're my daughter?* ^note

Hel.
That I am not.

Count.
What! pale again?
My fear hath catch'd your fondness.—Now I see
The mist'ry of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tear' head;
You love my son. 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.
Howe'er, I charge thee,
As Heav'n shall work in me for thine avail,
To tell me truly.

Hel.
Good madam, pardon me.

Count.
Do you love my son?

Hel.
Do not you love him, madam?

Count.
Go not about. Come, come, disclose
The state of your affection; for your passions
Have to the full appeach'd.† ^note

Hel.
Then, I confess,
Before high Heav'n and you,
That before you, and next unto high Heav'n,
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.
My dearest madam,
Let not your hate encounter with my love,
But if yourself
Did ever, in so true a flame of liking,
Wish chastly, and love dearly,
O then give pity
To her, whose state is such.* ^note

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 it self, I swear.
You know my father left me some prescriptions,
Of rare and prov'd effects. Amongst the rest,
There is a remedy, approv'd, set down,
To cure the desperate languishings 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;† ^note
Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king,
Had from the conversation of my thoughts,
Haply, been absent.

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?

Hel.
There's something in't,
More than my father's skill, (which was the great'st

Of his profession) that his good receipt
Shall for my legacy be sanctified,
By the luckiest stars in Heav'n. 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.
Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love;
Means, and attendants; and my loving greetings
To these of mine in court. I'll stay at home,
And pray Heav'n's blessing into thy attempt.
Begone, to-morrow; and be sure of this,
What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.* ^note [Exeunt. End of the First Act.

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