Countess.
Alas! and would you take the letter of her?
Might you not know she would do as she has done,
By sending me a letter? Read it again. LETTER.* ^note

I am St. Jaques' pilgrim, thither gone;
  Ambitious love hath so in me offended,
That bare-foot plod I the cold ground upon,
  With sainted vow my faults to have amended.
Write, write, that from the bloody course of war,
  My dearest master, your dear son, may hie;
Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far,
  His name with zealous fervour sanctify.
He is too good and fair for death and me,
Whom I myself embrace, to set him free.
Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words?
Rynaldo, you did never lack advice so much,
As letting her pass so; had I spoke with her,
I could have well diverted her intents,
Which thus she hath prevented.

Stew.
Pardon, madam.
If I had given you this at over-night,

She might have been o'erta'en; and yet, she writes,
Pursuit would be but vain.

Count.
What angel shall
Bless this unworthy husband? He cannot thrive,
Unless her prayers, whom Heaven delights to hear,
And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath
Of greater justice.* ^note Write, write, Rynaldo,
To this unworthy husband of his wife.
Let every word weigh heavy of her worth,
That he does weigh too light. My greatest grief,
Tho' little he do feel it, set down sharply.
Dispatch the most convenient messenger;† ^note





[Exit Steward.
My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak;
Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak. [Exit. Scene SCENE changes to a public place in Florence. A March afar off. Enter an old Widow of Florence, Diana, and Mariana, with other citizens.

Wid.

Nay, come, for if they do approach the city, we shall lose all the sight.

Dia.

They say the French count has done most honourable service.

Wid.

It is reported that he has ta'en their greatest commander; and that, with his own hand, he flew

the duke's brother. We have lost our labour, they have gone a contrary way. Hark, you may know by their trumpets.

Mar.

Come, let's return again, and suffice ourselves with the report of it. Well, Diana, take heed of this French earl; the honour of a maid is her name, and no legacy is so rich as honesty.

Dia.

You shall not need to fear me.

Wid.

I hope so.—Look, here comes a pilgrim; I know she will lye at my house; thither they send one another. I'll question her. Heav'n save you, pilgrim! Whither are you bound?

Hel.

To St. Jacques le Grand. Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?

Wid.

At the St. Francis, beside the port.

Hel.

Is this the way?

Wid.
Ay, marry, is't. Hark you, they come this way.
If you will tarry, holy pilgrim, but 'till the troops come by,
I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd.
You came, I think, from France?

Hel.
I did so.

Wid.
Here you shall see a countryman of yours,
That has done worthy service.

Hel.
His name, I pray you?

Dia.
The count Rousillon: know you such a one?

Hel.
By the ear, that hears most nobly of him.
His face I know not.

Dia.
Whatsoe'er he is,
He's bravely taken here. He stole from France,
As 'tis reported; for the king had married him
Against his liking. Think you, it is so?

Hel.
Ay, surely, mere the truth. I know his lady.

Dia.
There is a gentleman that serves the count,
Reports but coarsely of her.

Hel.
What's his name?

Dia.
Monsieur Parolles.

Hel.
All her deserving,
Is a reserv'd honesty, and that
I have not heard examin'd.

Dia.
Alas, poor lady!
'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife
Of a detesting lord.

Wid.
Ah! right; good creature! wheresoe'er she is,
Her heart weighs sadly. This young maid might do her
A shrewd turn, if she pleas'd.

Hel.
How do you mean?
May be the am'rous count solicits her
In the unlawful purpose.

Wid.
He does, indeed;
And brokes* ^note with all, that can in such a suit
Corrupt the tender honour of a maid:
But she is arm'd for him, and keeps her guard,
In honestest defence. Drum and Colours. Enter Bertram, Parolles, Officers and Soldiers attending.

Bert.
Let the troops march on, we'll take a nearer rout.

Wid.
So, now they come.
That is Antonio, the duke's eldest son;
That, Escalus.

Hel.
Which is the Frenchman?

Dia.
He;
That with the plume. 'Tis a most gallant fellow;
I would, he lov'd his wife! if he were honester,
He were much goodlier. Is't not a handsome gentleman?

Hel.
I like him well.

Dia.
'Tis pity he's not honest. Yon's that same knave,
That leads him to these paces; were I his lady,
I'd poison that vile rascal.

Why is he melancholy?

Hel.
Perchance, he's hurt i' th' battle.

Par.
Lose our drum! Well.—Curst misfortune! [Ex. Ber. Par. &c.

Wid.
He's shrewdly vext at something.
The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I will bring you,
Where you shall host. Of injoyn'd penitents
There's four or five, to great St. Jacques bound,
Already at my house.

Hel.
I humbly thank you.
Please it this matron, and this gentle maid,
To eat with us to night, the charge and thanking
Shall be for me: and to requite you further,
I will bestow some precepts on this virgin,
Worthy the note.

Both.
We'll take your offer kindly. [Exeunt. Enter Bertram, and the two French Lords.

1 Lord.

Believe it, my lord, in mine own direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speak of him as my kinsman; he's a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the owner of no one good quality worthy your lordship's entertainment.

Ber.

I would I knew in what particular action to try him.

2 Lord.

None better, than to let him fetch off his drum; which you hear him so confidently undertake to do.

1 Lord.

I, with a troop of Florentines, will suddenly surprize him: we will bind and hood-wink him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried among the adversaries, when we bring him to our tents. Be but your lordship present at his examination, and mark the consequence.

2 Lord.

Let him fetch his drum; he says, he has a stratagem for't. Here he comes.

Enter Parolles.

1 Lord.

O, for the love of laughter, hinder not the humour of his design, let him fetch off his drum in any hand.

Ber.

How now, monsieur? this drum sticks sorely in your disposition.

2 Lord.

A pox on't, let it go, 'tis but a drum.

Par.

But a drum! Is't but a drum? a drum so lost! there was an excellent command! to charge in with our horse upon our own wings, and to rend our own soldiers.

Ber.

Well, we cannot greatly condemn our success. Some dishonour we had in the loss of that drum, but it is not to be recover'd.

Par.

It is to be recover'd; but that the merit of service is seldom attributed to the true and exact performer, I would have that drum or another, or, hic jacet—

Ber.

Why, if you have a stomach to't, monsieur; if you think your mistery in stratagem can bring this instrument of honour again into his native quarter, be magnanimous in the enterprize, and go on. I will grace the attempt for a worthy exploit.

Par.

By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it.

Ber.

But you must not now slumber in it.

Par.

I'll about it this evening; and I will presently pen down my dilemma's, encourage myself in my certainty, put myself into my mortal preparation; and, by midnight, look to hear further from me.

Ber.

May I be bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it?

Par.

I know not what the success will be, my lord; but the attempt I vow.

Ber.

I know, th'art valiant; and to the possibility of thy soldiership, will subscribe for thee; farewel.

Par.

I love not many words.* ^note

1 Lord.

No more than a fish loves water—Is not this a strange fellow, my lord? that so confidently seems to undertake this business, which he knows is not to be done; damns himself to do it, and dares better be damn'd than to do it.

2 Lord.

He shall be caught.

Ber.

Now will I lead you to the house, and shew you the lass I spoke of.

1 Lord.

But you say, she's honest.

Ber.
That's all the fault. I spoke with her but once,
And found her wondrous cold; but I sent to her,
By this same coxcomb that we have i'th' wind,
Tokens and letters, which she did re-send:
And this is all I've done. She's a fair creature.
Will you go see her?

1 Lord.
With all my heart, my lord. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE changes to the Widow's House. Enter Helena, and Widow.

Hel.
If you misdoubt me that I am not she,
I know not how I shall assure you further.

Wid.
I should believe you,
For you have shew'd me that, which well approves
Y'are great in fortune.

Hel.
Take this purse of gold,
And let me buy your friendly help thus far.
The count wooes your daughter,
Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty,
Resolves to carry her. Let her consent,
As we'll direct her how, 'tis best to bear it.

Now his important blood will nought deny,
That she'll demand: a ring, the count does wear,
That downward hath succeeded in his house,
From son to son, some four or five descents,
Since the first father wore it. This ring he holds
In most rich choice; yet in his idle fire,
To buy his will it would not seem too dear,
Howe'er repented after.

Wid.
Now I see the bottom of your purpose.

Hel.
You see it lawful then. It is no more,
But that your daughter, ere she seems as won,
Desires this ring; appoints him an encounter;
In fine, delivers me to fill the time,
Herself most chastly absent. After this,
To marry her, I'll add three thousand crowns,
To what is past already.* ^note

Wid.
I have yielded.
Instruct my daughter, how she shall persevere;
That time and place, with this deceit so lawful,
May prove coherent. Every night he comes,
With music of all sorts, and songs, compos'd
To her unworthiness. It nothing steads us
To chide him from our eaves, for he persists,
As if his life lay on't.

Hel.
Why then, to night
Let us essay our plot; which, if it speed,
Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed.‡ ^note End of the Third Act.

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