SCENE III.
A room in the count's palace.
Enter Countess, Steward, and Clown9 note
.
Count.
I will now hear: what say you of this gentlewoman?
-- 24 --
Stew.
Madam, the care I have had to 1 noteeven your
content, 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 them.
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, you2 note
lack not folly to commit them, and have
ability enough to make such knaveries yours.
Clo.
'Tis not unknown to you, madam, that I am a
poor fellow.
Count.
Well, sir.
Clo.
No, madam, 'tis not so well, that I am poor;
though many of the rich are damn'd: But, if I may
-- 25 --
have your ladyship's good will to go to the world3 note,
Isbel the woman and I 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
heritage: 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.
Clo.
You are shallow, madam, in great friends4 note
;
for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am a
-- 26 --
weary of. He, that ears my land5 note
, 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 papist, howsoe'er their hearts are sever'd
in religion, their heads are both one, they may joul
horns together, like any deer i' the herd.
Count.
Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth'd and calumnious
knave?
Clo.
6 note
A prophet, I, madam; and I speak the truth
the next way:
For I the ballad will repeat,
Which men full true shall find;
-- 27 --
Your marriage comes by destiny,
Your cuckoo sings by kind7 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.
8 note
Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,
[Singing.
Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
Fond done, done fond9 note
,
Was this king Priam's joy.
With that she sighed as she stood,
With that she sighed as she stood1 note,
And gave this sentence then;
-- 28 --
Among nine bad if one be good,
2 note
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' 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
every blazing star3 note, or at an earthquake, 'twould
mend the lottery well; 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.
4 note
That man should be at a woman's command,
-- 29 --
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 heart.—I
am going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to
come hither.
[Exit.
Count.
Well, now.
Stew.
I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman
intirely.
Count.
Faith, I do: her father bequeath'd 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 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
-- 30 --
son: 5 note
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; Diana, no queen of virgins,
that would suffer her poor knight to be surprised
without rescue in the first assault, or ransom
afterward: This she deliver'd in the most bitter
touch of sorrow, that e'er I heard a virgin exclaim
in: which I held my duty, speedily to acquaint you
withal; sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns
you something to know it.
Count.
You have discharg'd this honestly; keep it
to yourself: many likelihoods inform'd 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's6 note, these are ours; this thorn
-- 31 --
Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;
Our blood to us, this to our blood is born;
It is the shew and seal of nature's truth,
Where love's strong passion is imprest in youth:
7 noteBy our remembrances of days foregone,
8 note
Such were our faults, O! then we thought them none.
Her eye is sick on't; I observe her now.
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 seeds:
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 eye?
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:
I am from humble, he from honour'd name;
-- 32 --
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!—9 note
or were you both our mothers,
I care no more for, than I do for heaven,
So I were not his sister: 1 note
Can't no other,
But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?
-- 33 --
Count.
Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law;
God shield, you mean it not! daughter, and mother,
So strive upon your pulse: What, pale again?
My fear hath catch'd your fondness: 2 note
Now I see
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
3 noteYour salt tears' head. 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 grosly shewn in thy behaviours,
That in their kind 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!
-- 34 --
Count.
Do you love my son?
Hel.
Your pardon, noble mistress!
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 4 note
captious and intenible sieve, 9Q0403
I still pour in the waters of my love,
And lack not to lose still5 note
: thus, Indian-like,
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 youth,
Did ever, in so true a flame of liking,
Wish chastly, and love dearly, that your Dian
-- 35 --
Was both herself and love; O then, give pity
To her, whose state is such, that cannot chuse
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 true.
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 6 notenotes, whose faculties inclusive were,
More than they were in note: 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;
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,
-- 36 --
Embowell'd of their doctrine7 note
, have left off
The danger to itself?
Hel.
8 note
There's something hints,
More than my father's skill, which was the greatest
Of his profession, that his good receipt
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 attempt9 note:
Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this,
What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.
[Exeunt.
-- 37 --
Samuel Johnson [1778], The plays of William Shakspeare. In ten volumes. With the corrections and illustrations of various commentators; to which are added notes by Samuel Johnson and George Steevens. The second edition, Revised and Augmented (Printed for C. Bathurst [and] W. Strahan [etc.], London) [word count] [S10901].
