It is the show and seal of nature's truth,
Where love's strong passion is impress'd in youth:
By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults, or ^note then we thought them ^note none.
Her eye is sick on't: I observe her now.

Hel.
What is your pleasure, madam?

Count.
You know, Helen ^note,
I am a mother to you.

Hel.
Mine honourable mistress.

Count.
Nay, a mother:
Why not a mother? When I said ‘a mother,’ ^{note note}
Methought you saw a serpent: what's in ‘mother,’
That you start at it? I say, I am ^note 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 ^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 ^note many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye ^note?
Why? ^note that you are ^note 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;
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? ^note

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 ^note,
So I were not his sister. Can't no other,
But I your daughter, he must be my brother? ^note

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: now I see
The mystery of your loneliness ^note, and find
Your salt tears' head: now to all sense 'tis gross
You love my son; invention is ashamed,
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, th' one to th' ^note other; and thine eyes
See it ^note so grossly shown in thy behaviours ^note,
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 ^note wound a goodly clew;
If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,
As heaven shall work in me for thine ^note avail,

To tell me truly ^note.

Hel.
Good madam, pardon me!

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 ^note
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 ^note,
I love your son ^note.
My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love:
Be not offended; for it hurts not him
That he is loved 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 ^note and intenible ^note sieve,
I still pour in the waters ^note of my love,
And lack not to lose ^note still: 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 ^note
Wish chastely and love dearly ^note, that your Dian

Was both herself and love; O, then, give pity
To her, whose state is such, that ^note cannot choose
But lend and give where she is sure to lose;
That seeks not to find that her ^note 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 ^note.

Hel.
I will tell truth ^note; by grace itself I swear.
You know my father left me some prescriptions
Of rare and proved effects, such as his reading
And manifest ^note experience had collected
For general sovereignty; and that he will'd me
In heedfull'st reservation to bestow them,
As notes, whose faculties inclusive were,
More than they were in note: amongst the rest,
There is a remedy, approved, set down,
To cure the desperate languishings ^note 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 ^note 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 ^note,
They, that they cannot help ^note: how shall they credit

A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,
Embowell'd of their doctrine, have left off
The danger to itself?

Hel.
There's something in't ^note,
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 ^note luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your honour
But give me leave to try ^note success, I'd venture
The ^note well-lost life of mine on his ^note Grace's cure
By such a day and ^note hour.

Count.
Dost thou believe 't?

Hel.
Ay, madam, knowingly.

Count.
Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love,
Means and attendants ^note and my loving greetings
To those of mine in court: I'll stay at home
And pray God's blessing into ^note thy attempt:
Be gone ^note to-morrow; and be sure of this,
What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss. [Exeunt.

^note

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