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,
  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 imprest in youth;
By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults, or then we thought them none.
Her eye is sick on't, I observe her now.

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? when I said a mother,
Methought you saw a serpent; 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:
God's mercy, maiden, do's 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 eyes?
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;
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 heav'n,
So I were not his sister; can't no other?
But I your daughter, he must be my brother.

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 myst'ry of your loveliness, and find
Your 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 th' other, and thine eyes
See it so grosly shown in thy behaviour,
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've wound a goodly clew:
If it be not, forswear't; 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.
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 heav'ns 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; 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 sive,
I still pour in the water of my love,
And lack not to lose still; thus Indian like,
Religious in mine error, I adore
The sun that looks upon his worshipper,
But know of him no more. My dearest madam,
Let not your hate incounter with my love,
For loving where you do; but if your self,
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,
Did ever in so true a flame of liking
Wish chastly, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both her self 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 which 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 it self 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 sov'reignty; 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, 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,
Embowell'd of their doctrine, have left off
The danger to it self?

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 th' 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.
Do'st 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 attempt:
Be gone to-morrow, and be sure of this,
What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss. [Exeunt.

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