Countess

I will now hear; what say you of this gentlewoman?

Steward

Madam, the care I have had to even 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.

Countess

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.

Clown

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

Countess

Well, sir.

Clown

No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damned: but, if I may have your ladyship's good will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.

Countess

Wilt thou needs be a beggar?

Clown

I do beg your good will in this case.

Countess

In what case?

Clown

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 a' my body; for they say barnes are blessings.

Countess

Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.

Clown

My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives.

Countess

Is this all your worship's reason?

Clown

Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are.

Countess

May the world know them?

Clown

I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry that I may repent.

Countess

Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.

Clown

I am out a' friends, madam; and I hope to have friends for my wife's sake.

Countess

Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

Clown

Y' are shallow, madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me which I am aweary of. He that ears my land 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, howsome'er their hearts are severed in religion, their heads are both one; they may jowl horns together, like any deer i' the herd.

Countess

Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave?

Clown

A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way:

Countess

Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you more anon.

Steward

May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you: of her I am to speak.

Countess

Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; Helen, I mean.

Clown

Countess

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

Clown

One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying a' the song: would God would serve the world so all the year; we'ld find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth 'a! An we might have a good woman born but or every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well: a man may draw his heart out, ere 'a pluck one.

Countess

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

Clown

That man should be at woman's command, 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.

Countess

Well, now.

Steward

I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.

Countess

Faith, I do: her father bequeathed 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.

Steward

Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved 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; Dian no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surprised, without rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. This she delivered in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e'er I heard 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.

Countess

Exit Steward.

Enter HELENA.

Even so it was with me when I was young:

If ever 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 impressed in youth:

By our remembrances of days forgone,

Such were our faults, or then we thought them none.

Her eye is sick on't: I observe her now.

Helena

What is your pleasure, madam?

Countess

You know, Helen,

I am a mother to you.

Helena

Mine honourable mistress.

Countess

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 oppressed 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 distempered messenger of wet

The many-coloured Iris, rounds thine eye?

Why? that you are my daughter?

Helena

That I am not.

Countess

I say, I am your mother.

Helena

Pardon, madam;

The Count Rossillion cannot be my brother:

I am from humble, he from honoured 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.

Countess

Nor I your mother?

Helena

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,

So I were not his sister. Can't no other,

But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?

Countess

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 catched your fondness: now I see

The mystery of your loneliness, 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' other; and thine eyes

See it so grossly shown 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 clew;

If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,

As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,

To tell me truly.

Helena

Good madam, pardon me!

Countess

Do you love my son?

Helena

Your pardon, noble mistress!

Countess

Love you my son?

Helena

Do not you love him, madam?

Countess

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 appeached.

Helena

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 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 and intenible sieve

I still pour in the waters 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 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 chastely and love dearly, that your Dian

Was both herself and love; O, then, give pity

To her, whose state is such that cannot choose

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!

Countess

Had you not lately an intent, — speak truly, —

To go to Paris?

Helena

Madam, I had.

Countess

Wherefore? tell true.

Helena

I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.

You know my father left me some prescriptions

Of rare and proved effects, such as his reading

And manifest experience had collected

For general sovereignty; and that he willed 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 whereof

The king is rendered lost.

Countess

This was your motive

For Paris, was it? speak.

Helena

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.

Countess

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,

Embowelled of their doctrine, have left off

The danger to itself?

Helena

There's something in't,

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'ld venture

The well-lost life of mine on his grace's cure

By such a day and hour.

Countess

Dost thou believe't?

Helena

Ay, madam, knowingly.

Countess

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.