My fear hath catch'd your fondness. -Now I see (6)
The myst'ry of your loneliness, and find
Your falt tears' head; now to all fenfe 'tis gross,
You love my fon; 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 grofly shown in thy behaviour,
That in their kind they speak it: only fin
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 fon?
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 paffions
Have to the full appeach'd.

(6)

Now I fee

The myst'ry of your loveliness, and find Your falt tears' head:) The Mystery of her Loveliness is beyond my Comprehenfion: The old Countess is saying nothing ironical, nothing taunting, or in Reproach, that this Word should find a place here; which it could not, unless sarcastically employ'd, and with some Spleen. I dare warrant, the Poet meant, his old Lady should say no more than this: "I now find the Mystery of your creeping into Corners, and weeping, and pining in secret." For this Reason I have amended the Text, Loneliness. The Steward, in the foregoing Scene, where he gives the Countess Intelligence of Helen's Behaviour, says;

Alone She was, and did communicate to herself her own Words Hel. Then, I confefs,

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; fo'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 fuit;

Nor would I have him, 'till I do deserve him,
Yet never know, how that defert shall 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 fun that looks upon his worshipper,
But knows of him no more. My dearest Madam,
Let not your hate incounter with my love,
For loving where you do, but if your felf,
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,
Did ever in so true a flame of liking
Wish chaftly, and love dearly, that your Dian
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 lofe;
That seeks not to find that, which search implies;
But, riddle-like, lives sweetly, where the 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 fov'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,

Te

To cure the defperate languishings, whereof
The King is render'd loft.

Count. This was your motive for Paris, was it, speak?
Hel. My lord your fon 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'ft
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-loft life of mine on his Grace's Cure,

By such a day and hour.

Count. Doft thou believ'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:
Begone, to morrow; and be sure of this,

What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.

[Exeunt

ACT

ACT II.

SCENE, the Court of France.

Enter the King, with divers young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war. Bertram and Parolles.

F

Flourish Cornets.

KING.

Arewel, young Lords: these warlike principles
Do not throw from you: you, my Lords, fare-

wel;

Share the advice betwixt you. If both gain,
The gift doth stretch it felf as 'tis receiv'd,

And is enough for both.

1 Lord. 'Tis our hope, Sir,

After well-enter'd soldiers, to return

And find your Grace in health.

King. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart Will not confefs, it owns the malady

That doth my life besiege; farewel, young Lords;

Whether I live or die, be you the fons

Of worthy French men; (6) let higher Italy

(Those

(Those bated, that inherit but the Fall Of the last Monarchy;) See, &c.] This seems to me One of the very obscure Passages of Shakespeare, and which therefore may very well demand Explanation. Italy, at the time of this Scene, was under three very different Tenures. The Emperor, as Successor of the Roman Emperors, had one Part; the Pope, by a pretended Donation from Constantine, another; and the Third was compos'd of free States. Now by the last Monarchy is meant the Roman, the last of the four general Monarchies. Upon the Fall of this Monarchy, in the Scramble, several Cities set up for Themselves, and became free States : Now these might be said properly to inherit the Fall of the Mor narchy. This being premised, now tothe Sense, The King says,

(Those 'bated, that inherit but the Fall
Of the laft Monarchy ;) fee, that you come
Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when
The brave Questant shrinks, find what you feek,
That Fame may cry you loud: I say, farewel.
2 Lord. Health at your bidding serve your Majesty!
King. Those girls of Italy,
take heed of them;

They say, our French lack language to deny,
If they demand: beware of being captives,
Before you serve.

Both. Our hearts receive your warnings.
King. Farewel. Come hither to me. [To Attendants.

[Exit.

Lord. Oh, my sweet Lord, that you will stay behind us!

Par. 'Tis not his fault; the spark
2 Lord. Oh, 'tis brave wars.

Par. Most admirable; I have seen those wars.
Ber. I am commanded here, and kept a coil with,

Too young, and the next year, and 'tis too early.

Par. An thy mind stand to it, boy, steal away

bravely.

Ber. Shall I stay here the forehorse to a fmock, Creeking my shoes on the plain masonry, 'Till Honour be bought up, and no sword worn But one to dance with? by heav'n, I'll steal away. 1 Lord. There's honour in the theft.

Par. Commit it, Count.

2 Lord. I am your accessary, and so farewel.

Ber. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortur'd body.

Higher Italy; giving it the Rank of Preference to France; but he corrects himself and fays, I except Those from that Precedency, who only inherit the Fall of the last Monarchy; as all the little petty States; for inftance, Florence to whom thefe Voluntiers were going. As if he had said, I give the Place of Honour to the Emperor and the Pope, but not to the free States. All here is clear; and 'tis exactly Shakespeare's Manner, who lov'd to shew his Reading on fuch Occafions, Mr. Warburton. 1 Lord.