Ber. Sir, it is

A charge too heavy for my ftrength; but yet
We'll ftrive to bear it for your worthy fake,
To th' extream edge of hazard.

Duke. Then go forth,

And fortune play upon thy profp'rous helm,
As thy aufpicious mistress!

Ber. This very day,

Great Mars, I put myself into thy file;

Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove
A lover of thy drum; hater of love.


[Exeunt. SCENE changes to Roufillon in France.


Enter Countess and Steward.

Las! and would you take the letter of her?
Might you not know, fhe would do, as
The has done,

By fending me a letter? Read it again.


I am St. Jaques' pilgrim, thither gone;
Ambitious love bath fo in me offended,
That bare-foot plod I the cold ground upon,
With fainted vow my faults to have amended.
Write, write, that from the bloody course of war
My deareft mafter, your dear fon, may bie;
Blefs him at home in peace, whilft I from far
His name with zealous fervour fan&tifie.
His taken labours bid him me forgive;

1, bis defpightful Juno, fent him forth
From courtly friends, with camping foes to live;
Where death and danger dog the heels of worth.
He is too good and fair for death and me,
Whom I myself embrace, to fet him free.

Ah, what sharp ftings are in her mildest words?
Rynaldo, you did never lack advice fo much,
As letting her pafs fo; had I fpoke with her,
I could have well diverted her intents,
Which thus the hath prevented.


Stew. Pardon, Madam,

If I had given you this at over-night

She might have been o'er-ta'en; and yet fhe writes,
Purfuit would be but vain.

Count. What angel fhall

Blefs this unworthy husband? he cannot thrive,
Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear,
And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath
Of greatest juftice. Write, write, Rynaldo,
To this unworthy husband of his wife;
Let every word weigh heavy of her worth,
That he does weigh too light: my greatest grief,
Tho' little he do feel it, fet down sharply.
Dispatch the moft convenient meffenger;
When, haply, he shall hear that the is gone,
He will return, and hope I may, that the,
Hearing fo much, will fpeed her foot again,
Led hither by pure love. Which of them both
Is dearest to me, I've no skill in sense

To make distinction; provide this messenger;
My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak;
Grief would have tears, and forrow bids me speak.
SCENE changes to a publick Place in Florence.

A Tucket afar off.

Enter an old Widow of Florence, Diana, Violenta, and Mariana, with other Citizens.


AY, come. For if they do approach the city, we fhall lofe all the fight.


Dia. They fay, the French Count has done moft honourable fervice.

Wid. It is reported, that he has ta'en their greatest commander; and that with his own hand he flew the Duke's brother. We have loft our labour, they are gone a contrary way; hark, you may know by their trumpets.

C 3


Mar. Come, let's return again, and fuffice ourselves with the report of it. Well, Diana, take heed of this French Earl; the honour of a maid is her name, and no legacy is fo rich as honesty.

Wid. I have told my neighbour, how you have been follicited by a gentleman his companion.

Mar. I know that knave, (hang him!) one Parolles; a filthy officer he is in those fuggeftions for the young Earl; beware of them, Diana; their promifes, enticements, oaths, tokens, and all these engines of luft, are not the things they go under; many a maid hath been feduced by them; and the mifery is, example, that fo terrible fhews in the wreck of maidenhood, cannot for all that diffuade fucceffion, but that they are limed with the twigs that threaten them. I hope, I need not to advise you further; but, I hope, your own grace will keep you where you are, tho' there were no further danger known, but the modefty which is fo loft.

Dia. You fhall not need to fear me.

Enter Helena, difguis'd like a Pilgrim.

Wid. I hope fo.Look, here comes a pilgrim; I know, he will lye at my houfe; thither they fend one another; I'll queftion her: God fave you, pilgrim! whither are you bound?

Hel. To St. Jaques le Grand.

lodge, I do befeech you?

Where do the palmers.

Wid. At the St. Francis, befide the port.

Hel. Is this the way?

[A march afar off. Wid. Ay, marry, is't. Hark you, they come this way. If you will tarry, holy pilgrim, but 'till the troops come by,

I will conduct you where you fhall be lodg'd;

The rather, for, I think, I know your hoftefs

As ample as myself.

Hel. Is it yourself?

Wid. If you fhall please fo, pilgrim..

Hel. I thank you, and will stay upon your leifure.
Wid. You came, I think, from France.

Hel. I did fo.

Wid. Here

you fhall fee a countryman of yours,

That has done worthy fervice.

Hel. His name, I pray you?

Dia. The Count Roufillon: know you fuch a one? Hel. But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him; His face I know not.

Dia. Whatfoe'er he is,

He's bravely taken here. He ftole from France,
As 'tis reported; for the King had married him
Against his liking. Think you, it is fo?

Hel. Ay, furely, meer the truth; I know his lady. Dia. There is a gentleman, that serves the Count, Reports but courfely of her.

Hel. What's his name?

Dia. Monfieur Parolles.

Hel. Oh, I believe with him,
In argument of praise, or to the worth
Of the great Count himself, fhe is too mean
To have her name repeated; all her deferving.
Is a referved honefty, and That

I have not heard examin'd.

Dia. Alas, poor lady!

'Tis a hard bondage, to become the wife

Of a detefting lord.

Wid. Ah! right; good creature! wherefoe'er fhe is Her heart weighs fadly; this young maid might do her A fhrewd turn, if the pleas'd.

Hel. How do you mean?

May be, the am'rous Count follicits her

In the unlawful purpose.

Wid. He does, indeed;

And brokes with all, that can in fuch a fuit

Corrupt the tender honour of a maid:

But the is arm'd for him, and keeps her guard

In honefteft defence.

Drum and Colours. Enter Bertram, Parolles, Officers

and Soldiers attending.

Mar. The Gods forbid elfe!

Wid. So, now they come :

C 4


That is Antonio, the Duke's eldest fon;

That, Efcalus.

Hel. Which is the Frenchman?

Dia. He;

That with the plume; 'tis a moft gallant fellow;
I would, he lov'd his wife! if he were honefter,
He were much goodlier. Is't not a handfome gentle-

man ?

Hel. I like him well.

Dia. 'Tis pity, he is not honeft; yond's that fame knave, (19)

That leads him to thefe paces; were I his lady,
I'd poison that vile rascal.

Hel. Which is he?

Dia. That jack-an-apes with fcarfs, Why is he melancholy !

Hel. Perchance, he's hurt i'th' battel.

Par. Lofe our drum! well.

Mar. He's farewdly vex'd at something. Look, he has fpied us.

Wid. Marry, hang you!

[Exeunt Bertram, Parolles, &c.

Mar. And your courtefie, for a ring-carrier!

Wid. The troop is past: come, pilgrim, I will bring


Where you shall hoft: Of injoyn'd penitents

There's four or five, to great St. Jaques bound,
Already at my house.

Hel. I humbly thank you :

Please it this matron, and this gentle maid

To eat with us to night, the charge and thanking


Tond's That fame Fellow,

That leads him to thefe Places.] What Places? He did not lead him to be General of Horfe under the Duke of Florence, fure. Nor have they been talking of Brothels; or, indeed, any particular Locality. I make no Question, but our Author wrote;

That leads him to thefe Paces.

i. c. to fuch irregular Steps, to Courses of Debauchery, to not loving his Wife,


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