The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye? "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 heaven," 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 mystery of your loneliness, 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 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 clue;

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

And round about her tear-distained eye

"Blue circles stream'd like rainbows in the sky" HENLEY.

[9] There is a designe ambiguity: I care no more for, is. I care as much for.

I wish i equally FARMER

[1] The source, the fountain of your tears, the cause of your grief. JOHNSON.

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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 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 lov'd of me: I follow him not

By any token of presumptuous suit ;

Nor would I have him, till I do deserve him n;
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 chastly, 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.
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 itself, 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 sovereignty; and that he will'd me
In heedfullest 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 languishes, 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 itself?

Hel. There's something hints,

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'd venture

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

By such a day, and hour.

Count. Dost 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:
Begone to-morrow; and be sure of this,
What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.



SCENE 1.-Paris. A Room in the King's Palace. Flourish. Enter King, with young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war; BERTRAM, PAROLLES, and Attendants.


King. FAREWELL, young lord, these warlike principles

[2] Receipt, in which greater virtues were inclosed than appeared to observation, JOHNSON.

Do not throw from you and you, my lord, farewell:
-Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all,
The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis receiv'd,

And is enough for both.

1 Lord. It is 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 confess he owes the malady

That doth my life besiege.


young lords ;

Whether I live or die, be you the sons
Of worthy Frenchmen: let higher Italy'
(Those 'bated, that inherit but the fall
Of the last monarchy) see, that you come
Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when
The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek,
That fame may cry you loud: [ say, farewell.

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. Farewell.-Come hither to me.

[The King retires to a couch.

1 Lord. O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us! Par. 'Tis not his fault; the spark

2 Lord. O, '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.

[3] i e. as the common phrase runs, I am still heart whole; my spirits, by not sinking under my distemper, do not acknowledge its influence. STEEVENS.

[4] The ancient geographers have divided Italy into the higher and the lower, the Apennine hills being a kind of natural line of partition; the side next the Adriatic was denominated the higher Italy, and the other side the lower: and the two seas followed the same terms of distinction, the Adriatie being called the upper sea, and the Tyrrhene or Tuscan the lower. Now the Sennones or Senois, with whom the Florentines are here supposed to be at war, inhabited the higher Italy, their chief town being Arminium, now called Rimini, upon the Adriatic.


The sense may be this, Let upper Italy, where you are to exercise your valour, see that you come to gain honour, to the abatement, that is, to the disgrace and depression of those that have now lost their ancient military fame, and inherit but the fall of the last monarchy. To abate is used by Shakespeare in the original sense of abatre, to depress, to sink, to deject, to subdue. The word has still the same meaning in the language of the law. JOHNSON,

[5] Questant or quester, one who goes in quest.

Vol. IV.


Ber. I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock, Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry,

Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn,

But one to dance with 6 By heaven, I'll steal away. 1 Lord. There's honour in the theft.

Par. Commit it, count.

2 Lord. I am your accessary; and so farewell. Ber. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortured body. 1 Lord. Farewell, captain.

2 Lord. Sweet monsieur Parolles !

Par. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good metals :— You shall find in the regiment of the Spinii, one captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here on his sinister cheek; it was this very sword entrenched it: say to him, I live; and observe his reports for me.

2 Lord. We shall, noble captain. Par. Mars dote on you for his novices! What will you do?

Ber. Stay; the king

[Exe. Lords.

[Seeing him rise. Par. Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have restrained yourself within the list of too cold an adieu: be more expressive to them; for they wear themselves in the cap of the time, there, do muster true gait, eat, speak, and move under the influence of the most received star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed: after them, and take a more dilated farewell.

Ber. And I will do so.

Par. Worthy fellows; and like to prove most sinewy sword-men. [Exeunt BERT. and PAROLLES.

Enter LAFEU.

Laf. Pardon, my lord, [Kneeling.] for me and for my tidings.

King. I'll fee thee to stand up.

Laf. Then here's a man

Stands, that has brought his pardon. I would, you

Had kneel'd, my lord, to ask me mercy; and

That, at my bidding, you could so stand up.

[6] It should be remembered that, in Shakespeare's time, it was usual for gentlemen to dance with swords on Our author has again alluded to this ancient custom In Antony and Cleopatra, Act III sc ix:

--He, at Philippi kept

"His sword, even like a dancer." MALONE.

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