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Atranger fense. Her matter was, she lov'd your son ; Fortune, the said, was no goddess, (8) that had put such difference betwixt their two -estates; Love, no god, that would not extend his might, only where qualities were level; Diana no Queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor Knight to be surpriz'd without rescue in the first affault, or ransom afterward. This the deliver'd in the most bitter touch of sorrow, that e'er I heard a virgin exclaim in ; which I held it my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; fithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it.
Count. You have discharg'd this honestly, keep it to yourself; many likelihoods inform’d me of this before, which hung lo tottering in the balance, that I could neither believe nor misdoubt; pray you, leave me; ftall this in your bosom, and I thank you for your honest care; I will speak with you further anon.
(Exit Steward. Enter Helena. Count. Ev'n so it was with me, when I was young:
If we are nature's, there are ours: this thorn Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;
Our blood to us, this to our blood, is born ; (8) Fortune, soe said, was no goddess, &c. Love, no god, &c. complain'd against the Queen of virgins, &c.] This pafiage stands thus in the old copies.
Love, no god, that would not extend bis migbe only where qualities were level, Queen of virgins, tbat would suffer her foor Knight, &c. 'Tis evident to every sensible reader that something must have lip'd out here, by which the meaning of the context is render'd defective. There are no traces for the words, (complain'd against the) which I take to have been first conjecturally supply'd by Mr. Rowe. But the form of the sentence is intirely alter'd by their insertion; and they, at beft, make but a botch. The fteward is speaking in the very words he overheard of the young Lady; fortune was no goddess, the faid, for one reason; love no god, for another;---what could the then more naturally subjoin, than as I bave amended in the text?
Diana no Queen of virgins, that would suffer her foor Knight to be surpriz'd without rescue, &c. For in poetical history Diana was as well known to preside over cbaflity, as Cupid over love, or Fortune over the change or regulation of our circumstances.
It is the show and seal of nature's truth,
Where love's strong passion is impreft in youth;
By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults, or then we thought them none.
is fick 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 oppreft 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 diftemper'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 fay, I am your mother.
Hel. Pardon, Madam.
The Count Roufillon cannot be my
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
brother. Count. Nor I your mother?
Hel. You are my mother, Madam; would you were, (So that my Lord, your fun, 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 ftrive upon your pulle! what, pale again ?
My fear hath catch'd your fondness.-Now I see (9)
The myst’ry of your loneliness, and find
Your falt tears head; now to all sense 'tis gross,
You love my son ; invention is alham'd,
Against the proclamation of thy paflion,
To say, thou dost not; therefore tell me true ;
But tell me then, 'tis fo. 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 obftinacy tie thy tongue,
That truth should be suspected ; speak, is't fo?
If it be fo, you've wound a goodly clew :
If it be not, forswear't ; howe'er, I charge thee,
As heav'n fhall 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,
The myftory of your loveliness, and find
Your salt tears bead: }
. The mystery of her loveliness is beyond my comprehension: 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 wasy and did communicate to berself ber own words to ber The author has used the word loneliness, to lgnify a person's being alone, again in his Hamlet.
We will bestow ourselves: read on this book;
That shew of such an exercise may colour
Whereof the world takes note: come, come, disclose
The state of your affe&tion; 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,
My friends were poor, but honeft; 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 suit;
Nor would I have him, 'till I do deserve him ;
Yet never know, how that desert shall be:
I know, I love in vain; strive against hope;
Yet, in this captious and intenible fieve,
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 knows of him no more. My dearest Madam,
Let not your hate incounter 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
With chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself and love; O then, give pity
To her, whose state is such, that cannot chule
But lend, and give, where the 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 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 sov’reignty; and that he will'd me
In heedfull'It reservation to bestow them,
As notes, whose faculties inclufive 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 loft.
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 Mall 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 in't
More than my father's kill, (which was the great'st
Of his profession,) that his good receipt
Shall for my legacy be sanctified
By th’luckiest ftars 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, 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. [Exeunt.