(So that my lord, your son, were not my brother,) in-law; God shield, you mean it not! daughter, and mother, Your salt tears' head. Now to all sense 'tis gross, Hel. Good madam, pardon me! Your pardon, noble mistress! Count. Do you love my son? 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 Hel. your passions Then, I confess, Here on my knee, before high heaven and you, My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love: That he is lov'd of me: I follow him not Nor would I have him, till I do deserve him; The sun, that looks upon his worshipper, But knows of him no more. My dearest madam, Wish chastly, and love dearly, that your Dian Hel. 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 To cure the desperate languishings, whereof Count. For Paris, was it? speak. This was your motive 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, 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 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 [Exeunt. ACT II. SCENE I. 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. Farewel, young lord, these warlike prin ciples Do not throw from you:-and you, my lord, farewel: 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. Farewel, young lords; Whether I live or die, be you the sons Of worthy Frenchmen: let higher Italy 2 Lord. Health, at your bidding, serve your majesty! King. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them; |