The Works

SCENE VI Changes to the Countess's at Roufillon. Enter Countefs, Steward, and Clownve

Count. I will now hear; what fay you of this gentlewoman?!

Stew. Madam, the he care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my paft endeavours; for then we wound our modefty, and make foul the clearness of our defervings, when of our felves we publish them.

Count. What does this knave here? get you gone, firral the complaints I have heard of you, I do not all believe; 'tis my flownefs that I do know you lack not folly to commit them, and have aLa not; for I bility enough to make fuch knaveries yare.

Clo. "Tis not unknown to you, Madam, I am a poor fellow.

Count. Well, Sir.

Clo. No, Madam; 'tis not fo well that I am poor, tho' many of the rich are damn'd; but if I have your Ladyfhip's good-will to go to the world, Ifbel the woman and I will do as we may.

Count. Wilt thou needs be a beggar!

Clo. I do beg your good-will in this cafe,
Count. In what cafe?

own;

fervice is no

Gloc in Ibel's cafe, and mine heritage, and I think I fhall never have the blefling of God, till I have iffue of my body; for they fay, bearns are bleffings.

Gount. Tell me thy reafon why thou wik marry. Clo. My poor body, Madam, requires it. I am driven on by the flesh; and he muft needs go that the devil drives.

Count. Is this all you Worfhip's reafon ?

Clo. 'Faith, Madam, I have other holy reafons fuch as they are.

Count. May the world know them?

Clo. I have been, Madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry, that I may repent.

Gount. Thy marriage fooner than thy wickednefs.

Clo. I am out of friends, Madam, and I hope to have friends for my wife's fake.

Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

Clo. Y' are fhallow, Madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am weary of. He that ears my lands, fpares my team, and gives me leave to inne the crop. If I be his cuckold, he's my drudge. He that comforts my wife, is the cher ifher of my flesh and blood; he that cherisheth my flesh and blood, loves my flesh and blood; he that loves ist my flesh and blood, is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife, is my friend. If men could be contented to it be what they are, there were no fear in marriage for young Charbon the Puritan, and old Poyfon the Pa pilt, howfoe'er their hearts are fever'd in religion, theirid heads are both one; they may joul horns together, like any deer i' th' herd.

Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth'd and calumnious knave?

2% 40 Glo. A prophet, I, Madam; and I fpeak the truthot the next way. "For I the ballad will repeat, which men full truer

"fhall find;

"Your marriage comes by deftiny, your cuckow fings by kind.

Count. Get you gone, Sir, I'll talk with you more

anon.

Stew. May it please you, Madam, that he bid He. len come to you; of her I am to speak.

Count. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would fpeak with her; Helen I mean.

Clo. Was this fair face the cause, quoth fhe,

"Why the Grecians facked Troy?

Fond done, fond done; for Paris, ha,

"Was this King Priam's joy.

"With that she fighed as the ftood,

"And gave

this fentence then;

"Among nine bad if one be good,

"There's yet one good in ten.

[Singing.

Count. What, one good in ten? You corrupt the

fong, firrah.

Clo.

Clo. One good woman in ten, Madam, which is a purifying o' th' fong: 'would God would ferve the world fo all the year! we'd find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parfon. One in ten, quoth a'! an we might have a good woman born but every blazing ftar, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well; a man may draw his heart out, ere he pluck one.

Count. You'll be gone, Sir Knave, and do as I command you?

Clo. That man that fhould be at a woman's command, and yet no hurt done! tho' honefty be no Puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the furplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am going, forfooth, the business is for Helen to come hither. [Exit.

Count. Well, now.

Stew. I know, Madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.

Count. 'Faith, I do; her father bequeath'd her to me; and the herself, without other advantages, may lawfully make title to as much love as the finds: there is more owing her than is paid, and more fhall be paid her than she'll demand.

Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her than I think fhe wifh'd me; alone fhe was, and did communicate to herfelf her own words to her own ears; fhe thought, I dare vow for her, they touch'd not any ftranger fenfe. Her matter was, fhe lov'd your fon: Fortune, she said, was no goddefs, that had put fuch dif ference betwixt their two eftates; Love, no god, that would not extend his might, only where qualities were level; Diana, no queen of virgins, that would fuffer her poor knight to be furpris'd without refcue in the firft affault, or ranfom afterward. This fhe deliver'd' in the most bitter touch of forrow that e'er I heard a virgin exclaim in; which I held it my duty fpeedily to acquaint you withal; fithence, in the lofs that may happen, it concerns you fomething to know it.

Count. You have difcharge'd this honeftly, keep it to yourself: many likelihoods inform'd me of this before, which hung fo tottering in the balance, that I could neither believe nor mifdoubt. Pray you, leave me:

ftall this in your bofom, and I thank you for your honeft care; I will speak with further anon.

you

[Exit Steward.

SCENE VII.

Enter Helena.

Count. Ev'n fo it was with me when I was young;

If we are nature's, these are ours: this thorn

Doth to our rofe of youth rightly belong;

Our blood to us, this to our blood, is born;

It is the fhow and feal of nature's truth,

Where love's ftrong paffion is imprefs'd in youth;
By our remembrances of days forgone,

Such were our faults; O! then we thought them none.
Here eye is fick on't; I obferve 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 faid a mother,
Methought you faw a ferpent; what's in mother,
That you ftart at it? I fay I am your mother;
And put you in the catalogue of those,
That were enwombed mine; 'tis often feen,
Adoption ftrives with nature; and choice breeds
A native flip to us from foreign feeds.

You ne'er opprefs'd me with a mother's groan,
Yet I exprefs to you a mother's care.

God's mercy! maiden, do's it curd thy blood,
To fay, I am thy mother? what's the matter,
That this diftemper'd meffenger 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 brother;
I am from humble, he from honour'd name;
No note upon my parents, his all noble.
My mafter, my dear lord he is; and I
His fervant live, and will his vassal die :
He must not be my brother.-

Gount. Nor I your mother ?

Hel.

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 can no more fear than I do fear heav'n),

So I were not his fifter: can't no other,
But I your daughter, he must be my brother?

Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-inlaw;

God fhield you mean it not, daughter and mother
So ftrive upon your pulfe. What! pale again?
My fear hath catch'd your fondnefs. Now I fee
The mystery of your lonelinefs, and find
Your falt tears' head; now to all fenfe 'tis grofs,
You love my fon; invention is asham'd,
Against the proclamation of thy paffion,
To fay thou dost not; therefore tell me true;
But tell me then 'tis fo. For, look, thy cheeks
Confefs it one to th' other; and thine eyes
See it fo grofsly fhown in thy behaviour,
That in their kind they speak it only fin
And hellish obftinacy tie thy tongue,
That truth fhould be fufpected; fpeak, is't fo?
If it be fo, you've wound a goodly clew:
If it be not, forfwear't; howe'er, I charge thee,
As heav'n fhall work in me for thine avail,
To tell me truly,