« ZurückWeiter »
And put you in the catalogue of those,
That were en wombed mine ; 'tis often seen,
Adoption strives with nature; and choice breeds
7 A native slip to us from foreign seeds.
You ne'er opprest me with a mother's groan,
Yet I express to you a mother's caře:
God's mercy! maiden, do's it curd thy blood,
To say, I am thy mother? what's the matter,
That this distemper'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 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
Hel. You are my mother, Madam ; 'would you
were, (So that my lord, your fon, were not my brother) Indeed, my mother! -or were you both our mothers can no more fear, than I do fear heav'n,)
So 7 A native flip to us from foreign seeds.] The integrity of the metaphor requires we should read STEADS, 1. F. Rocks, ftools, (as they are called by the gardeners,) from whence young Nips or fuckers are propagated. And it is not unlikely that Shakespear might write it so. 8
I CARE no more for, than I do for beav'n,
So I were not his fifter:] The second line has not the Icaft glimmering of sense Helen, by the indulgence and invitation of her mistress, is encouraged to discover the hidden cause of her grief; which is the love of her mistress's son; and taking hold of her miftress's words, where the bids her call her mother, the unfolds
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-
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 fee
· The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your sale tears' head; now to all sense 'tis gross,
You love my son; invention is afham’d,
Against the proclamation of thy passion,
To say, thou doft 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 großy shown in thy behaviour,
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've wound a goodly clew :
If it be not, forswear't; howe'er, I charge thee,
As heav'n shall work in me for chine 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?
. Do not you love him, Madam? Count. Go not about ; my love hath in't a bond,
the mystery: and, as she is discovering it, emboldens herself by this reflexion, in the line in question, as it ought to be read in a parenthesis,
(I CAN no more Fear, than I do fear heav'n,) i. e. I can no more fear to trust so indulgent a mistress with the secret than I can fear heav'n who has my vows for its happy issue. This break, in her discovery, is exceeding pertinent and fine. Here again the Oxford Editor does his part.
9 The mystery of your loveliness, ] We should read loneliness, or delight in folitude, as is the humour of lovers.
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 heav'ns and you,
That before you, and next unto high heav'n,
I love your son:
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 fuit ;
Nor would I have him, 'till I do deserve him;
Yet never know, how that desert shall be.
I know, I love in vain ; ftrive against hope;
Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve,
I still pour in the waters of my love,
And lack not to lose ftill; 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 Aame of liking
Wilh chastly, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself and love; O then, give picy
To her, whose state is fuch, that cannot chufe
But lend, and give, where she is sure to lose ;
That feeks 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 sovoreignty; and that he will'd me,
In heedfull’ft refervation 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 languishings, whereof
The King is render'd loft.
Count. This was your motive for Paris, was it,
Hel. My lord your fon made me to think of this;
Elle 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, Embowelld of their doctrine, have left off The danger to itself?
Hel. 3 There's something hints More than my father's skill, (which was the great'st
fupposed aid,] supposed for propping, supporting.
the fobools Embowell'd of their doétrine,-) the expression is beautifully satirical, and implies, that the theories of the schools are spun out of the bowels of the profeffors, like the cobwebs of the spider.
3 There's fomething in't More than my father's skill
that his good receipt, &c.] Here is an inference, [tbat) without any thing preceeding, to which it refers, which makes the sentence vicious, and thews that we fould read,
More than my father's skill,
that his good receipt -
1.4. I have a secret premonition or presage.
Of his Profession,) that his good receipt
Shall for my legacy be fanctified
By th’luckiest stars 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 believ't?
Hel. Ay, Madam, knowingly.
Count. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and
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.
Enter the King, with divers young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war. Bertram and Parolles.
KING. Arewel, young Lords: these warlike principles
Do not throw from you: you, my Lords, farewel; Share the advice betwixt you. If both gain, The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis receivid, And is enough for both.
i Lord. 'Tis our hope, Sir, After well-enter'd soldiers, to return And find your Grace in health.