2 Gent. Madam, he's gone to ferve the Duke of

Florence.

བག ། དར

We met him thitherward, for thence we came;
And, after fome dispatch in hand at court,"
Thither we bend again.

Hel. Look on this letter, Madam; here's my pafsport.

3 When thou canst get the ring, upon my finger, which never shall come off; and fhew me a child begotten of thy body that I am father to, then call me buf band: but in fuch a Then I write a Never. This is a dreadful fentence.

Count. Brought you this letter, gentlemen? 1 Gent. Ay, Madam, and, for the contents' fake, are forry for our pains.

Count. I pr'ythee, lady, have a better cheer. If thou engroffeft all the griefs as thine,

Thou robb'ft me of a moiety: he was my fon,

But I do wash his name out of my blood,

And thou art all my child. Towards Florence is he? 2 Gent. Ay, Madam.

Count. And to be a foldier?

2 Gent. Such is his noble purpose; and, believe't, The Duke will lay upon him all the honour That good convenience claims.

Count. Return you thither?

1 Gent. Ay, Madam, with the swifteft wing of speed. Hel. 'Till I bave no wife, I have nothing in France. 'Tis bitter. [Reading.

Count. Find you that there?

Hel. Yes, Madam.

3 When thou can't get the ring, upon my finger,] i. e. When thou can't get the ring, which is on my finger, into thy poffeffion. The Oxford Editor, who took it the other way, to fignify, when thou can't get it on upon my finger, very fagaciously alters it to, When tbou can get the ring from my finger.

1 Gent.

1 Gent. 'Tis but the boldness of his hand, happ'ly, which his heart was not confenting to.

Count. Nothing in France, until he have no wife?
There's nothing here, that is too good for him,
But only fhe; and she deserves a lord,

That twenty fuch rude boys might tend upon,
And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?
1 Gent. A fervant only, and a gentleman
Which I have fome time known.

Count. Parolles, was't not?

1 Gent. Ay, my good lady, he.

Count. A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness: My fon corrupts a well-derived nature With his inducement.

4

1 Gent. Indeed, good lady, the fellow has a deal of that too much, which holds him much to have. Count. Y'are welcome, gentlemen; I will intreat you, when you see my fon, to tell him, that his fword can never win the honour that he lofes: more I'll intreat you written to bear along.

1 Gent. We serve you, Madam, in that and all your worthieft affairs.

Count. Not fo, but as we change our courtefies.

Will you draw near?

[Exeunt Countess and Gent.

Hel. 'Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France. Nothing in France, until he has no wife!

4 a deal of that too much, which holds him much to have.] That is, his vices ftand him in ftead. Helen had before deliver'd this thought in all the beauty of expreffion.

--

I know him a notorious lyar;

Think him a great way fool, folely a coward;
Yet thefe fixt evils fit fo fit in him,

That they take place, while virtue's fleely bones
Look bleak in the cold wind

But the Oxford Editor reads, Which boves him not much to have.

Thou

Thou shalt have none, Roufillon, none in France;
Then haft thou all again. Poor lord! is't I
That chafe thee from thy country, and expose
Those tender limbs of thine to the event
Of the none-fparing war? and is it I

That drive thee from the fportive court, where thou
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark
Of fmoaky muskets? O you leaden meffengers,
That ride upon the violent fpeed of fire,

Fly with false aim; pierce the ftill-moving air,
That fings with piercing, do not touch my lord:
Whoever shoots at him, I fet him there.
Whoever charges on his forward breast,
I am the caitiff, that do hold him to it;
And tho' I 'kill him not, I am the cause
His death was fo effected. Better 'twere,
I met the rav'ning lion when he roar'd
With fharp constraint of hunger: better 'twere,
That all the miferies, which nature owes,
Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Roufillon;
Whence honour but of danger wins a scar;
As oft it lofes all. I will be gone:
My being here it is, that holds thee hence.
Shall I ftay here to do't? no, no, although
The air of paradife did fan the house,
And angels offic'd all; I will be gone;
That pitiful rumour may report my flight,
To confolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day!
For with the dark, poor thief, I'll fteal away. [Exit.

5

move the ftill-piercing air,

That fings with piercing] The words are here odly shuffled into nonsense. We should read,

pierce the ftill moving air,

That fings with piercing,

i.. pierce the air, which is in perpetual motion, and fuffers no

injury by piercing.

SCENE

SCENE

V.

Changes to the Duke's Court in Florence.

Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Bertram, Drum and Trumpets, Soldiers, Parolles.

Duke.'

TH

HE General of our Horfe thou art, and we,
Great in our hope, lay our beft love and

credence

Upon thy promifing fortune.

Ber. Sir, it is

A charge too heavy for my ftrength; but yet
We'll ftrive to bear it for your worthy fake,
To th' extream edge of hazard.

Duke. Then go forth,

And fortune play upon thy profp'rous helm,
As thy aufpicious miftrefs!

Ber. This very day,

Great Mars, I put myself into thy file;

Make me but like my thoughts, and I fhall prove

A lover of thy drum; hater of love.

SCENE VI.

Changes to Roufillon in France.

"Enter Countefs and Steward.

[Exeunt,

Count. A Las! and would you take the letter of her?

Might you not know, fhe would do, as fhe

has done,

By fending me a letter? Read it again..

LETTER.

LETTER.

I am St. Jaques' pilgrim, thither gone;
Ambitious love bath fo in me offended,
That bare-foot plod I the cold ground upon,
With fainted vow my faults to have amended.
Write, write, that from the bloody course of war
My dearest mafter, your dear fon, may bie;
Blefs bim at bome in peace, whilst I from far
His name with zealous fervour fan&tifie.
His taken labours bid him me forgive;
I, bis defpiteful Juno, fent him forth
From courtly friends, with camping foes to live;
Where death and danger dog the heels of worth.
He is too good and fair for death and me,
Whom I myself embrace, to fet him free.

Ah, what fharp ftings are in her mildeft words?
Rynaldo, you did never lack advice fo much,
As letting her pafs fo; had I fpoke with her,
I could have well diverted her intents,
Which thus the hath prevented.

Stew. Pardon, Madam,

If I had given you this at over-night

She might have been o'er-ta'en; and yet the writes, Purfuit would be but vain.

Count. What angel fhall

Blefs this unworthy husband? he cannot thrive,
Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear,
And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath
Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rynaldo,
To this unworthy husband of his wife;
Let every word weigh heavy of her worth,
That he does weigh too light: my greatest grief,
Tho' little he do feel it, fet down fharply.
Dispatch the most convenient messenger;

When