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 daughterin-law; God shield, you mean it not! daughter, and mother, Your salt tears' head t. Now to all sense 'tis gross, Against the proclamation of thy passion, That truth should be suspected: Speak, is't so ? 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 your passions Have to the full appeach'd. Hel. Then, I confess, Here on my knee, before high heaven and you, My friends were poor, but honest; so's my loves • Contend. The source, the cause of your grief. Be not offended; for it hurts not him, ; The sun, that looks upon his worshipper, Wish chastly, and love dearly, that your Dian Hel. Madam, I had. Wherefore? tell true: For general sovereignty; and that he will'd me i. e. Whose respectable conduct in age proves that you were no less virtuous when young. ti. c. Venus. Receipts in which greater virtues were enclosed than appeared. There is a remedy, approv'd, set down, 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, If Count. you But think yon, Helen, should tender your supposed aid, He would receive it? He and his physicians Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him, A They, that they cannot help: How shall they credit 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 Exhausted of their skill. [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. Farewell, young lord, these warlike principles, Do not throw from you:-aud you, my lord, fare well: Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all, The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis received, 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. Farewell, young lords; Of worthy Frenchmen: let higher Italy The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek, 2 Lord. Health, at your bidding, serve your majesty! King. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them; They say, our French lack language to deny, i. c. Those excepted who possess modern Italy, the remains of the Roman empire. Seeker, enquirer. If they demand: beware of being captives, Both. Our hearts receive your warnings. King. Farewell.-Come hither to me. [The King retires to a couch. 1 Lord. O my sweet lord, that you will stay be hind us? Par. 'Tis not his fault; the spark——— 2 Lord. O, 'tis brave wars! Par. Most admirable: I have seen those wars. Ber. I am commanded here, and kept a coil + with; Too young, and the next year, and 'tis too early. Par. An thy mind stand to it, boy, steal away bravely. Ber. I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock, Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry, Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn, But one to dance with! By heaven, I'll steal away. 1 Lord. There's honour in the theft. Commit it, count, Par. 2 Lord. I am your accessary; and so farewell. Ber. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortured body. 1 Lord. Farewell, captain. 2 Lord. Sweet monsieur Parolles! Par. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good metals :You shall find in the regiment of the Spinii, one captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here on his sinister cheek; it was this very sword enrenched it: say to him, I live; and observe his reports for me. 2 Lord. We shall, noble captain. Par. Mars dote on you for his novices! [Exeunt Lords.] What will you do? * Be not captives before + With a noise, bustle. you are soldiers. In Shakspeare's time it was usual for gentlemen to dance with swords on. |