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my good lady, he.

       COUNTESS.

       A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.

       My son corrupts a well-derived nature

       With his inducement.

       SECOND GENTLEMAN.

       Indeed, good lady,

       The fellow has a deal of that too much

       Which holds him much to have.

       COUNTESS.

       You are welcome, gentlemen.

       I will entreat you, when you see my son,

       To tell him that his sword can never win

       The honour that he loses: more I’ll entreat you

       Written to bear along.

       FIRST GENTLEMAN.

       We serve you, madam,

       In that and all your worthiest affairs.

       COUNTESS.

       Not so, but as we change our courtesies.

       Will you draw near?

       [Exeunt COUNTESS and Gentlemen.]

       HELENA.

       ‘Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.’

       Nothing in France until he has no wife!

       Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France;

       Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is’t I

       That chase thee from thy country, and expose

       Those tender limbs of thine to the event

       Of the none-sparing war? and is it I

       That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou

       Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark

       Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,

       That ride upon the violent speed of fire,

       Fly with false aim: move the still-peering air,

       That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord!

       Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;

       Whoever charges on his forward breast,

       I am the caitiff that do hold him to it;

       And though I kill him not, I am the cause

       His death was so effected: better ‘twere

       I met the ravin lion when he roar’d

       With sharp constraint of hunger; better ‘twere

       That all the miseries which nature owes

       Were mine at once. No; come thou home, Rousillon,

       Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,

       As oft it loses all. I will be gone:

       My being here it is that holds thee hence:

       Shall I stay here to do’t? no, no, although

       The air of paradise did fan the house,

       And angels offic’d all: I will be gone,

       That pitiful rumour may report my flight

       To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day!

       For with the dark, poor thief, I’ll steal away.

       [Exit.]

      SCENE 3. Florence. Before the DUKE’s palace.

       [Flourish. Enter the DUKE OF FLORENCE, BERTRAM, PAROLLES, Lords,

       Soldiers, and others.]

       DUKE.

       The general of our horse thou art; and we,

       Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence

       Upon thy promising fortune.

       BERTRAM.

       Sir, it is

       A charge too heavy for my strength; but yet

       We’ll strive to bear it, for your worthy sake

       To the extreme edge of hazard.

       DUKE.

       Then go thou forth;

       And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm,

       As thy auspicious mistress!

       BERTRAM.

       This very day,

       Great Mars, I put myself into thy file;

       Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove

       A lover of thy drum, hater of love.

       [Exeunt.]

      SCENE 4. Rousillon. A room in the COUNTESS’S palace.

       [Enter COUNTESS and Steward.]

       COUNTESS.

       Alas! and would you take the letter of her?

       Might you not know she would do as she has done,

       By sending me a letter? Read it again.

       STEWARD.

       [Reads.]

       ‘I am Saint Jaques’ pilgrim, thither gone:

       Ambitious love hath so in me offended

       That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon,

       With sainted vow my faults to have amended.

       Write, write, that from the bloody course of war

       My dearest master, your dear son, may hie:

       Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far

       His name with zealous fervour sanctify:

       His taken labours bid him me forgive;

       I, his despiteful Juno, sent 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 set him free.’

       COUNTESS.

       Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!—

       Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much

       As letting her pass so; had I spoke with her,

       I could have well diverted her intents,

       Which thus she hath prevented.

       STEWARD.

       Pardon me, madam:

       If I had given you this at over-night,

       She might have been o’er ta’en; and yet she writes,

       Pursuit would be but vain.

       COUNTESS.

       What angel shall

       Bless 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, Rinaldo,

       To this unworthy husband of his wife:

       Let every word weigh heavy of her worth,

       That he does weigh too light: my greatest grief,

       Though little he do feel it, set down sharply.

       Dispatch the most convenient messenger:—

       When, haply, he shall hear that she is gone

       He will return; and hope I may that she,

       Hearing so much, will speed her foot again,

       Led hither by pure love: which of them both

       Is dearest to me I have no skill in sense

      

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