LITMIR.BIZ

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COUNTESS.

       Get you gone, sir; I’ll talk with you more anon.

       STEWARD. May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you; of her I am to speak.

       COUNTESS.

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

       CLOWN.

       [Sings.]

       Was this fair face the cause, quoth she

       Why the Grecians sacked Troy?

       Fond done, done fond,

       Was this King Priam’s joy?

       With that she sighed as she stood,

       With that she sighed as she stood,

       And gave this sentence then:—

       Among nine bad if one be good,

       Among nine bad if one be good,

       There’s yet one good in ten.

       COUNTESS.

       What, one good in ten? you corrupt the song, sirrah.

       CLOWN. One good woman in ten, madam, which is a purifying o’ the song: would God would serve the world so all the year! we’d find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parson: one in ten, quoth ‘a! an we might have a good woman born before every blazing star, or at an earthquake, ‘twould mend the lottery well: a man may draw his heart out ere he pluck one.

       COUNTESS.

       You’ll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you!

       CLOWN. That man should be at woman’s command, and yet no hurt done!— Though honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart.—I am going, forsooth:the business is for Helen to come hither.

       [Exit.]

       COUNTESS.

       Well, now.

       STEWARD.

       I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.

       COUNTESS. Faith I do: her father bequeathed her to me; and she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds: there is more owing her than is paid; and more shall be paid her than she’ll demand.

       STEWARD. Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son: Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no god, that would not extend his might only where qualities were level; Diana no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surprise, without rescue in the first assault, or ransom afterward. This she delivered in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e’er I heard virgin exclaim in; which I held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it.

       COUNTESS. You have discharged this honestly; keep it to yourself; many likelihoods informed me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you leave me: stall this in your bosom; and I thank you for your honest care: I will speak with you further anon.

       [Exit STEWARD.]

       Even so it was with me when I was young:

       If ever we are nature’s, these are ours; this thorn

       Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;

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

       It is the show and seal of nature’s truth,

       Where love’s strong passion is impress’d in youth:

       By our remembrances of days foregone,

       Such were our faults:—or then we thought them none.

       [Enter HELENA.]

       Her eye is sick on’t;—I observe her now.

       HELENA.

       What is your pleasure, madam?

       COUNTESS.

       You know, Helen,

       I am a mother to you.

       HELENA.

       Mine honourable mistress.

       COUNTESS.

       Nay, a mother.

       Why not a mother? When I said a mother,

       Methought you saw a serpent: what’s in mother,

       That you start at it? I say I am your mother;

       And put you in the catalogue of those

       That were enwombed mine. ‘Tis often seen

       Adoption strives with nature; and choice breeds

       A native slip to us from foreign seeds:

       You ne’er oppress’d me with a mother’s groan,

       Yet I express to you a mother’s care:—

       God’s mercy, maiden! does 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 eye?

       Why,—that you are my daughter?

       HELENA.

       That I am not.

       COUNTESS.

       I say, I am your mother.

       HELENA.

       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.

       COUNTESS.

       Nor I your mother?

       HELENA.

       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 care no more for than I do for heaven,

       So I were not his sister. Can’t no other,

       But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?

       COUNTESS.

       Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law:

       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 see

       The mystery of your loneliness, and find

       Your salt tears’ head. Now to all sense ‘tis gross

       You love my son; invention is asham’d,

       Against the proclamation of thy passion,

       To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true;

       But tell me then, ‘tis so;—for, look, thy cheeks

       Confess it, one to the other; and thine eyes

       See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours,

       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 have wound a goodly clue;

       If it be not, forswear’t: howe’er, I charge thee,

       As

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