I met the ravin 12 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 13 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.

SCENE III. Florence.

[Exit.

Before the Duke's Palace.

Flourish.

Enter the Duke of Florence, BERTRAM, Lords, Officers, 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.

Ber.

Sir, it is

A charge too heavy for my strength; but yet

12 That is the ravenous or ravening lion. So in Macbeth we have:

'The ravin'd salt sea shark.'

And in Beaumont and Fletcher's Maid of the Mill:

'Amaranta

Was seiz'd on by a fierce and hungry bear;

She was the ravin's prey.'

13 The sense is, 'From that place, where all the advantages that honour usually reaps from the danger it rushes upon, is only a scar in testimony of its bravery, as, on the other hand, it often is the cause of losing all, even life itself.'

We'll strive to bear it for your worthy sake,
To the extreme edge of hazard 14.

Duke.

Then go thou forth;

And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm 15,
As thy auspicious mistress!

Ber.

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.

SCENE IV. Rousillon.

A Room in the Countess's Palace.

Enter Countess and Steward.

[Exeunt.

Count. 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.

Stew. I am Saint Jaques'1 pilgrim, thither gone;
Ambitious love hath so in me offended,

That bare-foot plod I the cold ground upon,
With sainted vow my faults to have amended.

14 So in Shakspeare's 116th Sonnet:

'But bears it out even to the edge of doom.'

And Milton's Par. Reg. b. 1:

'You see our danger on the utmost edge of hazard.' 15 In K. Richard III. we have:

'Fortune and victory sit on thy helm.'

And in K. John:

'And victory with little loss doth play

Upon the dancing banners of the French.'

At Orleans was a church dedicated to St. Jaques, to which pilgrims formerly used to resort to adore a part of the cross pretended to be found there. See Heylin's France Painted to the Life, 1656, p. 270-6.

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 Juno2, 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.

Count. Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!

Rinaldo, you did never lack advice3 so much,
As letting her pass so; had I spoke with her,
I could have well diverted her intents,

Which thus she hath prevented.

Stew.

Pardon me, madam: If I had given you this at over-night,

She might have been o'erta'en; and yet she writes, Pursuit would be in vain.

Count.

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.
Despatch the most convenient messenger:-
When, haply, he shall hear that she is gone,

2 Alluding to the story of Hercules.

3 i. e. discretion or thought.

4 Weigh here means to value or esteem. So in Love's Labour's Lost:

'You weigh me not,-O, that's you care not for me.'

VOL. III.

CC

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
To make distinction:-Provide this messenger :-
My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak;

Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak. [Exeunt.

SCENE V.

Without the Walls of Florence. A Tucket afar off.

Enter an old Widow of Florence, DIANA, VIOLENTA, MARIANA, and other Citizens.

Wid. Nay, come; for if they do approach the city, we shall lose all the sight.

Dia. They say, the French count has done most honourable service.

Wid. It is reported that he has taken their greatest commander; and that with his own hand he slew the duke's brother. We have lost our labour; they are gone a contrary way: hark! you may know by their trumpets.

Mar. Come, let's return again, and suffice ourselves with the report of it. Well, Diana, take heed of this French earl: the honour of a maid is her name; and no legacy is so rich as honesty.

Wid. I have told my neighbour, how you have been solicited by a gentleman his companion.

Mar. I know that knave; hang him! one Parolles: a filthy officer he is in those suggestions1 for the young earl.-Beware of them, Diana; their promises, enticements, oaths, tokens, and all these

1 Suggestions are temptations. Thus in Love's Labour's Lost: Suggestions are to others as to me.'

engines of lust, are not the things they go under 2: many a maid hath been seduced by them; and the misery is, example, that so terrible shows in the wreck of maidenhead, cannot for all that dissuade succession, but that they are limed with the twigs that threaten them. I hope, I need not to advise you further; but, I hope, your own grace will keep you where you are, though there were no further danger known, but the modesty which is so lost.

Dia. You shall not need to fear me.

Enter HELENA, in the dress of a Pilgrim.

Wid. I hope so.

-Look, here comes a pilgrim; I know she will lie at my house: thither they send one another: I'll question her.

God save you, pilgrim! Whither are you bound? Hel. To Saint Jaques le grand.

3

Where do the palmers 3 lodge, I do beseech you? Wid. At the saint Francis here, beside the port. Hel. Is this the way?

Wid.

Ay, marry, is it.-Hark you; [A march afar off.

They come this way :-If you will tarry, holy pilgrim,
But till the troops come by,

I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd;
The rather, for, I think, I know your hostess
As ample as myself.

Hel.

Is it yourself?

Wid. If you shall please so, pilgrim.

Hel. I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure.
Wid. You came, I think, from France?

2 They are not the things for which their names would make them pass. To go under the name of so and so is a common expression.

3 Pilgrims; so called from a staff or bough of palm they were wont to carry, especially such as had visited the holy places at Jerusalem. Johnson has given Stavely's account of the difference between a palmer and a pilgrim in his Dictionary.