A native slip to us from foreign seeds: Hel. That I am not. Pardon, madam; The count Rousillon cannot be my brother: Count. Nor I your mother? Hel. You are my mother, madam; 'Would you (So that were 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, Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in law; God shield, you mean it not! daughter, and mother, The mystery of your loneliness, and find Your salt tears' head. Now to all sense 'tis gross, To say, thou dost not: therefore tell me true; Hel. Good madam, pardon me! Your pardon, noble mistress! Do not you love him, madam? Count. Love you my son? Hel. Count. Go not about; my love hath in't a bond, Whereof the world takes note: come, come, dis close 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 love Be not offended; for it hurts not him, Nor would I have him, till I do deserve him; The sun, that looks upon his worshipper, My dearest madam, Let not your hate encounter with my love, Wish chastly, and love dearly, that your Dian Hel. Count. Madam, I had. Wherefore? tell true. Hel. I will tell truth; by grace itself, I swear. You know, my father left me some prescriptions Of rare and prov'd effects, such as his reading, And manifest experience, had collected For general sovereignty; and that he will'd me More than they were in note: amongst the rest, To cure the desperate languishings, whereof 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, Haply, been absent then. Count. But think you, Helen, If you should tender your supposed aid, He would receive it? He and his physicians Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him, They, that they cannot help: How shall they credit A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools, Embowell'd of their doctrine, have left off The danger to itself? 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. Hel. Ay, madam, knowingly. Dost thou believe't? Count. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave, and love, Means, and attendants, and my loving greetings [Exeunt. |