(So that my lord, your son, were not my brother,) Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughterin-law; God shield, you mean it not! daughter, and mother, 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 Hel. Then, I confess, Here on my knee, before high heaven and you, That before you, and next unto high heaven, I love your son: My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love: That he is lov'd of me: I follow him not The sun, that looks upon his worshipper, Count. 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 The king is render'd lost. 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 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 By such a day, and hour. Dost thou believe't? Hél. Ay, madam, knowingly. and love, Means, and attendants, and my loving greetings [Exeunt. ACT II. SCENE I. PARIS. A ROOM IN THE KING'S PALACE. 1 Flourish. Enter King, with young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war; Bertram, Parolles, and Attendants. King. Farewel, young lord, these warlike principles Do not throw from you:-and you, my lord, farewel: Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all, 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. Farewel, young lords; Whether I live or die, be you the sons Of worthy Frenchmen: let higher Italy (Those 'bated, that inherit but the fall Of the last monarchy,) see, that you come Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek, That fame may cry you loud: I say, farewel. 2 Lord. Health, at your bidding, serve your majesty! King. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them; |