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come, come, disclose

       The state of your affection; for your passions

       Have to the full appeach’d.

       HELENA.

       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:

       Be not offended; for it hurts not him

       That he is lov’d of me: I follow him not

       By any token of presumptuous suit;

       Nor would I have him till I do deserve him;

       Yet never know how that desert should be.

       I know I love in vain, strive against hope;

       Yet in this captious and intenible sieve

       I still pour in the waters of my love,

       And lack not to lose still: thus, Indian-like,

       Religious in mine error, I adore

       The sun, that looks upon his worshipper,

       But knows of him no more. My dearest madam,

       Let not your hate encounter with my love,

       For loving where you do; but if yourself,

       Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,

       Did ever, in so true a flame of liking,

       Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian

       Was both herself and love; O, then, give pity

       To her whose state is such that cannot choose

       But lend and give where she is sure to lose;

       That seeks not to find that her search implies,

       But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies!

       COUNTESS.

       Had you not lately an intent,—speak truly,—

       To go to Paris?

       HELENA.

       Madam, I had.

       COUNTESS.

       Wherefore? tell true.

       HELENA.

       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

       In heedfullest reservation to bestow them,

       As notes whose faculties inclusive were

       More than they were in note: amongst the rest

       There is a remedy, approv’d, set down,

       To cure the desperate languishings whereof

       The king is render’d lost.

       COUNTESS.

       This was your motive

       For Paris, was it? speak.

       HELENA.

       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.

       COUNTESS.

       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 let off

       The danger to itself?

       HELENA.

       There’s something in’t

       More than my father’s skill, which was the greatest

       Of his profession, that his good receipt

       Shall, for my legacy, be sanctified

       By th’ luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your honour

       But give me leave to try success, I’d venture

       The well-lost life of mine on his grace’s cure.

       By such a day and hour.

       COUNTESS.

       Dost thou believe’t?

       HELENA.

       Ay, madam, knowingly.

       COUNTESS.

       Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave, and love,

       Means, and attendants, and my loving greetings

       To those of mine in court: I’ll stay at home,

       And pray God’s blessing into thy attempt:

       Be gone tomorrow; and be sure of this,

       What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss.

       [Exeunt.]

       ACT II.

      SCENE 1. Paris. A room in the King’s palace.

       [Flourish. Enter the King, with young LORDS taking leave for the

       Florentine war; BERTRAM, PAROLLES, and Attendants.]

       KING.

       Farewell, young lord; these warlike principles

       Do not throw from you:—and you, my lord, farewell;—

       Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all,

       The gift doth stretch itself as ‘tis received,

       And is enough for both.

       FIRST 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. Farewell, 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 aloud: I say farewell.

       SECOND LORD.

       Health, at your bidding, serve your majesty!

       KING.

       Those girls of Italy, take heed of them;

       They say our French lack language to deny,

       If they demand: beware of being captives

       Before you serve.

       BOTH.

       Our hearts receive your warnings.

       KING.

       Farewell.—Come hither to me.

       [The king retires to a couch.]

       FIRST LORD.

       O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us!

       PAROLLES.

      

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