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

Have to the full appeach'd.

Here on my knee, before high heaven and you,
That before you, and next unto high heaven,

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.
Count. Had you not lately an intent, speak truly,
To go to Paris?

Hel.

Count.

Madam, I had.

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
In heedfull'st 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.

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 doctrince, have left off
The danger to itself?

Hel.

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 the 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.

Count.

Dost thou believe 't?

Hel. Ay, Madam, knowingly.

Count. 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 to-morrow; and be sure of this,
What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss.

ACT II. SCENE I.

Paris. A Room in the KING'S Palace.

[Exeunt.

Flourish. Enter KING, with young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war; BERTRAM, PAROLLES, and Attendants.

King. Farewell, young lords: these warlike principles Do not throw from you: - and you, my lords, farewell.Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all,

The gift doth stretch itself as 't is receiv'd,

And is enough for both.

1 Lord.

'Tis 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 loud. I say, farewell.

2 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.
King. Farewell. Come hither to me.

Our hearts receive your warnings.

[The KING retires to a couch. 1 Lord. O, my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us!

Par. 'Tis not his fault, the spark.

2 Lord.

O, 't is brave wars!

Par. Most admirable: I have seen those wars.

Ber. I am commanded here, and kept a coil with; "Too young," and "the next year," and "t is too early." Par. An thy mind stand to 't, boy, steal away bravely,

Ber. I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock,
Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry,

Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn,
But one to dance with. By heaven! I'll steal away.
There 's honour in the theft.

1 Lord. Par.

Commit it, count.

2 Lord. I am your accessary; and so farewell.

Ber. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortured body. 1 Lord. Farewell, captain.

2 Lord. Sweet monsieur Parolles !

Good

Par. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. sparks, and lustrous, a word, good metals: — you shall find in the regiment of the Spinii, one captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here on his sinister cheek: it was this very sword entrenched it: say to him, I live, and observe his reports for me.

2 Lord. Whe shall, noble captain. Par. Mars dote on you for his novices! Ber. Stay; the king

[Exeunt Lords. What will you do? [Seeing him rise.

Par. Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords: you have restrained yourself within the list of too cold an adieu: be more expressive to them; for they wear themselves in the cap of the time there do muster true gait; eat, speak, and move under the influence of the most received star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed. After them, and take a more dilated farewell.

Par. Worthy fellows, and like to prove most sinewy sword[Exeunt BERTRAM and PAROLlles.

meu.

Enter LAFEu.

Laf. Pardon, my Lord, [Kneeling.] for me and for my tidings.

King. I'll see thee to stand up.

Laf. Then here's a man stands, that has brought his pardon. I would, you had kneel'd, my lord, to ask me mercy,

And that, at my bidding, you could so stand up.

King. I would I had; so I had broke thy pate,

And ask'd thee mercy for 't.

Laf. Goodfaith, across. But, my good lord, 't is thus; Will you be cur'd of your infirmity?

King. No.

Laf. O! will you eat no grapes, my royal fox?
Yes, but you will, my noble grapes, an if

My royal fox could reach them. I have seen
A medicine that 's able to breathe life into a stone,
Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary
With spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch
Is powerful to araise king Pepin, nay,

To give great Charlemaine a pen in 's hand,
And write to her a love-line.

King.

What her is this?

Laf. Why, doctor she. My lord, there's one arriv'd,
If you
will see her: -- now, by my faith and honour,
If seriously I may convey my thoughts

In this my light deliverance, I have spoke

With one, that in her sex, her years, profession,
Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz'd me more
Than I dare blame my weakness. Will you see her,
(For that is her demand) and know her business?
That done, laugh well at me.

King.

Now, good Lafeu,

Bring in the admiration, that we with thee

May spend our wonder too, or take off thine,
By wond'ring how thou took'st it.