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Hel. That I am not.
Count. I fay, I am you mother.
Hel. Pardon, Madam.
The count Roufillon cannot be my brother;
His fervant live, and will his vaffal die :
Hel. You are my mother, Madam, would you were. (So that my lord, your fon, were not my brother) Indeed, my mother! or were you both our mothers I care no more for, than I do for heav'n.' So I were not his fifter 5: can't no other, But I your daughter, he must be my brother? Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in
or were you both our mothers
I CARE no more FOR, than 1 do FOR heav'n,
So I were not his fifter:] The fecond line has not the leaft glimmering of fenfe. Helen, by the indulgence and invitation of her miflrefs, is encouraged to difcover the hidden cause of her grief; which is the love of her miftrefs's fon; and taking hold of her mistress's words, where fhe bids her call her mother, fhe unfolds the mystery and as the is difcovering it, emboldens herfelf by this reflexion, in the line in queftion, as it ought to be read in a parenthesis.,
(I CAN no mere FEAR, than I do FEAR heav'n,)
e. I can no more fear to truft fo indulgent a miftrefs with the fecret, than I can fearheav'n who has my vows for its happy issue.
This break, in her discovery, is exceeding pertinent and fine, Here again the Oxford Editor does his part. WARBURTON.
I do not much yield to this emendation; yet I have not been able to please myself with any thing to which even my own partiality can give the preference.
Sir Thomas Hanmer reads, Or were you both our mothers, I cannot afk for more than that of heaven.
So I were not his fifter; can bẹ no other
Way I your daughter, but he must be my brother? 5 Can't no other, But, I your daughter, he muft
be my brother.] The meaning is obfcur'd by the elliptical diction. Can it be no other way, but if I be your daughter he must be my brother?
Now I fee
God fhield, you mean it not, daughter and mother
If it be not, forfwear't, howe'er, I charge thee,
Hel. Good Madam, pardon me. Count. Do you love my fon? Hel. Your pardon, noble mistress. Count. Love you my fon? Hel. Do not you love him, Madam? Count. Go not about; my love hath in't a bond, Whereof the world takes note: come, come, difclofe
The state of your affection; for your paffions
Hel. Then, I confefs,
Here on my knee, before high heav'ns and you,
My friends were poor, but honeft; fo's my love g
That he is lov'd of me; I follow him not
By any token of prefumptuous fuit;
Nor would I have him, 'till I do deserve him;
And lack not to lofe ftill; thus, Indian like;
The fun that looks upon his worshipper,
But knows of him no more. My deareft Madam, hate encounter with my love,
Let not your
Hel. Madam, I had.
* Captious and intenible fieve.] The word captious I never found in this fenfe; yet I cannot tell what to substitute, unless carious
for rotten, which yet is a word more likely to have been mistaken by the copyers than used by the authour.
Hel. I will tell truth; by Grace itself, I fwear. You know, my father left me fome prefcriptions Of rare and prov'd effects; fuch as his reading And manifeft experience had collected
For general fov'reignty; and that he will'd me,
As notes, whofe faculties inclufive were,
More than they were in note: amongst the reft,
To cure the defperate languishings, whereof
Count. This was your motive for Paris, was it,
Hel. My lord your fon made me to think of this; Elfe Paris, and the medicine, and the King, Had from the converfation of my thoughts, Haply, been abfent then.
Count. But think you, Helen,
If you should tender your fuppofed aid,
Hel. There's fomething hints
More than my father's fkill (which was the great'st
By th' luckieft ftars in heav'n; and, would your ho
But give me leave to try fuccefs, I'd venture
Count. Doft thou believ't?
Hel. Ay, Madam, knowingly.
Count. Why, Helen, thou fhalt have my leave and love:
Means and attendants; and my loving greetings
ACT II. S SCENE I.
The Court of France.
Enter the King, with divers young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war. Bertram and Parolles. Flourish Cornets.
2 In all the latter copies these lines flood thus:
Arewel, young Lords. Thefe warlike principles Do not throw from you. You, my Lords, farewel;
Farewel, young Lords; thefe
Do not throw from you.
The gift doth ftretch itself as 'tis receiv'd.] The third line in that ftate was unintelligible. Sir Thomas Hanmer reads thus:
Farewel young Lord, these war. like principles