Count. What is the matter?

Clo. Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some comfort; your son will not be killed so soon as I thought he would.

Count. Why should he be kill'd?

Clo. So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does the danger is in standing to't; that's the loss of men, though it be the getting of children. Here they come, will tell you more: for my part, I only hear, your son was run away. [Exit Clown.

Enter HELENA and two Gentlemen.

1 Gen. Save you, good madam.

Hel. Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.

2 Gen. Do not say so.

Count. Think upon patience.-'Pray you, gentle

I have felt so many quirks of joy, and grief,
That the first face of neither, on the start,

Can woman me2 unto❜t: -Where is my son, I pray you?

2 Gen. Madam, he's gone to serve the duke of Flo

rence:

We met him thitherward; from thence we came,
And after some despatch in hand at court,

Thither we bend again.

Hel. Look on his letter, madam; here's my passport. [Reads.] When thou canst get the ring upon my finger,3 which never shall come off, and show me a child begotten of thy body, that I am father to, then call me husband: but in such a then I write a never.

This is a dreadful sentence.

Count. Brought you this letter, gentlemen?

1 Gen. Ay, madam; And, for the contents' sake, are sorry for our pains.

2 Can woman me-] i. e. affect me suddenly and deeply, as my sex are usually affected.

When thou canst get the ring upon my finger,] i. e. when thou canst get the ring, which is on my finger, into thy possession.

Count. I pr'ythee, lady, have a better cheer;
If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,+
Thou robb'st me of a moiety: He was my son;
But I do wash his name out of my blood,

And thou art all my child.-Towards Florence is he? 2 Gen. Ay, madam.

Count.

And to be a soldier?

2 Gen. Such is his noble purpose: and, believ't, The duke will lay upon him all the honour That good convenience claims.

Count.

Return you

thither?

1 Gen. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed. Hel. [reads.] Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.

'Tis bitter.

Count. Find you that there?

Hel.

Ay, madam.

1 Gen. 'Tis but the boldness of his hand, haply, which His heart was not consenting to.

Count. Nothing in France, until he have no wife!
There's nothing here, that is too good for him,
But only she; and she deserves a lord,

That twenty such rude boys might tend upon,

And call her hourly, mistress. Who was with him? 1 Gen. A servant only, and a gentleman

Which I have some time known.

Count.

1 Gen. Ay, my good lady, he.

Parolles, was't not?

Count. A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness. My son corrupts a well-derived nature

With his inducement.

1 Gen.

Indeed, good lady,

The fellow has a deal of that, too much,

Which holds him much to have.5

+ If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, &c.] This sentiment is elliptically expressed. If thou keepest all thy sorrows to thyself, i. e. "all the griefs that are thine," &c.

Which holds him much to have.] That is, his vices stand him in stead.

Count. You are welcome, gentlemen,

I will entreat you, when you see my son,
To tell him, that his sword can never win
The honour that he loses: more I'll entreat you
Written to bear along.

2 Gen.

We serve you, madam,

In that and all your worthiest affairs.

Count. Not so, but as we change our courtesies." Will you draw near? [Exeunt Countess and Gentlemen. Hel. Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France. Nothing in France, until he has no wife!

Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France,
Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is't I
That chase thee from thy country, and expose
Those tender limbs of thine to the event

Of the none-sparing war? and is it I

That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark
Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,
That ride upon the violent speed of fire;

Fly with false aim; move the still-piecing air,
That sings with piercing", do not touch my lord!
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;
Whoever charges on his forward breast,
I am the caitiff, that do hold him to it;
And, though I kill him not, I am the cause
His death was so effected: better 'twere

I met the ravin lion when he roar'd

With sharp constraint of hunger; better 'twere

6 Not so, &c.] The gentlemen declare that they are servants to the countess; she replies,—No otherwise than as she returns the same offices of civility. JOHNSON.

That sings with piercing,] Warburton says the words are here oddly shuffled into nonsense; but the commentators have not succeeded in making sense of them.

8

the ravin lion-] i. e. the ravenous or ravening lion. To ravin is to swallow voraciously.

That all the miseries, which nature owes,

Were mine at once: No, come thou home, Rousillon, Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,9

As oft it loses all; I will be gone:

My being here it is, that holds thee hence:
Shall I stay here to do't? no, no, although
The air of paradise did fan the house,
And angels offic'd all: I will be gone;
That pitiful rumour may report my flight,

To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day!
For, with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

Florence. Before the Duke's Palace.

Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, BERTRAM, Lords, Officers, Soldiers, and others.

Duke. The general of our horse thou art; and we, Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence, Upon thy promising fortune.

Ber.

Sir, it is

A charge too heavy for my strength; but yet
We'll strive to bear it for your worthy sake,
To the extreme edge of hazard.

Duke.

Then go thou forth;

And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm,
As thy auspicious mistress!

Ber.

This very day,

Great Mars, I put myself into thy file:

Make me but like my thoughts; and I shall

A lover of thy drum, hater of love.

prove
[Exeunt.

9 Whence honour but of danger, &c.] The sense is, from that abode, where all the advantages that honour usually reaps from the danger it rushes upon, is only a scar in testimony of its bravery, as on the other hand, it often is the cause of losing all, even life itself. HEATH.

SCENE IV.

Rousillon. A Room in the Countess's Palace.

Enter Countess and Steward.

Count. Alas! and would you take the letter of her? Might you not know, she would do as she has done, By sending me a letter? Read it again.

Stew. I am St. Jaques's pilgrim, thither gone:
Ambitious love hath so in me offended,
That bare-foot plod I the cold ground upon,

With sainted vow my faults to have amended.
Write, write, that, from the bloody course of war,
My dearest master, your dear son may hie;
Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far,
His name with zealous fervour sanctify:
His taken labours bid him me forgive;

I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth

From courtly friends, with camping foes to live,
Where death and danger dog the heels of worth:
He is too good and fair for death and me;
Whom I myself embrace, to set him free.

Count. Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!

Rinaldo, you did never lack advice1 so much,
As letting her pass so; had I spoke with her,
I could have well diverted her intents,

Which thus she hath prevented.

Stew.

Pardon me, madam:

If I had given you this at over-night,

She might have been o'er-ta'en; and yet she writes, Pursuit would be but vain.

9

Juno,] Alluding to the story of Hercules. ➡lack advice Advice is discretion or thought.