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Against the proclamation of thy passion, to say thou dost not. Therefore tell me true;
but tell me then, 'tis so; for, look, thy cheeks confess it, th' one to th' other; and thine
eyes see it so grossly shown in thy behaviours that in their kind they speak it; only sin
and hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue, that truth should be suspected. Speak, is't so? If
it be so, you have wound a goodly clew; if it be not, forswear't; howe'er, I charge
thee, as heaven shall work in me for thine avail, to tell me truly.
Hellena. — Good madam, pardon me.
Countess. — Do you love my son?
Hellena. — Your pardon, noble mistress.
Countess. — Love you my son?
Hellena. — Do not you love him, madam?
Countess. — 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.
Hellena. — 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?
Hellena. — Madam, I had.
Countess. — Wherefore? Tell true.
Hellena. — 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.
Countess. — This was your motive for Paris, was it? Speak.
Hellena. — 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?
Hellena. — There's something in't more than my father's skill, which was the great'st
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?
Hellena. — Ay, madam, knowingly.