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I will now hear; what say you of this gentlewoman?
I will listen now; what do you say about this lady?
Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.
Madam, the effort I’ve made to ensure your happiness, I wish could be found in the record of my past actions; because then we hurt our reputation and make our deserving look bad, when we boast about ourselves.
What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah: the complaints I have heard of you I do not all believe: ’tis my slowness that I do not; for I know you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours.
What’s this fool doing here? Go away, fool: I don’t believe all the complaints I’ve heard about you: it’s my own hesitation that keeps me from believing them, since I know you’re foolish enough to do them, and smart enough to make such tricks your own.
’Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.
You know, madam, that I’m a poor man.
Well, sir.
Well, sir.
No, madam, ’tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damned: but, if I may have your ladyship’s good will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.
No, madam, it’s not so well that I’m poor, although many rich people are damned: but, if I could have your permission to go out into the world, Isbel the woman and I will make do as best as we can.
Wilt thou needs be a beggar?
Do you really want to be a beggar?
I do beg your good will in this case.
I do ask for your permission in this matter.
In what case?
What matter?
In Isbel’s case and mine own. Service is no heritage: and I think I shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue o’ my body; for they say barnes are blessings.
In Isbel’s case and my own. Service is not an inheritance: and I think I’ll never receive God’s blessing until I have children of my own; because they say children are blessings.
Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.
Tell me why you want to get married.
My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives.
My poor body, madam, needs it: I’m driven by my desires; and I have to go where the devil pushes me.
Is this all your worship’s reason?
Is that all your reason, sir?
Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons such as they are.
Honestly, madam, I have other reasons, holy though they may be.
May the world know them?
Can the world know them?
I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry that I may repent.
I’ve been a wicked man, madam, just like you and everyone else; and truly, I’m marrying so I can repent.
Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.
Your marriage, rather than your wickedness.
I am out o’ friends, madam; and I hope to have friends for my wife’s sake.
I’m out of friends, madam; and I hope to find friends through my wife.
Such friends are thine enemies, knave.
Such friends are your enemies, fool.
You’re shallow, madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me which I am aweary of. He that ears my land spares my team and gives me leave to in the crop; if I be his cuckold, he’s my drudge: he that comforts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage; for young Charbon the Puritan and old Poysam the Papist, howsome’er their hearts are severed in religion, their heads are both one; they may jowl horns together, like any deer i’ the herd.
You’re shallow, madam, in great friends; because the villains do for me what I’m tired of doing myself. He who works my land saves my oxen and lets me harvest the crop; if I’m his cuckold, he’s my servant: he who comforts my wife is the nurturer of my family; he who cares for my family loves my family; he who loves my family is my friend: so, he who kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be content with what they are, there’d be no fear in marriage; because young Charbon the Puritan and old Poysam the Papist, however their beliefs differ, their heads are the same; they could butt heads together, like any deer in the herd.
Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave?
Will you ever stop being a foul-mouthed, slanderous fool?
A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way: For I the ballad will repeat, Which men full true shall find; Your marriage comes by destiny, Your cuckoo sings by kind.
I’m a prophet, madam; and I speak the truth the next way: For I’ll repeat the ballad, Which men will find to be true, Your marriage happens by fate, Your cuckoo sings by nature.
Get you gone, sir; I’ll talk with you more anon.
Get lost, sir; I’ll talk to you more later.
May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you: of her I am to speak.
May it please you, madam, to have Helen come to you: I need to speak of her.
Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; Helen, I mean.
Go, tell my lady I want to speak with her; Helen, I mean.
Was this fair face the cause, quoth she, Why the Grecians sacked Troy? Fond done, done fond, Was this King Priam’s joy? With that she sighed as she stood, With that she sighed as she stood, And gave this sentence then; Among nine bad if one be good, Among nine bad if one be good, There’s yet one good in ten.
Was this beautiful face the reason, she said, That the Greeks destroyed Troy? Foolish, foolish, Was this King Priam’s joy? With that, she sighed as she stood, With that, she sighed as she stood, And gave this verdict then: Among nine bad, if one is good, Among nine bad, if one is good, There’s still one good in ten.
What, one good in ten? you corrupt the song, sirrah.
What, one good in ten? You’ve ruined the song, fool.
One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying o’ the song: would God would serve the world so all the year! we’ld find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth a’! An we might have a good woman born but one every blazing star, or at an earthquake, ’twould mend the lottery well: a man may draw his heart out, ere a’ pluck one.
One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying of the song: would God would serve the world so all the year! we’d find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten, he says! If we could have a good woman born every time there’s a shooting star, or during an earthquake, it would fix the lottery for sure: a man might search his heart out before he’d find one.
You’ll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you.
You’ll be gone, you scoundrel, and do as I tell you.
That man should be at woman’s command, and yet no hurt done! Though honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither.
That a man should be under a woman’s command, and yet no harm done! Though honesty isn’t puritanical, it won’t hurt; it’ll wear the humble robe of modesty over the dark heart of arrogance. I’m leaving, truly: the task is for Helen to come here.
Well, now.
Well, then.
I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.
I know, madam, you care deeply for your servant.
Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to me; and she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds: there is more owing her than is paid; and more shall be paid her than she’ll demand.
Yes, I do: her father left her to me; and she herself, with no other advantage, can justly claim as much love as she deserves: there is more owed to her than has been given; and more will be given to her than she’ll ever ask for.
Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son: Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no god, that would not extend his might, only where qualities were level; Dian no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surprised, without rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. This she delivered in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e’er I heard virgin exclaim in: which I held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it.
Madam, I was just very near her not long ago, maybe closer than I think she wanted: she was alone, and was talking to herself, her own words in her own ears; she probably thought, I would bet, that no one else could hear her. She said she loved your son: Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such a difference between their situations; Love was no god, that wouldn’t show his power only when things were equal; Diana was no queen of virgins, who would let her poor knight be taken without rescue in the first battle or a ransom after. She said all this in the most sorrowful tone I have ever heard from a virgin: I thought it my duty to tell you immediately; since this loss that may come, it’s something you should know.
You have discharged this honestly; keep it to yourself: many likelihoods informed me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you, leave me: stall this in your bosom; and I thank you for your honest care: I will speak with you further anon.
You’ve done this honestly; keep it to yourself: many signs had already told me about this before, which seemed so uncertain that I could neither fully believe nor doubt it. Please, leave me now: keep this to yourself; and I thank you for your honest concern: I’ll speak to you more later.
Even so it was with me when I was young: If ever we are nature’s, these are ours; this thorn Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong; Our blood to us, this to our blood is born; It is the show and seal of nature’s truth, Where love’s strong passion is impress’d in youth: By our remembrances of days foregone, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none. Her eye is sick on’t: I observe her now.
Just like it was when I was young: If we are truly children of nature, these things are ours; this thorn rightfully belongs to our rose of youth; Our blood belongs to us, and this belongs to our blood; It is the mark and proof of nature’s truth, Where love’s strong passion leaves its mark in youth: Looking back at our memories of earlier days, Such were our faults, or at the time we thought them none. Her eye is troubled by it: I can see it now.
What is your pleasure, madam?
What do you want, madam?
You know, Helen, I am a mother to you.
You know, Helen, I am a mother to you.
Mine honourable mistress.
My honorable mistress.
Nay, a mother: Why not a mother? When I said ’a mother,’ Methought you saw a serpent: what’s in ’mother,’ That you start at it? I say, I am your mother; And put you in the catalogue of those That were enwombed mine: ’tis often seen Adoption strives with nature and choice breeds A native slip to us from foreign seeds: You ne’er oppress’d me with a mother’s groan, Yet I express to you a mother’s care: God’s mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood To say I am thy mother? What’s the matter, That this distemper’d messenger of wet, The many-colour’d Iris, rounds thine eye? Why? that you are my daughter?
No, I am a mother: Why not a mother? When I said ’a mother,’ Did you think I meant a snake? What’s wrong with ‘mother,’ That you react like that? I say, I am your mother; And count you among those Who were born to me: it’s often seen That adoption competes with nature and choice produces A child just like one born of us: You never burdened me with a mother’s pain, Yet I show you a mother’s care: God’s mercy, my girl! Does it freeze your blood To hear me say I’m your mother? What’s going on, That this strange message of tears, The rainbow-colored Iris, clouds your eyes? Is it because you are my daughter?
That I am not.
I’m not.
I say, I am your mother.
I’m telling you, I am your mother.
Pardon, madam; The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother: I am from humble, he from honour’d name; No note upon my parents, his all noble: My master, my dear lord he is; and I His servant live, and will his vassal die: He must not be my brother.
Forgive me, madam; The Count of Rousillon can’t be my brother: I come from humble origins, he from a noble family; I have no family reputation, his is all noble: He’s my master, my dear lord; I am His servant, and I’ll die his vassal: He can’t be my brother.
Nor I your mother?
Am I not your mother then?
You are my mother, madam; would you were,-- So that my lord your son were not my brother,-- Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers, I care no more for than I do for heaven, So I were not his sister. Can’t no other, But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?
You are my mother, madam; I wish you were,-- So that my lord, your son, wouldn’t be my brother,-- Truly my mother! or if you both were our mothers, I wouldn’t care more for it than I do for heaven, As long as I wasn’t his sister. Can’t it be anyone else, But that I am your daughter and he must be my brother?
Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law: God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again? My fear hath catch’d your fondness: now I see The mystery of your loneliness, and find Your salt tears’ head: now to all sense ’tis gross You love my son; invention is ashamed, 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 behaviors 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, Tell me truly.
Yes, Helen, you could be my daughter-in-law: God forbid that you mean it! Daughter and mother Compete for your heart. What, pale again? My worry has caught your affection: now I see The reason for your sadness, and find The cause of your tears: now it’s obvious You love my son; your attempt to deny it, Even when you act like you don’t, is shameful, So tell me the truth; And admit it, for your cheeks Show it, one to the other; and your eyes Make it clear in your actions So much so that they say it: only sin And stubbornness tie your tongue, So truth is suspected. Tell me, is it true? If it is, you’ve made a mess of things; If it’s not, deny it: but either way, I demand you, As heaven will help me for your good, Tell me the truth.
Good madam, pardon me!
Please forgive me, madam!
Do you love my son?
Do you love my son?
Your pardon, noble mistress!
Forgive me, noble lady!
Love you my son?
Do you love my son?
Do not you love him, madam?
Don’t you love him, madam?
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.
Don’t avoid the question; my love for him is well-known, The world sees it: come, come, tell me About your feelings; for your emotions Have been fully revealed.
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 loved 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!
Then, I confess, Here on my knees, before heaven and you, That before you, and in front of heaven, I love your son. My family was poor, but honest; and so is my love: Please don’t be upset; it doesn’t hurt him That I love him: I don’t follow him By any sign of presumptuous desire; Nor would I want him until I deserve him; Though I never know what that deserving would be. I know I love in vain, hoping against hope; Yet in this complex and impossible situation I still pour my love into the sieve And keep losing it: like a fool, Religious in my mistake, I worship The sun, that looks at its worshippers, But doesn’t know them. My dearest madam, Don’t let your hatred get in the way of my love For loving where you do: but if you, Who with your age and honor encourages virtuous youth, Ever in such a pure flame of affection Wished chastely and loved dearly, like your Diana Was both herself and love: oh, then have pity On her whose state is such that she can’t choose But give and give where she’s sure to lose; Who doesn’t seek to find what her search implies, But lives, like a riddle, sweetly where she dies!
Had you not lately an intent,--speak truly,-- To go to Paris?
Didn’t you just recently intend to go to Paris?--speak truthfully-- Why?
Madam, I had.
Yes, madam, I did.
Wherefore? tell true.
Why? Tell me the truth.
I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear. You know my father left me some prescriptions Of rare and proved 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, approved, set down, To cure the desperate languishings whereof The king is render’d lost.
I will tell the truth; I swear it by grace itself. You know my father left me some instructions Of rare and proven effects, things his reading And clear experience had gathered For general use; and that he instructed me To carefully keep and share them, As notes whose abilities were More than they seemed in writing: among them, There is a remedy, tested and written down, To cure the desperate sickness that Has made the king so ill.
This was your motive For Paris, was it? speak.
This was your reason For going to Paris, wasn’t it? Speak.
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.
My lord, your son made me think of this; Otherwise, Paris and the medicine and the king Might not have crossed my mind.
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 left off The danger to itself?
But do you think, Helen, That if you offered your supposed help, He would accept it? He and his doctors Are of the same mind; he believes they can’t help him, They believe they can’t help him: how will they trust A poor uneducated girl, when the schools, Drained of their knowledge, have given up The danger to themselves?
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’ld venture The well-lost life of mine on his grace’s cure By such a day and hour.
There’s something to it, More than my father’s skill, which was the best Of his field, that his good advice Shall be honored as my inheritance By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, if you would Only give me the chance to try, I would risk My life, lost for a good cause, on his cure By such a day and time.
Dost thou believe’t?
Do you really believe it?
Ay, madam, knowingly.
Yes, madam, I truly do.
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.
Well, Helen, you have my permission and my love, The means and support, and my warm greetings To those of mine in court: I’ll stay at home And pray for God’s blessing on your efforts: Go tomorrow; and be sure of this, Whatever help I can give you, you won’t miss.