SCENE IV.-Rousillon. A Room in the COUNTESS'S Palace.

Enter COUNTESS and her 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. [Reads.] "I am Saint Jaques' 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 advice so much,
As letting her pass so: had I spoke with her,
I could have well diverted her intents,
Which thus she hath prevented.

If I had given you this at over-night,
She might have been o'erta'en; and yet she writes,
Pursuit would be but vain.

Count.
What angel shall
Bless this unworthy husband? he cannot thrive,
Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear,
And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath
Of greatest justice.-Write, write, Rinaldo,
To this unworthy husband of his wife :
Let every word weigh heavy of her worth,
That he does weigh too light: my greatest grief,
Though little he do feel it, set down sharply.
Despatch the most convenient messenger.—
When, haply, he shall hear that she is gone,
He will return; and hope I may, that she,
Hearing so much, will speed her foot again,
Led hither by pure love. Which of them both
Is dearest to me, I have no skill or sense
To make distinction.-Provide this messenger.-
My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak;
Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak.

SCENE V.-Without the Walls of Florence. A tucket afar off. Enter an old Widow of Florence, DIANA, VIOLENTA, MARIANA, and other Citizens. Wid. Nay, come; for if they do approach the city, we shall lose all the sight.

Dia. They say, the French count has done most honourable service.

Wid. It is reported that he has taken their greatest commander, and that with his own hand he slew the duke's brother. We have lost our labour; they are gone a contrary way: hark! you may know by their trumpets.

Mar. Come; let's return again, and suffice ourselves with the report of it. Well, Diana, take heed of this French earl: the honour of a maid is her name, and no legacy is so rich as honesty.

Wid. I have told my neighbour, how you have been solicited by a gentleman his companion.

Mar. I know that knave; hang him! one Parolles : a filthy officer he is in those suggestions for the young earl.-Beware of them, Diana; their promises, enticements, oaths, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not the things they go under: many a maid hath been seduced by them; and the misery is, example, that so terrible shows in the wreck of maidenhood, cannot for all that dissuade succession, but that they are limed with the twigs that threaten them. I hope, I need not to advise you further; but, I hope, your own grace will keep you where you are, though there were no farther danger known, but the modesty which is so lost. Dia. You shall not need to fear me.

Enter HELENA in the dress of a Pilgrim. Wid. I hope so.-Look, here comes a pilgrim: I know she will lie at my house; thither they send one another.

I'll question her.-God save you, pilgrim!
Whither are you bound?

Hel.

To Saint Jaques le Grand. Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you? Wid. At the Saint Francis here, beside the port. Hel. Is this the way?

Wid. Ay, marry, is't.-Hark you! [Amarch afar off. They come this way.

If you will tarry, holy pilgrim,

But till the troops come by,

I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd;
The rather, for I think I know your hostess
As ample as myself.

Hel.

Is it yourself?

Wid. If you shall please so, pilgrim.

Hel. I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure.
Wid. You came, I think, from France?
Hel.

I did so.

Wid. Here you shall see a countryman of yours,
That has done worthy service.
Hel.
His name, I pray you.
Dia. The count Rousillon: know you such a one?
Hel. But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him:
His face I know not.

Dia.
Whatsoe'er he is,
He's bravely taken here. He stole from France,
As 'tis reported, for the king had married him
Against his liking. Think you it is so?

Hel. Ay, surely, mere the truth: I know his lady.
Dia. There is a gentleman, that serves the count,
Reports but coarsely of her.
Hel.

Dia. Monsieur Parolles.

[Exeunt.

Hel.

What's his name?

O! I believe with him,

you

Where you shall host: of enjoin'd penitents
There's four or five, to great saint Jaques bound,
Already at my house.

Hel.
I humbly thank you.
Please it this matron, and this gentle maid,
To eat with us to-night, the charge and thanking
Shall be for me; and, to requite you farther,
I will bestow some precepts of this virgin,
Worthy the note.

Both. We'll take your offer kindly. [Exeunt.
SCENE VI.-Camp before Florence.
Enter BERTRAM, and the two Frenchmen.

Fr. Env. Nay, good my lord, put him to't: let him have his way.

Fr. Gent. If your lordship find him not a hilding, hold me no more in your respect.

Fr. Env. On my life, my lord, a bubble.

Ber. Do you think I am so far deceived in him? Fr. Env. Believe it, my lord: in mine own direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speak of him as my kinsman, he's a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the owner

of no one good quality, worthy your lordship's entertainment.

Fr. Gent. It were fit you knew him, lest reposing too far in his virtue, which he hath not, he might, at some great and trusty business in a main danger, fail you.

Ber. I would I knew in what particular action to try him.

Fr. Gent. None better than to let him fetch off his drum, which you hear him so confidently undertake to do.

Fr. Env. I, with a troop of Florentines, will suddenly surprise him: such I will have, whom, I am sure, he knows not from the enemy. We will bind and hoodwink him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the leaguer of the adversaries, when we bring him to our own tents. Be but your lordship present at his examination, if he do not, for the promise of his life, and in the highest compulsion of base fear, offer to betray you, and deliver all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the divine forfeit of his soul upon oath, never trust my judgment in any thing.

Fr. Gent. O! for the love of laughter, let him fetch off his drum: he says he has a stratagem for't. When your lordship sees the bottom of his success in't, and to what metal this counterfeit lump of ores will be melted, if you give him not John Drum's entertainment, your inclining cannot be removed. Here he

comes.

Enter PAROLLES.

Fr. Env. O! for the love of laughter, hinder not the honour of his design: let him fetch off his drum in any hand.

Ber. How now, monsieur? this drum sticks sorely in your disposition.

Fr. Gent. A pox on't! let it go: 'tis but a drum.

Par. But a drum! Is't but a drum? A drum so lost! There was an excellent command, to charge in with our horse upon our own wings, and to rend our own soldiers!

Fr. Gent. That was not to be blamed in the command of the service: it was a disaster of war that Cæsar himself could not have prevented, if he had been there to command.

Ber. Well, we cannot greatly condemn our success: some dishonour we had in the loss of that drum; but

it is not to be recovered.

Par. It might have been recovered.
Ber. It might; but it is not now.

Par. It is to be recovered. But that the merit of service is seldom attributed to the true and exact performer, I would have that drum or another, or hic jacet.

Ber. Why, if you have a stomach to't, monsieur, if you think your mystery in stratagem can bring this instrument of honour again into his native quarter, be magnanimous in the enterprise, and go on; I will grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speed well in it, the duke shall both speak of it, and extend to you what farther becomes his greatness, even to the utmost syllable of your worthiness.

Par. By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it. Ber. But you must not now slumber in it.

Par. I'll about it this evening: and I will presently pen down my dilemmas, encourage myself in my certainty, put myself into my mortal preparation, and by midnight look to hear farther from me.

Ber. May I be bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it?

Par. I know not what the success will be, my lord; but the attempt I vow.

Mars before it, and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my tongue.

*Fr. Env. [Aside.] This is the first truth that e'er thine own tongue was guilty of.

Par. What the devil should move me to undertake the recovery of this drum, being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I must give myself some hurts, and say, I got them in exploit. Yet slight ones will not carry it: they will say, "Came you off with so little?" and great ones I dare not give. Wherefore? what's the instance? Tongue, I must put you into a butter-woman's mouth, and buy myself another of Bajazet's mule, if you prattle me into these perils.

Fr. Env. [Aside.] Is it possible, he should know what he is, and be that he is?

Par. I would the cutting of my garments would serve the turn; or the breaking of my Spanish sword. Fr. Env. [Aside.] We cannot afford you so. Par. Or the baring of my beard; and to say, it was in stratagem.

Fr. Env. [Aside.] 'Twould not do.

Par. Or to drown my clothes, and say I was stripped. Fr. Env. [Aside.] Hardly serve.

Par. Though I swore I leaped from the window of the citadel

Fr. Env. [Aside.] How deep?

Par. Thirty fathom.

Fr. Env. [Aside.] Three great oaths would scarce make that be believed.

Fr. Env. Till then, I'll keep him dark, and safely lock'd. [Exeunt. SCENE II.-Florence. A Room in the Widow's House.

Enter BERTRAM and DIANA.

Ber. They told me, that your name was Fontibell.
Dia. No, my good lord, Diana.
Ber.
Titled goddess,
And worth it, with addition! But, fair soul,
In your fine frame hath love no quality?
If the quick fire of youth light not your mind,
You are no maiden, but a monument:
When you are dead, you should be such a one
As you are now, for you are cold and stone;
And now you should be as your mother was,
When your sweet self was got.

Dia. She then was honest.
Ber.
Dia.

So should you be. No:

Fr. Env. [Aside.] You shall hear one anon.
Par. A drum, now, of the enemy's!

[Alarum within. Fr. Env. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo. All. Cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo. Par. O! ransom, ransom !-Do not hide mine eyes. [They seize and blindfold him.

1 Sold. Boskos thromuldo boskos.
Par. I know you are the Muskos' regiment;
And I shall lose my life for want of language.
If there be here German, or Dane, low Dutch,
Italian, or French, let him speak to me:

I will discover that which shall undo
The Florentine.

I was compell'd to her; but I love thee
By love's own sweet constraint, and will for ever
Do thee all rights of service.
Dia.
Ay, so you serve us,
Till we serve you; but when you have our roses,
You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves,
And mock us with our bareness.

Ber.
How have I sworn?
Dia. 'Tis not the many oaths that make the truth,
But the plain single vow, that is vow'd true.
What is not holy, that we swear not by,

But take the highest to witness: then, pray you, tell me,
If I should swear by Jove's great attributes,

I lov'd you dearly, would you believe my oaths,
When I did love you ill? this has no holding,
To swear by him, whom I protest to love,

That I will work against him. Therefore, your oaths
Are words, and poor conditions, but unseal'd,
At least, in my opinion.

Ber.

Change it, change it. Be not so holy-cruel: love is holy, And my integrity ne'er knew the crafts, That you do charge men with. Stand no more off, But give thyself unto my sick desires, Who then recover: say, thou art mine, and ever My love, as it begins, shall so persever.

Dia. I see, that men make hopes in such a suit,
That we'll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.
Ber. I'll lend it thee, my dear; but have no power
To give it from me.

Dia.
Will you not, my lord?
Ber. It is an honour 'longing to our house,
Bequeathed down from many ancestors,
Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world
In me to lose.

I'll order take my mother shall not hear.
Now will I charge you in the band of truth,
When you have conquer'd my yet maiden bed,
Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me.

My reasons are most strong; and you shall know them,
When back again this ring shall be deliver'd:
And on your finger, in the night, I'll put
Another ring; that what in time proceeds
May token to the future our past deeds.
Adieu, till then; then, fail not. You have won
A wife of me, though there my hope be none.
Ber. A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.
[Exit.
Dia. For which live long to thank both heaven
and me!

SCENE III.-The Florentine Camp. Enter the two Frenchmen, and two or three Soldiers. Fr. Gent. You have not given him his mother's letter. Fr. Env. I have delivered it an hour since: there is something in't that stings his nature, for on the reading it he changed almost into another man.

Fr. Gent. He has much worthy blame laid upon him, for shaking off so good a wife, and so sweet a lady.

Fr. Env. Especially he hath incurred the everlasting displeasure of the king, who had even tuned his bounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly within you.

Fr. Gent. When you have spoken it, 'tis dead, and I am the grave of it.

Fr. Env. He hath perverted a young gentlewoman, here in Florence, of a most chaste renown, and this night he fleshes his will in the spoil of her honour: he hath given her his monumental ring, and thinks himself made in the unchaste composition.

Fr. Gent. Now, God delay our rebellion: as we are ourselves, what things are we!

Fr. Env. Merely our own traitors: and as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reveal themselves, till they attain to their abhorred ends, so he that in this action contrives against his own nobility, in his proper stream o'erflows himself.

Fr. Gent. Is it not most damnable in us, to be trumpeters of our unlawful intents? We shall not then have his company to-night.

Fr. Env. Not till after midnight, for he is dieted to his hour.

Fr. Gent. That approaches apace: I would gladly have him see his companion anatomized, that he might take a measure of his own judgment, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit.

Fr. Env. We will not meddle with him till he come, for his presence must be the whip of the other.

Fr. Gent. In the mean time, what hear you of these wars?

Fr. Env. I hear there is an overture of peace. Fr. Gent. Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded. Fr. Env. What will count Rousillon do then? will he travel higher, or return again into France?

Fr. Gent. I perceive by this demand you are not altogether of his council.

Fr. Env. Let it be forbid, sir; so should I be a great deal of his act.

Fr. Gent. Sir, his wife some two months since fled from his house her pretence is a pilgrimage to saint Jaques le Grand, which holy undertaking with most austere sanctimony she accomplished; and, there residing, the tenderness of her nature became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last breath, and now she sings in heaven.

Fr. Env. How is this justified?

Fr. Gent. The stranger part of it by her own letters, which make her story true, even to the point of her death: her death itself, which could not be her office to say, is come, and faithfully confirmed by the rector of the place.

Fr. Env. Hath the count all this intelligence? Fr. Gent. Ay, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the verity.

Fr. Env. I am heartily sorry that he'll be glad of this. Fr. Gent. How mightily, sometimes, we make us comforts of our losses.

Fr. Env. And how mightily, some other times, we drown our gain in tears. The great dignity, that his valour hath here acquired for him, shall at home be encountered with a shame as ample.

Fr. Gent. The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherished by our virtues. Enter a Servant.

How now? where's your master?

Serv. He met the duke in the street, sir, of whom he hath taken a solemn leave: his lordship will next morning for France. The duke hath offered him letters of commendations to the king.

Fr. Env. They shall be no more than needful there, if they were more than they can commend.

Enter BERTRAM.

Fr. Gent. They cannot be too sweet for the king's tartness. Here's his lordship now.-How now, my lord! is't not after midnight?

Ber. I have to-night despatched sixteen businesses, a month's length a-piece, by an abstract of success: I have congé'd with the duke, done my adieu with his nearest, buried a wife, mourned for her, writ to my lady mother I am returning, entertained my convoy; and between these main parcels of despatch effected many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that I have not ended yet.

Fr. Env. If the business be of any difficulty, and this morning your departure hence, it requires haste of your lordship.

Ber. I mean the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of it hereafter. But shall we have this dialogue between the fool and the soldier? Come, bring forth this counterfeit medal: he has deceived me, like a double-meaning prophesier.

Fr. Env. Bring him forth. [Exeunt Soldiers.] He has sat i' the stocks all night, poor gallant knave. Ber. No matter; his heels have deserved it, in usurping his spurs so long. How does he carry himself? Fr. Env. I have told your lordship already; the stocks

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