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A certain King of France had always manifested sincere affection for a certain Count de Rousillon ; who, consequently, at his death, left his only son—now the young Count Bertram-to become a ward of the King.

The widowed Countess, mother of the youth, had in her household a kind of lady-companion named Helena, the only child of a late celebrated physician, Gerard de Narbonne, whose untimely death had left this daughter entirely unprovided for--except what might be yielded by a few prescriptions and remedies, which her father's long medical experience had proved valuable.

The kind-hearted King had lately been suffering from a malady which baffled the skill of his physicians; and he now sends, while he is able, one of his most distinguished Courtiers, the old Lord Lafeu, to conduct the young Count to Paris, to be publicly graced with the royal favour.

The old Countess had observed that her young companion Helena was frequently in tears, shed, as was supposed, for the death of her father; but, in reality, for the departure of the young Count, for whom the poor girl had conceived, and concealed, a hopeless because unrequited affection.

The opening Scene presents to us a room in the Palace at Rousillon, where the young Count Bertram is, in company with old Lord Lafeu, about to take leave of his mother, the old Countess, who is accompanied by the sorrowing Helena. Countess. In delivering my 'son from me, I bury a second

'husband. Ber. And I, in 'going, madam, weep o'er my father's death

anew; but I must attend his 'Majesty's command,

to whom I am now in 'ward,“ evermore in subjection. Countess. [lateu.] What hope is there of his Majesty's 'amend

ment? Laf. He hath 'abandoned his physicians, madam ; under

whose practices he hath persecuted Time with Hope; and finds no 'other advantage in the process, but only

the 'losing of Hope by Time. Countess. This young gentlewoman (tak

Stakin hand

'had a father, O, that “had!” how sad a passage 't is !—whose skill was almost as great as his 'honesty ; had it stretched so far, it would have made Nature 'immortal. 'Would, for the King's sake, he were 'living !

Old Lord Lafeu inquires : Laf. How 'called you the man you speak of, madlam ? Countess. He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was

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To

ena's

.

lately spoke of him, admiringly and mourningly.—Was

this gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbonne? Countess. His 'sole child, my lord; and bequeathed to 'my

overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that her 'education promises : her 'dispositions she 'inherits, which make fair gifts fairer; she 'derives her honesty,

and 'achieves her 'goodness. Laf. ... Your commendations, madam, get from her 'tears. Countess. 'T is the best brine a maiden can season her

praise in. The remembrance of her father never approaches her 'heart, but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from her 'cheek.—No more of this, Helena, -go to, no more; lest it be rather thought you

'affect a sorrow, than to 'have. Hel. I 'do affect a sorrow, indeed; but I 'have it too.

The young Count, impatient for immediate departure, interrupts
by addressing his mother :
Ber. Madam, I desire your holy wishes.
Countess. Be thou blest, Bertram; and succeed thy father

In 'manners, as in shape! thy blood, and virtue,
Contend for empire in thee; and thy 'goodness
Share with thy 'birthright! What Heaven 'more will,
That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck-down,
Fall on thy head! Farewell. --My lord,
'T is an 'unseasoned courtier: good my lord,

Advise him.
Laf.

He cannot want the 'best
That shall attend his love.
Countess. Heaven bless him!--Farewell, Bertram. [but Helena.
Hel. O, were that all!—I think not on my 'father ;

And these 'great tears grace Bertram's absence more
Than those I shed for 'him. What was he 'like?
I have 'forgot him: my imagination
Carries no favour' in 't but Bertram's.
I am undone: there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one
That I should love a bright particular 'star,
And think to 'wed it,he is 'so above me!
O, I must 'die for love! 'Twas pretty, (though a plague,)

Exeunt

His archéd brows, bis hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table_heart too capable
Of every line and tricks of his sweet favouro:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics !— Who comes here ?
One that goes 'with him: I love him for 'his sake;
And yet I know him a notorious 'liar,
Think him a great-way 'fool, solely a 'coward ;
Yet these fixed evils sit so fit in him,
That they take place, when virtue's steely bones
Look bleak in the cold wind : withal, full oft we see

Cold' wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
Captain Parolles enters to take his leave before he accompanies
young Bertram :
Par. Little Helen, farewell : if I can remember thee, I will

think of thee at Court. Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable

star.
Par. Under Mars, when he was predominant.
Hel. When he was 'retrograde, I think, rather.
Par. "Why think you so ?

'
Hel. You go so much 'backward—when you fight.
Par. That's for 'advantage.
Hel. So is running away, when 'fear proposes the safety.
Par... I am so full of businesses, I cannot answer thee

'acutely. Farewell. When thou hast 'leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast 'none, remember thy 'friends. Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses 'thee:

so farewell.
Hel. Our remedies oft in 'ourselves do lie,

Which we ascribe to 'heaven! Who ever strove
To show her 'merit, that did miss her 'love ?
The King's disease-my 'project may deceive me,
But

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e

(Exit.

Have fought with equal fortune, and continue
A bravinga war: We here receive it
A certainty, vouched from our cousin Austria,
With caution that the Florentine will move us
For speedy aid. He hath armed our answer,
And Florence is 'denied before he comes:
Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see
The 'Tuscan service, freely bave they leave
To stand on 'either part.—What's he comes here?

Lafeu, Bertram, and Parolles enter. 1 Lord. The son of old Count Rousillon, my good lord,

Young Bertram.
King. Youth, thou bear'st thy father's 'face;

Frank Nature, rather 'curious than in baste,
Hath well composed thee. Thy father's 'moral parts

May'st thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.
Ber. My thanks and duty are your majesty's.
King. I would I had that corporal soundness 'now,

As when thy father, and myself, in friendship
First tried our soldiership. It much restores' me
To'talk of your good father. How long is ’t, Count,
Since the 'Physician at your father's died?

He was much famed.
Ber.

Some six months since, my lord. King. If he were living, I would try 'him yet:

Lend me an arm :-the 'rest have worn me out
With several applications : Nature and Sickness
Debate it at their leisure. . . . Welcome, Count;

My 'son's no dearer.
Ber.

Thank your majesty.

"A i Steward.

Stew. 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. 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. This she delivered in the most bitter touch of sorrow; which I

held my duty speedily to acquaint 'you withal. Countess. You have discharged this honestly: keep it to

yourself. Many likelihoods informed me of this before. She is coming. Pray you, leave me: I will speak with you further anon.

Helena enters : Hel. What is your pleasure, madam? Countess. ... You know, Helen, I am a 'mother to you? Hel. Mine honourable 'mistress. Countess.

'Nay, a mother. Heaven's mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood, To say, I am thy 'mother? I 'am

your

mother. Hel. Pardon, madam;

The Count Rousillon cannot be ту 'brother:
'I am from 'bumble, 'he from 'honoured 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. Countess. Nor I your mother? Yes, Helen, you might

be ... my daughter-in-law.
Heaven shield you mean it not! What, 'pale again?
My fear hath catched your fondness! Now I see
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tears' head! Now to all sense 't is gross'
You love my son. Speak, Helena, is 't so?
If it be so, you have wounds a goodly clue;
If it be 'not, forswear 't: howe'er, I charge thee,
As heaven all work in me for thine avail,

To tell me 'truly.
Hel.

Good madam, pardon me. Countess. 'Do

you

love Hel. Do not 'you love him, madam ?

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my son ?