Safer than mine own two, more dear; I have so: King. We thank you, maiden; But may not be so credulous of cure, That labouring art can never ransom nature I say we must not To empiricks; or to dissever so Our great self and our credit, to esteem A senseless help, when help past sense we deem. King. I cannot give thee lefs, to be call'd grate ful: Thou thought'st to help me; and such thanks. I give, As one near death to those that wish him live: But, what at full I know, thou know'st no part; I knowing all my peril, thou no art. Hel. What I can do, can do no hurt to try, Since you set up your rest 'gainst remedy: He that of greatest works is finisher, Oft does them by the weakest minister: So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown, When judges have been babes. Great floods have flown From simple sources; and great seas have dry'd, When miracles have by the greatest been deny❜d. Oft expectation fails, and most oft there Where most it promises; and oft it hits, Thy pains, not us'd, must by thyself be paid: But know I think, and think I know most sure, Hop'st thou my cure? Hel. The greatest grace lending grace, Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring Their fieri torcher his diurnal ring; Ere twice in murk and occidental damp Hel. Tax of impudence, A strumpet's boldnefs; a divulged shame, - His powerful sound, within an organ weak: In common sense, sense saves another way. And well deserv'd; Not helping, death's my fee; Hel. But will you make it even? King, Ay, by my scepter, and my hopes of heaven. Hel. Then shalt thou give me, with thy kingly hand, What husband in thy power I will command: To choose from forth the royal blood of France; King. Here is my hand; the premises observ'd, trust; From whence thou cam'st, how tended on, But rest Unquestion'd welcome, and undoubted blest. Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed. [Exeunt.] SCENE II.. Rousillon. A Room in the Count's Palace. Count. Enter Countefs and Clown. Come on, sir; I shall now put you to the height of your breeding. Clown. I will shew myself highly fed, and lowly taught: I know my business is but to the court. Count. To the court! why, what place make you special, when you put off that with such contempt? But to the court! Clown. Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he may easily put it off at court: he that cannot make a leg, put off's cap, kifs his hand, and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap; and, indeed, such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the court: but, for me, I have an answer will serve all men. Count. Marry, that's a bountiful answer, that fits all questions. Clown. It is like a barber's chair, that fits all buttocks; the pin - buttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn buttock, or any buttock. Count. Will your answer serve fit to all questions? d Clown. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney, as your French crown for your taffaty punk, as Tib's rush for Tom's fore-finger, as a pancake for Shrove-tuesday, a morris for Mayday, as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding quean to a wrangling knave, as the nun's lip to the friar's mouth; nay, as the pudding to his skin. Count. Have you, I say, an answer of such fitnefs for all questions? Clown. From below your duke, to beneath your constable, it will fit any question. Count. It must be an answer of most monstrous size, that must fit all demands. Clown. But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned should speak truth of it: here it is, and all that belongs to't: Ask me, if I am a courtier; it shall do you no harm to learn. I Count. To be young again, if we could: will be a fool in question, hoping to be the wiser by your answer. I pray you, sir, are you a courtier ? Clown. O Lord, sir, There's a simple putting off: more, more, a hundred of them. Count. Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves you. Clown. O Lord, sir, - Thick, thick, spare not me. Count. I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely meat. Clown. O Lord, sir, warrant you. Nay, put me to't, I Count. You were lately whip'd, sir, as I think, Clown. O Lord, sir, Spare not me. Count. Do you cry, O Lord, sir, at your whip. ping, and spare not me? Indeed, your O Lord sir, is very sequent to your whipping; you would answer very well to a whipping, if you were but bound to't. in Clown. I ne'er had worse luck in life, my my O Lord, sir: I see, things may serve long, but not serve ever. - Count. I play the noble housewife with the time, to entertain it so merrily with a fool. |