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1 Gen. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of
speed. Hel. [reads.] *Till I have no wife, I have no
thing in France.' 'Tis bitter.
Count. Find you that there?
Ay, madam. 1 Gen. 'Tis but the boldness of his hand, haply, Which his heart was not consenting to.
Count. Nothing in France, until he have no wife! There's nothing here, that is too good for him, But only she; and she deserves a lord, That twenty such rude boys might tend upon, And call her hourly, mistress. Who was with him ?
1 Gen. A servant only, and a gentleman Which I have some time known. Count.
Parolles, was 't not? 1 Gen. Ay, my good lady, he. Count. A very tainted fellow, and full of wicked.
My son corrupts a well-derived nature
Indeed, good lady,
Count. You are welcome, gentlemen.
We serve you, madam,
In that, and all your worthiest affairs.
Count. Not so, but as we change our courtesies. 1 Will you draw near
[Exeunt Countess and Gentlemen. Hel. Till I have no wife, I have nothing in
France.' Nothing in France, until he has no wife! Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France : Then hast thou all again. Poor lord ! is 't I That chase thee from thy country, and expose Those tender limbs of thine to the event Of the none-sparing war ? and is it I That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark Of smoky muskets ? O, you
No, come thou home, Rowsillon,
I No otherwise than as I return the same offices of civil::;. 2 Ravenous.
Whence honor but of danger wins a scar,
Florence. Before the Duke's palace.
Lords, Officers, Soldiers, and others.
Sir, it is
Then go thou forth,
This very day, Great Mars, I put myself into thy file. Make me but like my thoughts; and I shall prove A lover of thy drum, hater of love. [Exeunt.
Rousillon. A room in the Countess's palace.
Enter COUNTESS and 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. '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 fervor sanctify: His taken labors bid him me forgive;
1, his despiteful Juno,1 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,
1 In allusion to the labors of Hercules. : Discretion.
I could have well diverted her intents,
Pardon me, madam :
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 in 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.