And, after some despatch in hand at court,
Thither we bend again.

Hel. Look on his letter, madam; here's my pass-
port.
[Reads.] When thou canst get the ring upon my
finger, which never shall come off, and show
me a child begotten of thy body, that I am
father to, then call me husband: but in such
a then I write a never.

This is a dreadful sentence!

C

Count. Brought you this letter, gentlemen? I 1 Gentot el qu "Dear to bush Ay, madam; And, for the contents' sake, are sorry for our pains. Count. I pr'ythee, lady, have a better cheer; If thou engrossest all the griefs are thines, Thou robb'st me of a moiety: He was my son; But I do wash his name out of my blood, And thou art all my child.-Towards Florence is he? 2 Gent. Ay, madam.

Count.

And to be a soldier? 2 Gent. Such is his noble purpose: and, believe't, The duke will lay upon him all the honour That good convenience claims.

Count.mkblows out fo Return you thither? 1 Gent. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed. Hel. [Reads.] Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.

"Tis bitter!

Count. Find you that there?blerbes

Hel.

Ay, madam.

1 Gent. 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,

i. e. when you can get the ring which is on my finger into your possession.

8 If thou keepest all thy sorrows to thyself: an elliptical expression for all the griefs that are thine.

That twenty such rude boys might tend upon,
And call her hourly, mistress. Who was with him?
1 Gent. A servant only, and a gentleman
Which I have some time known.

Count.g
Count.

Parolles, was't not?

1 Gent. Ay, my good lady, he.

Count. A very tainted fellow, and full of wicked

ness.

My son corrupts a well-derived nature

With his inducement.

1 Gent.

Indeed, good lady, The fellow has a deal of that, too much, Which holds him much to have9.

Count. You are welcome, gentlemen,

I will entreat you, when you see my son, o
To tell him that his sword can never win

The honour that he loses: more I'll entreat you
Written to bear along.

2 Gent.

We serve you, madam, In that and all your worthiest affairs. Count. Not so, but as we change our courtesies10. Will you draw near?

[Exeunt Countess and Gentlemen. Hel. Tilt I have no wife, I have nothing in France. Nothing in France, until he has no wife!) I 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

This passage as it stands is very obscure; it appears to me that something is omitted after much. Warburton interprets it, "That his vices stand him in stead of virtues. And Heath thought the meaning was:-This fellow hath a deal too much of that which alone can hold or judge that he has much in him; i. e. folly and ignorance.

10 In reply to the gentlemen's declaration that they are her servants, the countess answers-no otherwise than as she returns the same offices of civility.

Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,
That ride upon the violent speed of fire,
Fly with false aim; move the still-piecing11 air,
That sings with piercing, do not touch my lord!
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;
Whever charges on his forward breast,
I am the caitiff, that do hold him to it;
And, though I kill him not, I am the cause
His death was so effected; better 'twere,
I met the ravin12 lion when he roar'd
With sharp constraint of hunger; better 'twere
That all the miseries, which nature owest

Were mine at once: No, come thou home, Rousillon,

Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,
As oft it loses all13; I will be gone:

My being here it is, that holds thee hence:
Shall I stay here to do't? no, no, although
The air of paradise did fan the house,
And angels offic'd all: I will be gone;
That pitiful rumour may report my flight,
To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day!
For, with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away.
[Exit.

if The Ovens still-peering, The emendation was ad

opted by, still-piecing is still reuniting; peecing is the old orthography of the word. I must confess that I should give the preference to still-pacing, i. e. still-moving, as more in the poet's mahner, In Romeo and Juliet, Act ii. Sc. 2, we have:-the lazy-pacing clouds.'

12 That is the ravenous or ravening lion. So in Macbeth we have:

"The ravin'd salt sea shark.'

And in Beaumont and Fletcher's Maid of the Mill:

'Amaranta

Was seiz'd on by a fierce and hungry bear;

She was the ravin's prey.

13 The sense is, 'From that place, where all the advantages that honour usually reaps from the danger it rushes upon, is only a scar in testimony of its bravery, as, on the other hand, it often is the cause of losing all, even life itself.'

SCENE III. Florence.

Before the Duke's Palace. Flourish.

Enter the Duke of Florence, BERTRAM, Lords, Officers, Soldiers, and others.

Duke. The general of our house thou art; and we, Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence, Upon thy promising fortune.

Ber.
Sir, it is
A charge too heavy for my strength; but yet
We'll strive to bear it for your worthy sake,
To the extreme edge of hazard1a.

Duke.

Then go thou forth; And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm15, As thy auspicious mistress!

Ber.

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.

SCENE IV. 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.

14 So in Shakspeare's 116th Sonnet:

But bears it out even to the edge of doom."

And Milton's Par. Reg. b. 1:

'You see our danger on the utmost edge of hazard.' 15 In K. Richard III. we have:

Fortune and victory sit on thy helm.'

And in K. John:

"And victory with little loss doth play
Upon the dancing banners of the French.'

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 fron. far, His name with zealous fervour sanctify; His taken labours bid him me forgive;

I, his despiteful Juno2, send 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 advice3 so much,
As letting her pass so; had I spoke with her,
I could have well diverted her intents,

Which thus she hath prevented.

Stew.

Pardon me, madam: If I had given you this at over-night, She might have been o'erta'en; and yet she writes, Pursuit would be in 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,

1 At Orleans was a church dedicated to St. Jaques, to which pilgrims formerly used to resort to adore a part of the cross pretended to be found there, See Heylin's France Painted to

the Life, 1656, p. 270-6.

2 Allading to the story of Hercules,

i. e. discretion or thought.

Weigh here means to value or esteem. So in Love's Labour's Lost:

You weigh me not,-0, that's you care not for me.