COUNTESS
Brought you this letter, gentlemen?
FIRST LORD DUMAINE Ay, madam,
And for the contents’ sake are sorry for our pains.
COUNTESS
I prithee, lady, have a better cheer.
If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine
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?
FIRST LORD DUMAINE
Ay, madam.
COUNTESS
And to be a soldier?
FIRST LORD DUMAINE
Such is his noble purpose, and—believe’t—
The Duke will lay upon him all the honour
That good convenience claims.
COUNTESS
Return you thither?
SECOND LORD DUMAINE
Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed.
HELEN ‘Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.’
’Tis bitter. 75
COUNTESS Find you that there?
HELEN Ay, madam.
SECOND LORD DUMAINE
’Tis but the boldness of his hand,
Haply, which his heart was not consenting to.
COUNTESS
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?
SECOND LORD DUMAINE
A servant only, and a gentleman
Which I have sometime known.
COUNTESS Paroles, was it not?
SECOND LORD DUMAINE Ay, my good lady, he.
COUNTESS
A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.
My son corrupts a well-derivèd nature
With his inducement.
SECOND LORD DUMAINE Indeed, good lady,
The fellow has a deal of that too much,
Which holds him much to have.
COUNTESS
You’re welcome, gentlemen.
I will entreat you when you see my son
To tell him that his sword can never win
The honour that he loses. More I’ll entreat you
Written to bear along.
FIRST LORD DUMAINE We serve you, madam,
In that and all your worthiest affairs.
COUNTESS
Not so, but as we change our courtesies.
Will you draw near?
Exeunt all but Helen
HELEN ‘Till I have no wife I have nothing in France.’
Nothing in France until he has no wife.
Thou shalt have none, Roussillon, 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 leaden messengers
That ride upon the violent speed of fire,
Fly with false aim, cleave the still-piecing air
That sings with piercing, do not touch my lord.
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there.
Whoever charges on his forward breast,
I am the caitiff that do hold him to’t,
And though I kill him not, I am the cause
His death was so effected. Better ’twere
I met the ravin lion when he roared
With sharp constraint of hunger; better ’twere
That all the miseries which nature owes
Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Roussillon,
Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,
As oft it loses all. 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 officed 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
3.3 Flourish of trumpets. Enter the Duke of Florence, Bertram, a drummer and trumpeters, soldiers, and Paroles
DUKE (to Bertram)
The general of our horse thou art, and we,
Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence
Upon thy promising fortune.
BERTRAM
Sir, it is
A charge too heavy for my strength, but yet
We’ll strive to bear it for your worthy sake
To th’extreme edge of hazard.
DUKE
Then go thou forth,
And Fortune play upon thy prosperous helm
As thy auspicious mistress.
BERTRAM
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
3.4 Enter the Countess and Reynaldo her steward, with a letter
COUNTESS
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.
REYNALDO (reads the letter)
‘I am Saint Jaques’ pilgrim, thither gone.
Ambitious love hath so in me offended
That barefoot 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 dogs the heels of worth.
He is too good and fair for death and me;
Whom I myself embrace to set him free.’
COUNTESS
Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!