Ber. Sir, it is

A charge too heavy for my ftrength; but yet
We'll strive to bear it for your worthy fake,
To th' extream edge of hazard.

Duke. Then go forth,

And fortune play upon thy profp'rous helm,
As thy aufpicious mistress!

Ber. This very day,

Great Mars, I put myself into thy file;
Make me but like my thoughts, and I fhall
A lover of thy drum; hater of love.

SCENE changes to Roufillon in France.
Enter Countefs and Steward.

Count. Might you not know, fhe would do, as the

Las! and would you take the letter of her?

has done,

By fending me a letter? Read it again.

LETTER.

I am St. Jaques' pilgrim, thither gone;
Ambitious love bath fo in me offended,
That bare-foot plod I the cold ground upon,
With fainted vow my faults to have amended.
Write, write, that from the bloody course of war
My dearest mafter, your dear fon, may bie;
Bless him at home in peace, whilft I from far
His name with zealous fervour fan&tifie.
His taken labours bid him me forgive;

1, his defpightful Juno, 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 fet him free.

Ah, what sharp ftings are in her mildeft words?
Rynaldo, you did never lack advice fo much,
As letting her pafs fo; had I spoke with her,
I could have well diverted her intents,
Which thus fhe hath prevented.

Ster.

Stew. Pardon, Madam,

If I had given you this at over-night

She might have been o'er-ta'en; and yet she writes,
Purfuit would be but vain.

Count. What angel fhail

Blefs 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, Rynaldo,
To this unworthy husband of his wife;
Let every word weigh heavy of her worth,
That he does weigh too light: my greatest grief,
Tho' little he do feel it, fet down sharply.
Dispatch the most convenient meffenger;
When, haply, he fhall hear that the is gone,
He will return, and hope I may, that he,
Hearing fo much, will speed her foot again,
Led hither by pure love. Which of them both
Is dearest to me, I've no skill in fenfe
To make distinction; provide this meffenger;
My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak;
Grief would have tears, and forrow bids me speak.

[Exeunt.

SCENE changes to a Publick Place in Florence.

A Tucket afar off.

Enter an old Widow of Florence, Diana, Violenta, and Mariana, with other Citizens.

Wid. NAY, come. For if they do approach the

city, we fhall lofe all the fight.

Dia. They fay, the French Count has done most honourable fervice.

Wid. It is reported, that he has ta'en their greatest commander; and that with his own hand he flew the Duke's brother. We have loft our labour, they are gone a contrary way: hark, you may know by their trumpets.

C 3

Mar.

Mar. Come, let's return again, and fuffice ourselves with the report of it. Well, Diana, take heed of this French Earl; the honour of a maid is her name, and no legacy is fo rich as honefty.

Wid. I have told my neighbour, how you have been follicited by a gentleman his companion

Mar. I know that knave, (hang him!) one Parolles ; a filthy officer he is in thofe fuggeftions for the young Earl; beware of them, Diana; their promifes, enticements, oaths, tokens, and all these engines of luft, are not the things they go under; many a maid hath been feduced by them; and the mifery is, example, that fo terrible fhews in the wreck of maidenhood, cannot for all that diffuade fucceffion, but that they are limed with the twigs that threaten them. I hope, I need not to advise you further; but, I hope, your own grace will. keep you where you are, tho' there were no further danger known, but the modefty which is so lost.

Dia. You thall not need to fear me.

Enter Helena, difguis'd like a Pilgrim.

Wid. I hope fo.

Look, here comes a pilgrim; I know, the will lye at my house; thither they fend one another; I'll queftion her: God fave you, pilgrim ! whither are you bound?

Hel. To St. Jaques le Grand. Where do the palmers lodge, I do befeech you?

Wid. At the St. Francis, befide the port.

Hel. Is this the way?

A march afar off.

Wid. Ay, marry, is't. Hark you, they come this way. If you will tarry, holy pilgrim, but 'till the troops come by,

I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd;

The rather, for, I think, I know your hoftefs

As ample as myself.

Hel. Is it yourfelf?

Wid. If you fhall please fo, pilgrim.

Hel. I thank you, and will ftay upon your leisure.
Wid. You came, I think, from France.

Hel. I did fo.

Wid. Here you fhall fee a countryman of yours, That has done worthy fervice.

Hel. His name, I pray you?

Dia. The Count Roufillon: know you fuch a one? Hel. But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him; His face I know not.

Dia. Whatfo'er he is,

He's bravely taken here. He ftole from France,
As 'tis reported; for the King had married him
Against his liking. Think you, it is fo?

Hel. Ay, furely, meer the truth; I know his lady. Dia. There is a gentleman, that ferves the Count, Reports but courfely of her.

Hel. What's his name?

Dia. Monfieur Parolles.

Hel. Oh, I believe with him,
In argument of praise, or to the worth

Of the great Count himself, she is too mean
To have her name repeated; all her deserving
Is a referved honefty, and That

I have not heard examin'd.

Dia. Alas, poor lady!

'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife

Of a detefting lord.

Wid. Ah! right; good creature! wherefoe'er fhe is, Her heart weighs fadly; this young maid might do her A fhrewd turn, if she pleas'd.

Hel. How do you mean?

May be, the am'rous Count follicits her

In the unlawful purpose.

Wid. He does, indeed;

And brokes with all, that can in fuch a fuit

Corrupt the tender honour of a maid:

But he is arm'd for him, and keeps her guard

In honestest defence.

Drum and Colours. Enter Bertram, Parolles, Officers

and Soldiers attending.

Mar. The Gods forbid elfe!

Wid. So, now they come :

C

That is Antonio, the Duke's eldest son ;

That, Efcalus.

Hel. Which is the Frenchman?

Dia. He;

That with the plume; 'tis a moft gallant fellow;
I would, he lov'd his wife! if he were honefter,
He were much goodlier.

Is't not a handsome gentle

Dia. 'Tis pity, he is not honeft; yond's that fame knave, (19)

That leads him to thefe paces; were I his lady,
I'd poison that vile rascal.

Hel. Which is he?

Dia. That jack-an-apes with scarfs. Why is he melancholy?

Hel. Perchance, he's hurt i' th' battel.

Par. Lose our drum! well.

Mar. He's fhrewdly vext at fomething. Look, he has fpied us.

Wid, Marry, hang you!

[Exeunt Bertram, Parollés, &c. Mar. And your courtefie, for a ring carrier!

Wid. The troop is past: come, pilgrim, I will bring

you,

Where you shall hoft: Of injoyn'd penitents
'There's four or five, to great St. Jaques bound,
Already at my
houfe.

Hel. I humbly thank you:

Please it this matron, and this gentle maid

To eat with us to night, the charge and thanking

(19)

Yond's That fame Fellow,

That leads him to thefe Places.] What Places? He did not lead him to be General of Horfe under the Duke of Florence, fure. Nor have they been talking of Brothels; or, indeed, any particular Locality. I make no Question, but our Author wrote;

That leads him to thefe Paces.

i. e. to fuch irregular Steps, to Courfes of Debauchery, to not loving his Wife.

Shall