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With spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch |
Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay, |
To give great Charlemain a pen in's hand |
And write to her a love-line. |
KING. What her is this? |
LAFEU. Why, Doctor She! My lord, there's one arriv'd, |
If you will see her. Now, by my faith and honour, |
If seriously I may convey my thoughts |
In this my light deliverance, I have spoke |
With one that in her sex, her years, profession, |
Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz'd me more |
Than I dare blame my weakness. Will you see her, |
For that is her demand, and know her business? |
That done, laugh well at me. |
KING. Now, good Lafeu, |
Bring in the admiration, that we with the |
May spend our wonder too, or take off thine |
By wond'ring how thou took'st it. |
LAFEU. Nay, I'll fit you, |
And not be all day neither. Exit LAFEU |
KING. Thus he his special nothing ever prologues. |
Re-enter LAFEU with HELENA |
LAFEU. Nay, come your ways. |
KING. This haste hath wings indeed. |
LAFEU. Nay, come your ways; |
This is his Majesty; say your mind to him. |
A traitor you do look like; but such traitors |
His Majesty seldom fears. I am Cressid's uncle, |
That dare leave two together. Fare you well. Exit |
KING. Now, fair one, does your business follow us? |
HELENA. Ay, my good lord. |
Gerard de Narbon was my father, |
In what he did profess, well found. |
KING. I knew him. |
HELENA. The rather will I spare my praises towards him; |
Knowing him is enough. On's bed of death |
Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one, |
Which, as the dearest issue of his practice, |
And of his old experience th' only darling, |
He bade me store up as a triple eye, |
Safer than mine own two, more dear. I have so: |
And, hearing your high Majesty is touch'd |
With that malignant cause wherein the honour |
Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power, |
I come to tender it, and my appliance, |
With all bound humbleness. |
KING. We thank you, maiden; |
But may not be so credulous of cure, |
When our most learned doctors leave us, and |
The congregated college have concluded |
That labouring art can never ransom nature |
From her inaidable estate-I say we must not |
So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope, |
To prostitute our past-cure malady |
To empirics; or to dissever so |
Our great self and our credit to esteem |
A senseless help, when help past sense we deem. |
HELENA. My duty then shall pay me for my pains. |
I will no more enforce mine office on you; |
Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts |
A modest one to bear me back again. |
KING. I cannot give thee less, to be call'd grateful. |
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. |
HELENA. 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 dried |
When miracles have by the greatest been denied. |
Oft expectation fails, and most oft there |
Where most it promises; and oft it hits |
Where hope is coldest, and despair most fits. |
KING. I must not hear thee. Fare thee well, kind maid; |
Thy pains, not us'd, must by thyself be paid; |
Proffers not took reap thanks for their reward. |
HELENA. Inspired merit so by breath is barr'd. |
It is not so with Him that all things knows, |
As 'tis with us that square our guess by shows; |
But most it is presumption in us when |
The help of heaven we count the act of men. |
Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent; |
Of heaven, not me, make an experiment. |
I am not an impostor, that proclaim |
Myself against the level of mine aim; |
But know I think, and think I know most sure, |
My art is not past power nor you past cure. |
KING. Art thou so confident? Within what space |
Hop'st thou my cure? |
HELENA. The greatest Grace lending grace. |
Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring |
Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring, |
Ere twice in murk and occidental damp |
Moist Hesperus hath quench'd his sleepy lamp, |
Or four and twenty times the pilot's glass |
Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass, |
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