My noble grapes, and if my royal fox Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary With sprightly fire and motion; whose simple touch Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay, To give great Charlemain a pen in his hand, And write to her a love-line. King. What her is this? Laf. Why, doctor she. My lord, there's one arrived, In this my light deliverance, I have spoke King. Laf. And not be all day neither. Nay, I'll fit you, [Exit LAFEU. King. Thus he his special nothing ever prologues. Re-enter LAFEU, with HELENA. This haste hath wings indeed. Laf. Nay, come your ways. King Laf. Nay, come your ways. This is his majesty—say your mind to him. His majesty seldom fears. I am Cressid's uncle, [Exit. King. Now, fair one, does your business follow us? Hel. Ay, my good lord. Gerard de Narbon was My father; in what he did profess, well found. King. I knew him. Hel. The rather will I spare my praises towards him; Knowing him is enough. On his bed of death Safer than mine own two, more dear; I have so: With that malignant cause wherein the honour 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, To empirics, or to dissever so Our great self and our credit to esteem. A senseless help, when help past sense we deem. King. I cannot give thee less to be call'd grateful. I knowing all my peril, thou no art. Hel. 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 hope is coldest and despair most sits. King. I must not hear thee; fare thee well, kind maid; But know I think, and think I know most sure King. Art thou so confident? Within what space Hop'st thou my cure? Hel. 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; Hel. Tax of impudence, A strumpet's boldness, a divulged shame, Traduced by odious ballads: my maiden's name With vilest torture let my life be ended. King. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak; His powerful sound within an organ weak; And what impossibility would slay way. In common-sense, sense saves another |