I will now hear. What say you of this gentlewoman?
I'm ready to listen. What's your opinion of this woman?
Okay, I'm listening. So what do you think of her?
im listening what u think of her
The Steward (Rynaldo) speaks carefully, in elaborate qualifications — he is a man who weighs the costs of information before delivering it. His formality is not coldness; it is the professionalism of someone who knows that what he says will have consequences.
Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found
in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty,
and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we
publish them.
Madam, I wish the effort I've put into keeping you satisfied could be recorded in the history of my past accomplishments. When we boast about ourselves, we damage our modesty and tarnish the honest record of what we've actually earned.
Madam, I've tried hard to make you happy, and I wish that care showed up in my track record. But honestly, when people brag about their own achievements, they damage their reputation and make their real accomplishments look worse.
ive worked hard 4 u but bragging ruins everything
What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah. The complaints I have
heard of you I do not all believe; ’tis my slowness that I do not; for
I know you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to
make such knaveries yours.
What's this scoundrel doing here? Get out. I've heard complaints about you, and I don't believe all of them—not because they're false, but because I'm slow to judge. I know you're foolish enough to do these things and clever enough to pull them off.
What's this troublemaker doing here? Get lost. People have complained about you, but I don't believe everything I hear—that's just me being careful. I know you're stupid enough to get into these situations and smart enough to actually pull them off.
get out heard complaints about u u could def do this stuff
The Clown (named Lavatch in some editions) speaks in sustained logical tangles — he takes premises to absurd conclusions with perfect internal consistency. His jokes are always about desire, marriage, and hypocrisy. Watch for the moments when he says something crude that is also deeply true.
’Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.
You know perfectly well, madam, that I'm a poor man.
You know I'm poor, madam.
u know im poor
Well, sir.
Well, sir.
well, sir.
Well, sir.
No, madam, ’tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are
damned; but if I may have your ladyship’s good will to go to the world,
Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.
No, madam, it's not good that I'm poor, even though plenty of rich people are damned to hell. But if you'll give me permission to go out in the world, Isabel and I will do the best we can.
No, madam, it's rough being poor, I know—even though plenty of rich people end up in hell anyway. But if you'll let me go out and try my luck in the world, Isabel and I will make it work.
being poor sucks even rich ppl go 2 hell just let me go try
Wilt thou needs be a beggar?
Do you insist on becoming a beggar?
You're determined to become a beggar?
ur gonna b a beggar
I do beg your good will in this case.
I'm asking for your approval in this situation.
I'm asking you to let me do this.
just say yes
In what case?
In what case?
in what case?
In what case?
In Isbel’s case and mine own. Service is no heritage, and I think I
shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue of my body; for
they say barnes are blessings.
Regarding Isabel's case and my own. Serving someone isn't something you inherit, and I don't think I'll be blessed by God until I have children of my own—because people say children are blessings.
About Isabel and me. Working for someone isn't an inheritance, and I'll never be blessed by God without kids—that's what people say, that children are blessings.
serving isnt hereditary i need kids thats how u get blessed
Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.
Tell me your reason for wanting to marry.
So why do you want to get married?
y do u wanna marry
My poor body, madam, requires it; I am driven on by the flesh, and he
must needs go that the devil drives.
My body needs it, madam. I'm driven by physical desire, and whoever the devil pushes along must go forward.
It's my body, madam—I have needs. I'm ruled by desire, and you know what they say: the devil drives, you gotta go.
my body needs it im driven by desire what can i do
Is this all your worship’s reason?
Is that the only reason you have?
That's your only reason?
thats it
Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are.
Actually, madam, I have other moral and religious reasons, whatever they are.
Well, madam, I've got other reasons too—spiritual ones, you could say.
ive got other reasons moral ones
May the world know them?
Can the world know what they are?
Are you going to tell people?
r u gonna tell ppl
I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood
are; and indeed I do marry that I may repent.
I've been a wicked person, madam, just like you and everyone else. And frankly, I'm getting married so I can repent.
I've been a bad person, madam, like everyone—but marrying is how I'm going to turn my life around.
ive been wicked like u im marrying 2 repent
Helena's confession to the Countess is one of the bravest acts in the play — not because it takes physical courage, but because it voluntarily surrenders her only protection: secrecy. Once the Countess knows, Helena is exposed. What makes the scene remarkable is that Helena's love is perfectly calibrated in how it presents itself. She says: I love in vain, I know it is vain, I would not have him before I deserve him, and I have no idea how to deserve him. This is not delusion — it is absolute clarity about the social facts and a refusal to accept them as final. The Countess is moved by precisely this: not the love itself, but the quality of mind the love is paired with. Helena doesn't just feel. She thinks. And the Countess recognizes that combination as rare.
Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.
Your marriage will come before your repentance.
You're getting married before you've stopped being wicked.
marriage before penance
I am out of friends, madam, and I hope to have friends for my wife’s
sake.
I've lost my friends, madam, and I hope to make new friends because of my wife.
I've lost my friends, madam, and my wife will help me make new ones.
no friends now hope wife helps me get some
Such friends are thine enemies, knave.
Friends you gain that way are your enemies, you rogue.
Those kinds of friends are really enemies, you fool.
fake friends r enemies
Y’are shallow, madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that
for me which I am a-weary of. He that ears my land spares my team, and
gives me leave to in the crop: if I be his cuckold, he’s my drudge. He
that comforts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that
cherishes my flesh and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my
flesh and blood is my friend; ergo, he that kisses my wife is my
friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no
fear in marriage; for young Charbon the puritan and old Poysam the
papist, howsome’er their hearts are sever’d in religion, their heads
are both one; they may jowl horns together like any deer i’ the herd.
You're naive about friendship, madam. These rogues will do work for me that I'm tired of doing. If someone plows my land, he saves my team and lets me keep the crop. If I become his cuckold, he's my servant. Whoever comforts my wife is caring for my family. Whoever cares for my family loves my family. Whoever loves my family is my friend. Therefore, whoever sleeps with my wife is my friend. If men would just accept who they are, there'd be no worry in marriage. Young Charbon the Puritan and old Poysam the Catholic—whatever their religious differences, they're the same underneath. They can both end up with horns like any deer in a herd.
You don't understand friendship, madam. My buddies will do the hard work I don't want to do. The guy who works my land saves my animals and I keep the crop. If he sleeps with my wife, he's my servant. Whoever makes my wife happy is taking care of my family. Whoever takes care of my family loves my family. Whoever loves my family is my friend. So whoever sleeps with my wife is my friend. If men just accepted life as it is, marriage wouldn't be a problem. Whether you're like Charbon the Puritan or Poysam the Catholic, you're the same underneath. You'll both end up with horns like deer.
ur clueless bout friendship my buddies do work i hate whoever helps my wife helps me so hes my friend
Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth’d and calumnious knave?
Will you always be this foul-mouthed and slanderous rogue?
Are you going to keep being vulgar and insulting?
r u always gonna b like this
A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way:
_For I the ballad will repeat,
Which men full true shall find;
Your marriage comes by destiny,
Your cuckoo sings by kind._
I'm a prophet, madam, and I tell the truth in the best way I can. For I'll sing you this ballad, Which men will find completely true: Your marriage comes from fate, Your cuckold sings by nature.
I'm a prophet, madam, telling you straight truth. I'll sing this song for you, And men will find it's true: Your marriage is destiny, Your cuckold is just nature.
im a prophet i speak the truth marriage is fate cuckoldry is nature
Get you gone, sir; I’ll talk with you more anon.
Leave now. I'll speak to you again soon.
Get out. I'll talk to you later.
go ill talk 2 u later
May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you; of her I am to
speak.
Would it please you, madam, if he asked Helen to come to you? That's who I want to talk to you about.
Would you like him to bring Helen here? That's who I need to talk to you about.
can helen come i need 2 talk bout her
Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; Helen I mean.
Fellow, tell my lady's companion I want to speak with her—I mean Helen.
Tell my lady's helper I want to see her. Helen, I mean.
get helen i wanna talk 2 her
_ Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,
Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
Fond done, done fond,
Was this King Priam’s joy?
With that she sighed as she stood,
With that she sighed as she stood,
And gave this sentence then:
Among nine bad if one be good,
Among nine bad if one be good,
There’s yet one good in ten._
Was this beautiful face, she said, Why the Greeks destroyed Troy? Foolish, so foolish, Was this King Priam's joy? With that she sighed as she stood, With that she sighed as she stood, And spoke this truth then: Among nine wicked, if one is good, Among nine wicked, if one is good, There's still one good in ten.
Was her beautiful face, she said, Why the Greeks burned down Troy? Foolish, so foolish, Was she King Priam's pride? She sighed where she stood, She sighed where she stood, And then she said: Among nine bad women, one is good, Among nine bad women, one is good, There's maybe one good woman in ten.
was this face why troy fell foolish foolish was priam proud she sighed n said: one good woman in ten
What, one good in ten? You corrupt the song, sirrah.
What, one good in ten? You're changing the song, you rogue.
One good in ten? You're messing up the real song.
ur changing the song
One good woman in ten, madam, which is a purifying o’ the song. Would
God would serve the world so all the year! We’d find no fault with the
tithe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth ’a! And we might
have a good woman born but or every blazing star, or at an earthquake,
’twould mend the lottery well; a man may draw his heart out ere he
pluck one.
One good woman in ten, madam—that actually improves the song. If God blessed the world that way all year round, we wouldn't complain about the tenth woman if I were the priest. One in ten! If we only got a good woman born every time a star blazes or there's an earthquake, it would still help the odds. A man might exhaust himself searching for just one.
One good woman in ten, madam—that's actually making the song better. If God worked that way all year, nobody would complain about the one good woman if I were in charge. One in ten! Even if good women only showed up during comets or earthquakes, it'd help a lot. A man might wear himself out searching for just one.
1 good woman in 10 thatll help if only comets n earthquakes brought good women man still searching 4 one
You’ll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you!
You'll leave now, you rogue, and do what I told you!
Get out now and do what I said!
go do what i said
That man should be at woman’s command, and yet no hurt done! Though
honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the
surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am going,
forsooth; the business is for Helen to come hither.
A man has to do what a woman says, and somehow it's fine! Honesty doesn't need to be rigid—it just means wearing humility over that proud heart of yours. I'm going, truly. The point is, you need to get Helen over here.
A man has to do what a woman says, and somehow it's okay! Honesty doesn't need to be strict about it—it just means wearing humility over that big proud heart. I'm going, really. The thing is, you need to get Helen to come here.
man does what woman says no big deal honesty wears humility im going get helen here
Well, now.
Well, now.
well, now.
Well, now.
The Clown's extended riff on marriage and cuckoldry seems like broad comic interlude — and partly it is. But it is also doing something the rest of the play dances around: articulating the social facts of desire without romanticism. The Clown's argument is that everyone gets cuckolded eventually, that the puritan and the papist end up in the same condition regardless of their virtue or piety, and that marriage is essentially an exchange system for appetite. This is a bleak view — and it is not the play's view. But it serves as a kind of ironic counterpoint to Helena's idealism. The comedy and the romance are always in conversation in this play. The Clown says: everyone ends up with horns. Helena says: love can transcend all of this. The play asks: which is right? And the answer is complicated.
I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.
I know, madam, that you love your lady's companion completely.
I know you love Helen completely, madam.
u love helen 4 real
Faith I do. Her father bequeath’d her to me, and she herself, without
other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds;
there is more owing her than is paid, and more shall be paid her than
she’ll demand.
Yes, I do love her. Her father left her in my care, and she, without any other benefit, can rightfully claim as much love as she receives. She is owed more love than I've given her, and she will receive more than she'll ask for.
I really do. Her father left her to me, and she deserves all the love she can get—with no strings attached. I owe her more than I've given, and I'll give her more than she'd ever ask for.
yes i do her dad left her 2 me i owe her so much ill give her more than she asks
Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wish’d me; alone
she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears;
she thought, I dare vow for her, they touch’d not any stranger sense.
Her matter was, she loved your son. Fortune, she said, was no goddess,
that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no god,
that would not extend his might only where qualities were level; Diana
no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surpris’d,
without rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. This she
deliver’d in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e’er I heard virgin
exclaim in, which I held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal;
sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to
know it.
Madam, I was close to her recently, more so than I think she wanted. She was alone and speaking to herself, words only she heard. I'm certain her private thoughts weren't meant for any stranger. What she said was that she loved your son. Fortune, she said, was no real goddess because she created such a difference between their social standings. Love was no real god because he wouldn't help those of unequal status. Diana was no real queen of virgins because she would allow her poor knight to be conquered without rescue or ransom. She delivered this with the most bitter sorrow I've ever heard from a woman, which I felt duty-bound to tell you about. Since this could lead to loss and harm, I thought you should know.
Madam, I happened to overhear her recently when she thought no one was listening. She was talking to herself about loving your son. She complained that Fortune isn't really a goddess because she made them from different social classes, that Love isn't really a god because he won't help when people aren't equals, and that Diana isn't really protecting virgins like her. She was absolutely heartbroken—I've never heard a woman sound so devastated. I had to tell you because this could cause real damage.
i overheard her she loves ur son social class keeps them apart she was devastated u need 2 know
You have discharg’d this honestly; keep it to yourself; many
likelihoods inform’d me of this before, which hung so tottering in the
balance that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you leave me;
stall this in your bosom; and I thank you for your honest care. I will
speak with you further anon.
You've reported this honestly. Keep it to yourself. Many hints suggested this before, but they seemed so uncertain I couldn't believe them or doubt them. Please leave me now. Keep this in your heart. Thank you for your honest concern. I'll speak with you again soon.
You've been honest with me. Don't tell anyone else. I've had suspicions before, but they were so unclear I didn't know what to think. Leave me now. Keep this between us. Thanks for looking out for me. I'll talk to you later.
u told me true keep it quiet thx 4 telling me ill talk later
Even so it was with me when I was young;
If ever we are nature’s, these are ours; this thorn
Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;
Our blood to us, this to our blood is born;
It is the show and seal of nature’s truth,
Where love’s strong passion is impress’d in youth.
By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults, or then we thought them none.
Her eye is sick on’t; I observe her now.
It was the same way with me when I was young. If we humans belong to nature, then these desires are ours; this thorn belongs rightly with our rose of youth. Our blood is ours, and this passion is born from our blood. It is the sign and mark of nature's truth, where love's strong passion is imprinted in youth. From what I remember of days long past, our faults were like this, or we thought them no faults at all. Her eyes show she's sick with love; I observe her now.
I felt exactly the same way when I was young. Love and desire are natural parts of being human, especially when you're young—like a thorn that grows naturally with a rose. It's written into our very nature and blood. When you're young, you don't see love as a fault—it just feels right and true. I can tell Helena's lovesick just by looking at her eyes. I understand what she's going through.
i was like her once love is natural in youth like a thorn with a rose part of our nature i can see she's lovesick
What is your pleasure, madam?
What do you want from me, madam?
What do you need, madam?
what u need
You know, Helen,
I am a mother to you.
Helen, you should understand that I serve as your mother.
You know, Helen, I'm like a mother to you.
im like ur mom helen
Mine honourable mistress.
You are my honored mistress.
You're my mistress, and I respect you.
ur my lady
Nay, a mother.
Why not a mother? When I said a mother,
Methought you saw a serpent. What’s in mother,
That you start at it? I say I am your mother,
And put you in the catalogue of those
That were enwombed mine. ’Tis often seen
Adoption strives with nature, and choice breeds
A native slip to us from foreign seeds.
You ne’er oppress’d me with a mother’s groan,
Yet I express to you a mother’s care.
God’s mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood
To say I am thy mother? What’s the matter,
That this distempered messenger of wet,
The many-colour’d Iris, rounds thine eye?
—Why, that you are my daughter?
No, I mean a real mother. Why shouldn't I be a mother? When I said the word mother, I thought you saw a serpent. What's wrong with mother That makes you flinch? I'm telling you I am your mother, And I'm putting you among those I carried in my body. We see it all the time— Adoption competes with nature, and choice creates A child born to us from unexpected places. You never burdened me with a mother's pain, Yet I give you a mother's love. For mercy's sake, girl! Does it horrify you To hear I'm your mother? What's wrong? Why is this flood of tears, The rainbow of colors, circling your eyes? —Is it because you're my daughter?
No, I mean a mother. Why are you reacting like that? When I said mother, Like you heard something evil. What's so terrible about mother That you flinch? I'm your mother, I'm counting you among the children I carried in my womb. It happens all the time— Adoption can feel as natural as biology, and choice Can create a real child from unexpected places. You never gave me the pain a child gives, But I give you all a mother's care. Seriously, does this upset you so much? To hear I'm your mother? What's the matter? Why are you crying With all these different colors of tears? —Is it really because you'd be my daughter?
ur my daughter i carried u like my own u never hurt me but i love u like a mom why u crying how is this bad
That I am not.
I am not.
I'm not.
im not
I say, I am your mother.
I'm telling you, I am your mother.
I'm saying it: I'm your mother.
ur my mom
Pardon, madam;
The Count Rossillon cannot be my brother.
I am from humble, he from honoured name;
No note upon my parents, his all noble,
My master, my dear lord he is; and I
His servant live, and will his vassal die.
He must not be my brother.
Please forgive me, madam. The Count Rossillon cannot be my brother. I come from humble birth, he from a noble name. My parents have no standing, his are all noble. He is my master, my dear lord, and I Will live as his servant and die as his vassal. He must not be my brother.
I'm sorry, madam. The Count can't be my brother. I'm from nothing, he's from everything. My family means nothing, his means everything. He's my lord, my master, and I'll Serve him my whole life. He can't be my brother.
he cant b my brother im low birth hes noble ill b his servant not his sister
Nor I your mother?
And I'm not your mother?
And I can't be your mother?
n im not ur mom
You are my mother, madam; would you were—
So that my lord your son were not my brother,—
Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers,
I care no more for than I do for heaven,
So I were not his sister. Can’t no other,
But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?
You are my mother, madam. I wish you were— So your son couldn't be my brother— Truly my mother! Or if you were both our mothers, I wouldn't care more about you than about heaven itself, As long as I'm not his sister. Isn't there another way? If I'm your daughter, must he necessarily be my brother?
You are my mother, madam. I wish you were— So your son wouldn't be my brother— Really my mother! Or even if you were both our mothers, I wouldn't care about it more than I care about heaven, As long as I'm not his sister. Isn't there another way? Does being your daughter automatically make him my brother?
ur my mom wish u were so he wasnt my brother if ur both our moms id accept it just no sister thing
Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law.
God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother
So strive upon your pulse. What! pale again?
My fear hath catch’d your fondness; now I see
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tears’ head. Now to all sense ’tis gross
You love my son; invention is asham’d,
Against the proclamation of thy passion
To say thou dost not. Therefore tell me true;
But tell me then, ’tis so; for, look, thy cheeks
Confess it, t’one to th’other; and thine eyes
See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours,
That in their kind they speak it; only sin
And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,
That truth should be suspected. Speak, is’t so?
If it be so, you have wound a goodly clew;
If it be not, forswear’t: howe’er, I charge thee,
As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,
To tell me truly.
Yes, Helen, you could be my daughter-in-law. God forbid you don't mean it! Mother and daughter-in-law Compete in your heartbeat. You've turned pale again? My fear has caught your love. Now I see The cause of your sadness, and understand Your tears' meaning. It's clear to everyone That you love my son. Even lies are ashamed To stand against such obvious passion And claim you don't. So tell me the truth. Your cheeks confess it to each other, and your eyes Show it so clearly in your behavior That they speak it. Only shame And stubborn denial bind your tongue, Otherwise truth would flow. Is it true? If it is, you've created something worthwhile. If not, deny it. But either way, I'm begging you, As heaven will reward me for your good, To tell me the truth.
You could be my daughter-in-law, Helen. I hope you mean this! Your pulse is racing— I can feel it. You're pale again? I think your love just got revealed. Now I understand Why you're so sad, why you've been crying. It's obvious to everyone that you love my son. Even the best lies would be embarrassed To claim you don't. So tell me the truth. Your face is telling me already—your cheeks, Your eyes, everything about you screams it. You're only not saying it because of shame And stubbornness. The truth wants out. Is it true? If so, you're amazing for keeping quiet about it. If not, just say so. But please, I'm begging you by everything holy, Tell me the truth.
u could b my daughter-in-law u love my son its obvious stop lying tell me true i wont judge
The Countess of Rossillon is not the protagonist of this play — but she may be its wisest character. She already knows (or strongly suspects) Helena's secret before the scene begins. She designs the 'mother' trap to draw the truth out, not to shame Helena but to verify what she wants to support. When Helena confesses, the Countess immediately pivots from interrogation to backing — she gives money, servants, letters, and blessing. She will later, in 3-2, declare that she effectively disowns Bertram and claims Helena as her true child. No one in this play demonstrates more consistent good judgment. Shakespeare gives her the clarity that both the young lovers lack — and he makes her the person whose approval Helena needs to earn before the audience fully trusts her.
Good madam, pardon me.
Please forgive me, madam.
I'm sorry, madam.
sorry
Do you love my son?
Tell me honestly: do you love my son?
Do you love him?
u love him
Your pardon, noble mistress.
Your forgiveness, noble mistress.
Please forgive me, noble lady.
forgive me
Love you my son?
So it's him you love?
Do you love him?
u love him
Do not you love him, madam?
Don't you love him yourself, madam?
Don't you love him too, madam?
u love him too
Go not about; my love hath in’t a bond
Whereof the world takes note. Come, come, disclose
The state of your affection, for your passions
Have to the full appeach’d.
Don't try to evade. My love is bonded In a way the whole world recognizes. Come, come, reveal Your feelings' true state, because your passion Is fully evident.
Stop dancing around it. My love is obvious to everyone. Come on, tell me how you feel. Your emotions Are written all over you anyway.
dont evade everyone knows i love him just tell me how u feel
Then I confess,
Here on my knee, before high heaven and you,
That before you, and next unto high heaven,
I love your son.
My friends were poor, but honest; so’s my love.
Be not offended; for it hurts not him
That he is lov’d of me; I follow him not
By any token of presumptuous suit,
Nor would I have him till I do deserve him;
Yet never know how that desert should be.
I know I love in vain, strive against hope;
Yet in this captious and inteemable sieve
I still pour in the waters of my love
And lack not to lose still. Thus, Indian-like,
Religious in mine error, I adore
The sun that looks upon his worshipper,
But knows of him no more. My dearest madam,
Let not your hate encounter with my love,
For loving where you do; but if yourself,
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,
Did ever, in so true a flame of liking,
Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself and love; O then, give pity
To her whose state is such that cannot choose
But lend and give where she is sure to lose;
That seeks not to find that her search implies,
But riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies!
Then I confess, Here on my knee, before high heaven and you, That after you, and closest to high heaven, I love your son. My friends were poor but honest, and so is my love. Don't take offense; his being loved by me Doesn't hurt him. I don't pursue him With any sign of presumptuous hope, Nor do I want him until I deserve him, Yet I don't know how I could ever deserve him. I know my love is hopeless, I fight against hope, Yet like a sieve that should hold nothing, I pour my love in endlessly And don't stop losing it. Like someone from another land, Religious in my error, I worship The sun who shines on his worshipper But doesn't know him. My dear madam, Don't let your hatred meet my love Because I love where you do. But if you yourself, You whose aged honor shows a virtuous youth, Ever felt such a true flame of affection, Wished chastely and loved deeply, so that your Diana Was both herself and love incarnate—then give pity To one whose situation means she must Give everything where she's certain to lose it. One who seeks not what her search requires, But lives like a riddle, sweetly dying where she loves.
Then I confess, Kneeling before you and heaven, That I love your son. My parents were poor but honest, and my love is too. Don't be upset—his being loved doesn't hurt him. I'm not pursuing him hoping for anything, And I don't want him until I'm worthy, Though I don't know how I'd ever be worthy. My love is impossible, I know it's hopeless, But I keep pouring it in like a broken sieve, And it all falls through. I'm like someone Worshiping the sun—devoted to something That doesn't even know I exist. Madam, don't hate me for loving him. But if you ever felt this way—truly loved someone With your whole heart, wanted them so badly That it became sacred—then please, have mercy On someone like me who has to give everything To something she'll lose. I'm seeking the impossible, Living a riddle—sweetly dying for love.
i confess i love ur son my love is honest i know its hopeless i worship him like the sun he doesnt even know me have mercy on me
Had you not lately an intent,—speak truly,—
To go to Paris?
Didn't you recently intend—tell me truly— To go to Paris?
Didn't you want to go to Paris recently? Tell me the truth.
u wanted 2 go 2 paris
Madam, I had.
Madam, I had.
madam, i had.
Madam, I had.
Wherefore? tell true.
Why? Tell me the truth.
Why? Be honest.
y tho
I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.
You know my father left me some prescriptions
Of rare and prov’d effects, such as his reading
And manifest experience had collected
For general sovereignty; and that he will’d me
In heedfull’st reservation to bestow them,
As notes whose faculties inclusive were
More than they were in note. Amongst the rest
There is a remedy, approv’d, set down,
To cure the desperate languishings whereof
The king is render’d lost.
I'll tell you the truth, I swear by grace itself. You know my father left me some medical prescriptions Of rare and proven effects, ones that his study And direct experience had gathered together For universal healing. He commanded me To guard them carefully and pass them on, Because their actual powers were greater Than what was written down. Among these There is a remedy, proven and documented, To cure the desperate sickness That has left the king dying.
I'll tell you the truth, I promise. My father left me some medical recipes For rare and proven cures that he learned through Study and real-world experience. He made me swear to keep them safe and pass them on, Because they're more powerful than anyone realizes. There's one cure in particular that's proven To heal the deadly illness That has the king at death's door.
my dad left me medicine recipes rare n proven i gotta protect them one cure can save the king
This was your motive
For Paris, was it? Speak.
This was your reason For going to Paris, wasn't it? Tell me.
So that's why you wanted to go to Paris? Tell me.
thats y u wanted paris
My lord your son made me to think of this;
Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king,
Had from the conversation of my thoughts
Haply been absent then.
Your son made me remember this medicine. Otherwise Paris, and the remedy, and the king Would never have come into my thoughts at all.
Your son is why I'm thinking about it. Otherwise I probably would never have thought About Paris or the medicine or helping the king.
ur son made me think of this wouldnt b here otherwise
But think you, Helen,
If you should tender your supposed aid,
He would receive it? He and his physicians
Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him;
They, that they cannot help. How shall they credit
A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,
Embowell’d of their doctrine, have let off
The danger to itself?
But Helen, think about this: If you offered him your supposed help, Would he accept it? He and his doctors Agree: he thinks they can't help, And they think they can't help. How would they believe A poor uneducated young woman when the great schools, Full of learned wisdom, have abandoned The disease as unsaveable?
But Helen, think about it. If you tried to help him with your medicine, Would he even take it? He and his doctors Are on the same page—both think it's hopeless. How could they possibly trust a poor, uneducated girl When all the great universities and schools Have given up on this illness?
would he take ur medicine his docs say its hopeless would they trust u
There’s something in’t
More than my father’s skill, which was the great’st
Of his profession, that his good receipt
Shall for my legacy be sanctified
By th’ luckiest stars in heaven; and would your honour
But give me leave to try success, I’d venture
The well-lost life of mine on his grace’s cure.
By such a day, an hour.
There's something in it Beyond my father's skill, which was the greatest Of his profession. That good remedy Will be blessed by the luckiest stars in heaven as my legacy. If you would just give me permission to try, I would risk my life on the king's cure. By a certain day and hour, I'll do it.
There's more to this than my father's knowledge, Which was the best medical skill of his time. This remedy will be blessed by heaven itself. If you'll just let me try, I'll stake my life on saving the king. I'll do it by a specific day and time.
dads skill aint even it heaven blesses this medicine just let me try ill risk my life on the king
Dost thou believe’t?
Do you believe it?
You actually believe that?
really?
Ay, madam, knowingly.
Yes, madam, and I understand exactly what I'm claiming.
Yes, madam, and I mean it with complete confidence.
yep i know what i'm saying
Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love,
Means and attendants, and my loving greetings
To those of mine in court. I’ll stay at home,
And pray God’s blessing into thy attempt.
Be gone tomorrow; and be sure of this,
What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.
Helen, you have my permission and my love, Money and attendants, and my warm greetings To my friends at court. I'll stay home And pray God blesses your attempt. Go tomorrow, and know this for certain: I will give you everything I can to help.
Helen, you have my permission and my love, Money, servants, and my recommendation to my friends at court. I'll stay here and pray for your success. Leave tomorrow, and I promise you: I'll do everything I can to help you.
go tomorrow u have my love n blessing ill help u all i can
The Reckoning
This is the scene where the play's plan gets its mother's blessing. The Clown's comic routine at the start sets up the theme of marriage as appetite — then the Steward reports what he overheard Helena saying alone in the garden, and suddenly comedy turns into something else. When the Countess faces Helena with what she knows, it's one of the great confrontations between a maternal figure and a young woman: part interrogation, part recognition, part gift. Helena's confession — on her knees, willing to be shamed — earns the Countess's full support. The scene ends with both women aligned, the plan in motion.
If this happened today…
The household manager at a wealthy family estate tells the matriarch that he accidentally overheard the ward — the young woman who grew up in the house — talking to herself in the garden, confessing her love for the son. The matriarch calls the young woman in. She tries to call herself a 'daughter' of the house. The young woman panics. The matriarch presses: 'If you're my daughter, then Bertram is your brother.' Watch how quickly Helena untangles herself. It's a three-minute conversation that starts as a trap and ends as a pact: I know everything, I approve of everything, I'm funding your trip. Go.