COUNTESS.
I say, I am your mother.
HELENA.
Pardon, madam:
The Count Roussillon cannot be my brother:
I am from humble, he from honor'd 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.
COUNTESS.
Nor I your mother?
HELENA.
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,[32]
So I were not his sister; can't no other,
But I, your daughter, he must be my brother?
COUNTESS.
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, one to the other.
Speak, is't so?
If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue!
If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,
As heaven shall work in me for thy avail,
To tell me truly.