To say I am thy mother? What's the matter,
That this distemper'd messenger of wet,
[The] many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine [eye]?
[Why?] that you [are] my daughter?
Hel. That I am not.
Count. I say, I am your mother.
145
Hel. Pardon, madam;
The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:
I am from humble, he from honour'd name;