Helena. Oh, were that all--I think not on my father,
And these great tears grace his remembrance more
Than those I shed for him. What was he like?
I have forgot him. My imagination
Carries no favour in it, but Bertram's.
I am undone, there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it; he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
Th' ambition in my love thus plagues itself;
The hind that would be mated by the lion,
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, tho' a plague,
To see him every hour, to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls
In our heart's table: heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour.
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics.
The interest excited by this beautiful picture of a kind and
innocent heart is kept up afterwards by her resolution to follow him
to France, the success of her experiment in restoring the king's
health, her demanding Bertram in marriage as a recompense, his
leaving her in disdain, her interview with him afterwards disguised
as Diana, a young lady whom he importunes with his secret addresses,
and their final reconciliation when the consequences of her
stratagem and the proofs of her love are fully made known.
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