Kin. Praising what is lost, Makes the remembrance deere. Well, call him hither, We are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill All repetition: Let him not aske our pardon, The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper then obliuion, we do burie Th' incensing reliques of it. Let him approach A stranger, no offender; and informe him So 'tis our will he should Gent. I shall my Liege Kin. What sayes he to your daughter, Haue you spoke? Laf. All that he is, hath reference to your Highnes Kin. Then shall we haue a match. I haue letters sent me, that sets him high in fame. Enter Count Bertram. Laf. He lookes well on't Kin. I am not a day of season, For thou maist see a sun-shine, and a haile In me at once: But to the brightest beames Distracted clouds giue way, so stand thou forth, The time is faire againe Ber. My high repented blames Deere Soueraigne pardon to me Kin. All is whole, Not one word more of the consumed time, Let's take the instant by the forward top: For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees Th' inaudible, and noiselesse foot of time Steales, ere we can effect them. You remember The daughter of this Lord? Ber. Admiringly my Liege, at first I stucke my choice vpon her, ere my heart Durst make too bold a herauld of my tongue: Where the impression of mine eye enfixing, Contempt his scornfull Perspectiue did lend me, Which warpt the line, of euerie other fauour, Scorn'd a faire colour, or exprest it stolne, Extended or contracted all proportions To a most hideous obiect. Thence it came, That she whom all men prais'd, and whom my selfe, Since I haue lost, haue lou'd; was in mine eye The dust that did offend it Kin. Well excus'd: That thou didst loue her, strikes some scores away From the great compt: but loue that comes too late, Like a remorsefull pardon slowly carried To the great sender, turnes a sowre offence, Crying, that's good that's gone: Our rash faults, Make triuiall price of serious things we haue, Not knowing them, vntill we know their graue. Oft our displeasures to our selues vniust, Destroy our friends, and after weepe their dust: Our owne loue waking, cries to see what's done, While shamefull hate sleepes out the afternoone. Be this sweet Helens knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for faire Maudlin, The maine consents are had, and heere wee'l stay To see our widdowers second marriage day: Which better then the first, O deere heauen blesse, Or, ere they meete in me, O Nature cesse Laf. Come on my sonne, in whom my houses name Must be digested: giue a fauour from you To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, That she may quickly come. By my old beard, And eu'rie haire that's on't, Helen that's dead Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this, The last that ere I tooke her leaue at Court, I saw vpon her finger Ber. Hers it was not