Her eye is sick on't; I observe her now.

HELENA. What is your pleasure, madam?

COUNTESS. You know, Helen,

I am a mother to you.

HELENA. Mine honourable mistress.

COUNTESS. 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?

HELENA. That I am not.

COUNTESS. I say I am your mother.

HELENA. Pardon, madam.

The Count Rousillon 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.

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,

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 myst'ry of your loneliness, and find

Your salt tears' head. Now to all sense 'tis gross