Hel.
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 my Bertram's.

I am undone; there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one
That I should love a bright partic'lar 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 it self;
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 sanctifie his Relicks. Who comes here? Enter Parolles.
One, that goes with him: I love him for his sake,
And yet I know him a notorious liar;
Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;
Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him,
That they take place, when virtue's steely bones
Look bleak in the cold wind; full oft we see
Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.

Par.

Save you, fair Queen.

Hel.

And you, Monarch.

Par.

No.

Hel.

And, no.—

Par.

Are you meditating on virginity?

Hel.

Ay: you have some stain of soldier in you; let me ask you a question. Man is enemy to virginity, how may we barricado it against him?

Par.

Keep him out.

Hel.

But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant, in the defence yet is weak: unfold to us some warlike resistance.

Par.

There is none: man, setting down before you, will undermine you and blow you up.

Hel.

Bless our poor virginity from underminers and blowers up!—Is there no military policy, how virgins might blow up men?

Par.

Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be blown up: marry, in blowing him down again, with the breach your selves made, you lose your city. (3) ^noteIt is not politick in the Commonwealth of nature, to preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational increase; and there was never virgin got, 'till virginity was first lost. That, you were made of, is metal to make virgins. Virginity, by being once lost, may be ten times found: by being ever kept, it is ever lost; 'tis too cold a companion; away with't.

Hel.

I will stand for't a little, though therefore I die a Virgin.

Par.

There's little can be said in't; 'tis against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity, is to accuse your Mother; which is most infallible disobedience. He, that hangs himself, is a Virgin: virginity murthers it self, and should be buried in highways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate Offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites; much like a cheese; consumes it self to the very paring, and so dies with feeding its own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most prohibited sin in the Canon. Keep it not, you cannot chuse but lose by't. Out with't; within ten years it will make it self two, which is a goodly increase, and the principal it self not much the worse. Away with't.

Hel.

How might one do, Sir, to lose it to her own liking?

Par.

Let me see. Marry, ill, to like him that ne'er it likes. 'Tis a Commodity will lose the gloss with lying. The longer kept, the less worth: off with't, while 'tis vendible. Answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion; richly suted, but unsutable; just like the

brooch and the tooth-pick, which we wear not now: your date is better in your pye and your porridge, than in your cheek; and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French wither'd pears; it looks ill, it eats drily; marry, 'tis a wither'd pear: it was formerly better; marry, yet 'tis a wither'd pear. Will you any thing with it?

Hel.
Not my virginity yet.
There shall your Master have a thousand loves,
A Mother, and a Mistress, and a Friend,
A Phœnix, Captain, and an Enemy,
A Guide, a Goddess, and a Soveraign,
A Counsellor, a Traitress, and a Dear;
His humble ambition, proud humility;
His jarring concord; and his discord dulcet;
His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world
Of pretty fond adoptious christendoms,
That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he—
I know not, what he shall—God send him well!—
The Court's a learning place—and he is one—

Par.
What one, i'faith?

Hel.
That I wish well—'tis pity—

Par.
What's pity?

Hel.
That wishing well had not a body in't,
Which might be felt; that We the poorer born,
Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,
Might with effects of them follow our friends;
And shew what we alone must think, which never
Returns us thanks. Enter Page.

Page.
Monsieur Parolles,
My Lord calls for you. [Exit Page.

Par.
Little Helen, farewel; if I can remember thee,
I will think of thee at Court.

Hel.

Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable Star.

Par.

Under Mars, I.

Hel.

I especially think, under Mars.

Par.

Why under Mars?

Hel.

The wars have kept you so under, that you must needs be born under Mars.

Par.

When he was predominant.

Hel.

When he was retrograde, I think, rather.

Par.

Why think you so?

Hel.

You go so much backward, when you fight.

Par.

That's for advantage.

Hel.

So is running away, when fear proposes safety: but the composition, that your valour and fear makes in you, is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well.

Par.

I am so full of businesses, as I cannot answer thee acutely: I will return perfect Courtier; in the which, my instruction shall serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of Courtiers counsel, and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away; farewel. When thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember thy friends; get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee: so farewel.

Hel.
Our remedies oft in our selves do lie,
Which we ascribe to Heav'n. The fated sky
Gives us free scope; only, doth backward pull
Our slow designs, when we our selves are dull.
What power is it, which mounts my love so high,
That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?
The mightiest space in Fortune Nature brings
To join like likes; and kiss, like native things.
Impossible be strange attempts, to those
That weigh their pain in sense; and do suppose,
What hath been, cannot be. Who ever strove
To shew her merit, that did miss her love?
The King's disease—my project may deceive me,
But my intents are fix'd, and will not leave me. [Exit.

Scene 2 SCENE changes to the Court of France. Flourish Cornets. Enter the King of France with letters, and divers attendants.

King.
The Florentines and Senoys are by th' ears;
Have fought with equal fortune, and continue
A braving war.

1 Lord.
So 'tis reported, Sir.

King.
Nay, 'tis most credible; we here receive it,
A certainty vouch'd from our Cousin Austria;
With caution, that the Florentine will move us
For speedy aid; wherein our dearest Friend
Prejudicates the business, and would seem
To have us make denial.

1 Lord.
His love and wisdom,
Approv'd so to your Majesty, may plead
For ample credence.

King.
He hath arm'd our answer;
And Florence is deny'd, before he comes:
Yet, for our Gentlemen that mean to see
The Tuscan service, freely have they leave
To stand on either part.

2 Lord.
It may well serve
A nursery to our Gentry, who are sick
For Breathing and Exploit.

King.
What's he comes here? Enter Bertram, Lafeu and Parolles.

1 Lord.
It is the Count Rousillon, my good Lord,
Young Bertram.

King.
Youth, thou bear'st thy Father's face.
Frank Nature, rather curious than in haste,
Hath well compos'd thee. Thy Father's moral parts
May'st thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.

Ber.
My thanks and duty are your Majesty's.

King.
I would, I had that corporal soundness now,
As when thy Father and my self in friendship

First try'd our soldiership: he did look far
Into the service of the time, and was
Discipled of the brav'st. He lasted long;
But on us both did haggish age steal on,
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me
To talk of your good father; in his youth
He had the wit, which I can well observe
To day in our young lords; but they may jest,
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted,
Ere they can hide their levity in honour:
So like a Courtier, no contempt or bitterness(4) ^note


Were in him; Pride or Sharpness, if there were,
His Equal had awak'd them; and his honour,
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when
Exceptions bid him speak; and at that time
His tongue obey'd his hand. Who were below him
He us'd as creatures of another place,
And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks;
Making them proud of his humility,
In their poor praise he humbled: Such a man
Might be a copy to these younger times;
Which, follow'd well, would now demonstrate them
But goers backward.

Ber.
His good remembrance, Sir,
Lies richer in your thoughts, than on his tomb;
So in approof lives not his epitaph,
As in your royal speech.

King.
Would, I were with him! he would always say,
(Methinks, I hear him now; his plausive words

He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them
To grow there and to bear;) Let me not live,—
(Thus his good melancholy oft began,
On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,
When it was out,) let me not live, (quoth he,)
After my flame lacks oil; to be the snuff
Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses
All but new things disdain; whose judgments are
Meer fathers of their garments; whose constancies
Expire before their fashions:—this he wish'd.
I, after him, do after him wish too,
(Since I nor wax, nor honey, can bring home,)
I quickly were dissolved from my hive,
To give some labourers room.

2 Lord.
You're loved, Sir;
They, that least lend it you, shall lack you first.

King.
I fill a place, I know't. How long is't, Count,
Since the Physician at your father's died?
He was much fam'd.

Ber.
Some six months, since, my Lord.

King.
If he were living, I would try him yet;—
Lend me an arm;—the rest have worn me out
With several applications; Nature and Sickness
Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, Count,
My son's no dearer.

Ber.
Thank your Majesty. [Flourish, Exeunt. Scene 3 SCENE changes to the Countess's at Rousillon. Enter Countess, Steward and Clown.

Count.

I will now hear; what say you of this gentlewoman?

Stew.

Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my past endeavours; (5) ^note

make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of our selves we publish them.

Count.

What does this knave here? get you gone, sirrah: the complaints, I have heard of you, I do not all believe; 'tis my slowness that I do not, for, I know, you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours.

Clo.

'Tis not unknown to you, Madam, I am a poor fellow.

Count.

Well, Sir.

Clo.

No, Madam; 'tis not so well that I am poor, tho' many of the rich are damn'd; but if I have your ladyship's good will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.

Count.

Wilt thou needs be a beggar?

Clo.

I do beg your good will in this case.

Count.

In what case?

Clo.

In Isbel's case, and mine own; service is no heritage, and, I think, I shall never have the blessing of God, 'till I have issue o' my body; for they say, bearns are blessings.

Count.

Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.

Clo.

My poor body, Madam, requires it. I am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs go, that the devil drives.

Count.

Is this all your worship's reason?

Clo.

Faith, Madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are.

Count.

May the world know them?

Clo.

I have been, Madam, a wicked creature, as

you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry, that I may repent.

Count.

Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.

Clo.

I am out of friends, Madam, and I hope to have friends for my wife's sake.

Count.

Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

Clo.

Y'are shallow, Madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am weary of; he, that eares my land, spares my team, and gives me leave to inne the crop; if I be his cuckold, he's my drudge; he, that comforts my wife, is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he, that cherisheth my flesh and blood, loves my flesh and blood; he, that loves my flesh and blood, is my friend: ergo, he, that kisses my wife, is my friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage; for young Charbon the puritan, and old Poysam the papist, howsoe'er their hearts are sever'd in religion, their heads are both one; they may joul horns together, like any deer i'th' herd.

Count.

Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth'd and calumnious knave?

Clo.

A prophet, I, Madam; and I speak the truth the next way;—

Count.

Get you gone, Sir, I'll talk with you more anon.

Stew.

May it please you, Madam, that he bid Helen come to you; of her I am to speak.

Count.

Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her, Helen I mean.

Clo.

“Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,(6) ^note

“Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
“Fond done, fond done;—for Paris he
“Was this King Priam's joy.
“With that she sighed, as she stood,(7) ^note

Count.

What, one good in ten? You corrupt the song, sirrah.

Clo.

One good woman in ten, Madam, which is a purifying o'th' song: would, God would serve the world so all the year! we'd find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the Parson; one in ten, quoth a'! an we might have a good woman born but every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well; a man may draw his heart out, ere he pluck one.

Count.

You'll be gone, Sir knave, and do as I command you.

Clo.

That man that should be at a woman's command, and yet no hurt done! tho' honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplis of humility over the black gown of a big heart: I am going, forsooth, the business is for Helen to come hither.

Count.

Well, now.

Stew.

I know, Madam, you love your gentlewoman intirely.

Count.

Faith, I do; her father bequeath'd her to me; and she herself, without other advantages, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds; there is more owing her, than is paid; and more shall be paid her, than she'll demand.

Stew.

Madam, I was very late more near her, than, I think, she wish'd me; alone she was, and did communicate to her self her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touch'd not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she lov'd your son; Fortune, she said, was no Goddess,(8) ^note

Count.

You have discharg'd this honestly, keep it to your self; many likelihoods inform'd me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance, that I could neither believe nor misdoubt; pray you, leave me; stall this in your bosom, and I thank you for your honest care; I will speak with you further anon.

Enter Helena.

Count.
Ev'n so it was with me, when I was young;
  If we are nature's, these are ours: this thorn
Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;
  Our blood to us, this to our blood, is born;
It is the show and seal of nature's truth,
Where love's strong passion is imprest in youth;
By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults, or then we thought them none.
Her eye is sick on't; I observe her now.—

Hel.
What is your pleasure, Madam?

Count.
Helen, you know, I am mother to you.

Hel.
Mine honourable mistress.

Count.
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'm 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 opprest me with a mother's groan,
Yet I express to you a mother's care:
God's mercy! maiden, do's it curd thy blood,
To say, I am thy mother? what's the matter,
That this distemper'd messenger of wet,
The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eyes?
Why,—that you are my daughter?

Hel.
That I am not.

Count.
I say, I am your mother.

Hel.
Pardon, Madam.
The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother;
I am from humble, he from honour'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.—

Count.
Nor I your mother?

Hel.
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 heav'n,
So I were not his sister: can't no other,
But I your daughter, he must be my brother?—

Count.
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(9) ^note

As heav'n shall work in me for thine avail,
To tell me truly.

Hel.
Good Madam, pardon me.

Count.
Do you love my son?

Hel.
Your pardon, noble mistress.

Count.
Love you my son?

Hel.
Do not you love him, Madam?

Count.
Go not about; my love hath in't a bond,
Whereof the world takes note: come, come, disclose
The state of your affection; for your passions
Have to the full appeach'd.

Hel.
Then, I confess,
Here on my knee, before high heav'ns and you,
That before you, and next unto high heav'n,
I love your son:
My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love;
Be not offended; for it hurts not him,
That he is lov'd of me; I follow him not
By any token of presumptuous suit;
Nor would I have him, 'till I do deserve him;
Yet never know, how that Desert shall be:
I know, I love in vain; strive against hope;
Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve,
I still pour in the water of my love,
And lack not to lose still; thus, Indian-like,
Religious in mine error, I adore
The Sun that looks upon his Worshipper,
But knows of him no more. My dearest Madam,
Let not your hate incounter with my love,
For loving where you do; but if your self,
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,
Did ever in so true a flame of liking
Wish chastly, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both her self and Love; O then, give pity
To her, whose state is such, that cannot chuse
But lend, and give, where she is sure to lose;
That seeks not to find That, which Search implies;
But, riddle-like, lives sweetly, where she dies

Count.
Had you not lately an intent, speak truly,
To go to Paris?

Hel.
Madam, I had.

Count.
Wherefore? tell true.

Hel.
I will tell truth; by Grace it self, I swear;
You know, my father left me some Prescriptions
Of rare and prov'd effects; such as his Reading
And manifest Experience had collected
For general sov'reignty; and that he will'd me
In heedfull'st reservation to bestow them,
As notes, whose faculties inclusive were,
More than they were in note: amongst the rest,
There is a Remedy, approv'd, set down,
To cure the desperate languishings, whereof
The King is render'd lost.

Count.
This was your motive for Paris, was it, speak?

Hel.
My lord your son made me to think of this;
Else Paris, and the medicine, and the King,
Had from the conversation of my thoughts
Haply been absent then.

Count.
But think you, Helen,
If you should tender your supposed aid,
He would receive it? he and his physicians
Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him:
They, that they cannot help. How shall they credit
A poor unlearned Virgin, when the Schools,
Embowell'd of their Doctrine, have left off
The danger to it self?

Hel.
There's something in't
More than my father's skill, (which was the great'st
Of his Profession,) that his good receipt
Shall for my legacy be sanctified
By th' luckiest stars in heav'n; and, would your Honour
But give me leave to try success, I'd venture
The well-lost life of mine on his Grace's Cure,
By such a day and hour.

Count.
Dost thou believe't?

Hel.
Ay, Madam, knowingly.

Count.
Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love;
Means and attendants; and my loving greetings
To those of mine in Court. I'll stay at home,

And pray God's Blessing into thy attempt:
Begone, to morrow; and be sure of this,
What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss. [Exeunt.

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