Lafeu, all in Mourning.
Countess.
In delivering my Son from me, I bury a second
Husband.
Ber.
And I in going, Madam, weep o'er
my Father's Death anew; but I must attend
his Majesty's command, to whom I am now
in Ward, evermore in Subjection.
Laf.
You shall find of the King a Husband, Madam;
you, Sir, a Father. He, that so generally is at
all times good, must of necessity hold his virtue to you;
(1) notewhose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted,
rather than slack it where there is such abundance.
Count.
What hope is there of his Majesty's amendment?
Laf.
He hath abandon'd his Physicians, Madam, under
whose practices he hath persecuted time with hope;
-- 360 --
and finds no other advantage in the process, but only
the losing of hope by time.
Count.
This young Gentlewoman had a Father, (O,
that had! how sad a passage 'tis!) whose skill was almost
as great as his honesty; had it stretch'd so far, it
would have made Nature immortal, and Death should
have Play for lack of work. Would, for the King's
sake, he were living! I think, it would be the death
of the King's disease.
Laf.
How call'd you the Man you speak of, Madam?
Count.
He was famous, Sir, in his profession, and it
was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon.
Laf.
He was excellent, indeed, Madam; the King
very lately spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly:
he was skilful enough to have liv'd still, if knowledge
could be set up against mortality.
Ber.
What is it, my good Lord, the King languishes
of?
Laf.
A fistula, my Lord.
Ber.
I heard not of it before.
Laf.
I would, it were not notorious. Was this
Gentlewoman the Daughter of Gerard de Narbon?
Count.
His sole Child, my Lord, and bequeathed to
my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good, that
her education promises her; disposition she inherits,
which makes fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean
mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations
go with pity, they are virtues and traitors too: in her
they are the better for their Simpleness; she derives
her honesty, and atchieves her goodness.
Laf.
Your commendations, Madam, get from her
Tears.
Count.
'Tis the best brine a maiden can season her
praise in. The remembrance of her Father never approaches
her heart, but the tyranny of her sorrows
takes all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this,
Helena; go to, no more; lest it be rather thought you
affect a sorrow, than to have—
Hel.
I do affect a sorrow, indeed, but I have it too.
-- 361 --
Laf.
Moderate lamentation is the Right of the
Dead, excessive grief the enemy to the Living.
Count.
(2) noteIf the living be not enemy to the grief,
the excess makes it soon mortal.
Ber.
Madam, I desire your holy wishes.
Laf.
How understand we that?
Count.
Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy Father
In manners as in shape: thy blood and virtue
Contend for Empire in thee, and thy goodness
Share with thy birth-right! Love all, trust a few,
Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy
Rather in power, than use; and keep thy friend
Under thy own life's key: be check'd for silence,
But never tax'd for speech. What Heav'n more will,
That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck down,
Fall on thy head! Farewel, my Lord;
'Tis an unseason'd Courtier, good my Lord,
Advise him.
Laf.
He cannot want the best,
That shall attend his love.
Count.
Heav'n bless him! Farewel, Bertram.
[Exit Countess.
Ber. [To Hel.]
The best wishes, that can be forg'd
in your thoughts, be servants to you: be comfortable
to my Mother, your Mistress, and make much of her.
Laf.
Farewel, pretty Lady, you must hold the credit
of your Father.
[Exeunt Ber. and Laf.
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.
-- 362 --
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?
-- 363 --
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
-- 364 --
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?
-- 365 --
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.
[Exit.
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.
-- 366 --
Lewis Theobald [1733], The works of Shakespeare: in seven volumes. Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected; With notes, Explanatory and Critical; By Mr. Theobald (Printed for A. Bettesworth and C. Hitch [and] J. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11201].
