SCENE I.
The Countess of Rousillon's house in France.
Enter Bertram, the Countess of Rousillon, Helena, and Lafeu, all in black.
Count.
5 note
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
-- 4 --
command, to whom I am now 6 note
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; 7 notewhose worthiness would stir it up where it
wanted, rather than lack 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; and finds no other advantage in the process,
but only the losing of hope by time.
Count.
8 note
This young gentlewoman had a father,
(O, that had! how sad a passage 'tis) 9Q0393 whose skill
-- 5 --
was almost as great as his honesty; had it stretch'd
so far, it would have made nature immortal, and death
should have play'd 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:
-- 6 --
he was skilful enough to have liv'd still, if
knowledge could have been 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 dispositions she inherits,
which makes fair gifts fairer: for 9 note
where an
unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations
go with pity, they are virtues and traitors
-- 7 --
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 1 noteall 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.
Laf.
Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead,
excessive grief the enemy to the living.
Count.
2 note
If the living be enemy to the grief, the
excess makes it soon mortal.
-- 8 --
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 heaven more will,
3 noteThat thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck down,
Fall on thy head! Farewell. My lord,
'Tis an unseason'd courtier, good my lord,
Advise him.
Laf.
He cannot want the best,
That shall attend his love.
Count.
Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram.
[Exit Countess.
Ber. [To Helena.]
4 noteThe 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.
Farewell, pretty lady: You must hold the
credit of your father.
[Exeunt Bertram and Lafeu.
-- 9 --
Hel.
Oh, were that all!—I think not on my father;
5 noteAnd 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:
6 note
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind, that would be mated by the lion,
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though 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 7 note
trick of his sweet favour,
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify 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,
-- 10 --
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: withal, full oft we see
8 noteCold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
Par.
Save you, fair queen.
Hel.
And you, monarch9 note.
Par.
No.
Hel.
And no.
Par.
Are you meditating on virginity?
Hel.
Ay. You have some 1 note
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, sitting down before you,
will undermine you, and blow you up.
Hel.
Bless our poor virginity from underminers, and
-- 11 --
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 yourselves made, you lose your city.
It is not politick in the commonwealth of nature, to
preserve virginity. 2 note
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, is ever lost:
'tis too cold a companion; away with it.
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 mothers; which is most infallible disobedience.
3 note
He, that hangs himself, is a virgin: virginity
murders itself; 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 itself to the very paring, and
-- 12 --
so dies with feeding its own stomach. Besides, virginity
is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which
is the most inhibited sin4 note
in the canon. Keep it not;
you cannot chuse but lose by't: Out with't: within
ten years it will make itself two5 note, which is a goodly increase;
and the principal itself not much the worse:
Away with't.
Hel.
How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own
liking?
Par.
Let me see: 6 noteMarry, 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 suited, but unsuitable: just like the
brooch and the tooth-pick, which7 note wear not now: Your
date8 note
is better in your pye and your porridge, than
in your cheek: And your virginity, your old virginity,
-- 13 --
is like one of our French wither'd pears: it looks ill,
it eats dryly; marry, 'tis a wither'd pear: it was formerly
better; marry, 9 noteyet, 'tis a wither'd pear:
Will you any thing with it?
Hel.
1 note
Not my virginity yet.
There shall your master have a thousand loves,
A mother, and a mistress, and a friend,
-- 14 --
2 note
A phœnix, captain, and an enemy,
A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,
A counsellor, a 3 note
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 christendoms4 note,
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—
-- 15 --
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,
5 noteAnd 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 the
safety: But the composition, that your valour and
fear makes in you, 6 note
is a virtue of a good wing, and
I like the wear well.
-- 16 --
Par.
I am so full of businesses, 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 courtier's 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
-- 17 --
thy friends: get thee a good husband, and use him
as he uses thee: so farewel.
[Exit.
Hel.
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky
Gives us free scope; only, doth backward pull
Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull.
7 note
What power is it, which mounts my love so high;
That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?
8 note
The mightiest space 9Q0397 in fortune nature brings
To join like likes, and kiss like native things.
-- 18 --
Impossible be strange attempts, to those
That weigh their pain in sense; and do suppose,
What hath been cannot be: Whoever 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 II.
The court of France.
Flourish cornets. Enter the king of France, with letters, and divers attendants.
King.
The Florentines and 9 noteSenoys are by the 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 amplest 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.
-- 19 --
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 Rousillon1 note, 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 myself, in friendship
First try'd our soldiership! He did look far
Into the service of the time, and was
Discipled of the bravest: 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
2 note
He had the wit, which I can well observe
-- 20 --
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.
3 note
So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness
Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,
His equal had awak'd them; and his honour,
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when
Exception bid him speak, and, at that time,
4 note
His tongue obey'd his hand: who were below him
-- 21 --
5 noteHe us'd as creatures of another place;
And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks,
6 note
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 demonstrate them now
But goers backward.
Ber.
His good remembrance, sir,
Lies richer in your thoughts, than on his tomb;
7 note
So in approof lives not his epitaph,
As in your royal speech.
-- 22 --
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
8 note
Mere 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 labourer room.
2 Lord.
You are lov'd, sir;
They, that least lend it you, shall lack you first.
King.
I fill a place, I know't.—How long is't, count,
-- 23 --
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 III.
A room in the count's palace.
Enter Countess, Steward, and Clown9 note
.
Count.
I will now hear: what say you of this gentlewoman?
-- 24 --
Stew.
Madam, the care I have had to 1 noteeven your
content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my
past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty,
and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when
of ourselves 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, you2 note
lack not folly to commit them, and have
ability enough to make such knaveries yours.
Clo.
'Tis not unknown to you, madam, that I am a
poor fellow.
Count.
Well, sir.
Clo.
No, madam, 'tis not so well, that I am poor;
though many of the rich are damn'd: But, if I may
-- 25 --
have your ladyship's good will to go to the world3 note,
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 of 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.
You are shallow, madam, in great friends4 note
;
for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am a
-- 26 --
weary of. He, that ears my land5 note
, spares my team,
and gives me leave to inn 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 cherishes
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' the herd.
Count.
Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth'd and calumnious
knave?
Clo.
6 note
A prophet, I, madam; and I speak the truth
the next way:
For I the ballad will repeat,
Which men full true shall find;
-- 27 --
Your marriage comes by destiny,
Your cuckoo sings by kind7 note
.
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.
8 note
Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,
[Singing.
Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
Fond done, done fond9 note
,
Was this king Priam's joy.
With that she sighed as she stood,
With that she sighed as she stood1 note,
And gave this sentence then;
-- 28 --
Among nine bad if one be good,
2 note
Among nine bad if one be good,
There's yet one good in ten.
Count.
What, one good in ten? you corrupt the
song, sirrah.
Clo.
One good woman in ten, madam; which is a
purifying o' the song: 'Would God would serve the
world so all the year! we'd find no fault with the
tythe-woman, if I were the parson: One in ten,
quoth a'! an we might have a good woman born but
every blazing star3 note, 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.
4 note
That man should be at a woman's command,
-- 29 --
and yet no hurt done!—Though honesty be no puritan,
yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice
of humility over the black gown of a big heart.—I
am going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to
come hither.
[Exit.
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 advantage, 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 herself, 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
-- 30 --
son: 5 note
Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had
put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love,
no god, that would not extend his might, only
where qualities were level; Diana, no queen of virgins,
that would suffer her poor knight to be surprised
without rescue in the first assault, or ransom
afterward: This she deliver'd in the most bitter
touch of sorrow, that e'er I heard a virgin exclaim
in: which I held my duty, speedily to acquaint you
withal; sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns
you something to know it.
Count.
You have discharg'd this honestly; keep it
to yourself: 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.
[Exit Steward.
Enter Helena.
Count.
Even so it was with me, when I was young:
If we are nature's6 note, these are ours; this thorn
-- 31 --
Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;
Our blood to us, this to our blood is born;
It is the shew and seal of nature's truth,
Where love's strong passion is imprest in youth:
7 noteBy our remembrances of days foregone,
8 note
Such were our faults, O! then we thought them none.
Her eye is sick on't; I observe her now.
Hel.
What is your pleasure, madam?
Count.
You know, Helen,
I am a 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 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 distemper'd messenger of wet,
The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye?
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;
-- 32 --
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!—9 note
or were you both our mothers,
I care no more for, than I do for heaven,
So I were not his sister: 1 note
Can't no other,
But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?
-- 33 --
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: 2 note
Now I see
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
3 noteYour salt tears' head. Now to all sense 'tis gross,
You love my son; invention is asham'd,
Against the proclamation of thy passion,
To say, thou dost not: therefore tell me true;
But tell me then, 'tis so:—for, look, thy cheeks
Confess it one to the other; and thine eyes
See it so grosly shewn in thy behaviours,
That in their kind they speak it; only sin
And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,
That truth should be suspected: Speak, is't so?
If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue;
If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,
As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,
To tell me truly.
Hel.
Good madam, pardon me!
-- 34 --
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 heaven and you,
That before you, and next unto high heaven,
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 should be.
I know I love in vain, strive against hope;
Yet, in this 4 note
captious and intenible sieve, 9Q0403
I still pour in the waters of my love,
And lack not to lose still5 note
: 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 encounter with my love,
For loving where you do: but, if yourself,
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,
Did ever, in so true a flame of liking,
Wish chastly, and love dearly, that your Dian
-- 35 --
Was both herself 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, her 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 itself, 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 sovereignty; and that he will'd me
In heedfullest reservation to bestow them,
As 6 notenotes, 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,
-- 36 --
Embowell'd of their doctrine7 note
, have left off
The danger to itself?
Hel.
8 note
There's something hints,
More than my father's skill, which was the greatest
Of his profession, that his good receipt
Shall, for my legacy, be sanctified
By the luckiest stars in heaven: 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 attempt9 note:
Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this,
What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.
[Exeunt.
-- 37 --
Samuel Johnson [1778], The plays of William Shakspeare. In ten volumes. With the corrections and illustrations of various commentators; to which are added notes by Samuel Johnson and George Steevens. The second edition, Revised and Augmented (Printed for C. Bathurst [and] W. Strahan [etc.], London) [word count] [S10901].
