Count. ^note

In delivering ^note my son from me, ^note I bury a second husband.

Ber.

And I in going, madam ^note, 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; whose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted, rather than lack ^note it where there is such abundance.

Count.

What hope is there of his majesty's amendment?

Laf.

He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; under whose practices he hath persecuted ^note time with hope, 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 ^note 'tis!—whose skill was ^note almost as great as his honesty; had it stretched so far, would ^note have made nature immortal, and death should have ^note play ^note 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 called 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 lived still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality.

Ber. ^note

What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of?

Laf.

A fistula, my lord.

Ber. ^note

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 ^note education promises; her ^note dispositions ^{note note} 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 ^note simpleness; she derives her honesty and achieves her goodness.

Laf.

Your commendations, madam, get from her tears ^note.

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 ^note affect a sorrow than to have— ^note

Hel.

I do affect a sorrow, indeed, but I have it too.

Laf.

Moderate lamentation ^note is the right of the dead; excessive grief the enemy to the living.

Count. ^note

If the living be ^note enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal.

Ber. ^note
Madam, I desire your holy wishes.

Laf.
How ^note 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 birthright! 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,
That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck down,
Fall on thy head ^note! Farewell, my lord; ^note
'Tis an unseason'd courtier; good my lord,
Advise him. ^note

Laf.
He cannot want the best
That shall attend his love.

Count.
Heaven ^note bless him! Farewell, Bertram. ^note [Exit.

Ber. [To Helena ^note]

The best wishes that can be forged 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 ^note the credit of your father.

Hel.
O, were that all! I think not on my father;
And these great tears grace his remembrance more
Than those I ^note shed for him. What was he like?
I have forgot him: my imagination
Carries no favour in 't but Bertram's ^note.
I am undone: there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. 'Twere ^note all one
That I should love a bright particular ^note star
And think to wed it, he is so above me: ^note
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ^note 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 ^note
His arched brows ^note, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our ^note heart's table; heart too capable
Of every line and trick ^note of his sweet favour:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his reliques ^note. Who comes here? Enter Parolles. ^note [Aside ^note]
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 ^note a coward;
Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him,
That they take place, when virtue's steely ^note bones

Look ^note bleak i' the ^note cold wind: withal ^note, full oft we see
Cold ^note wisdom waiting on superfluous folly ^note. ^note

Par.

Save ^note you, fair queen!

Hel.

And you, monarch!

Par.

No.

Hel.

And no.

Par.

Are you meditating on virginity?

Hel.

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

Par.

Keep him out.

Hel.

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

Par.

There is none: man, sitting ^note down before you, will undermine you and blow you up.

Hel.

Bless ^note 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 yourselves made, you lose your city. It is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational ^note increase and there was never virgin got ^note 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 mothers ^note; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is ^note 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 so dies with feeding his ^note own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited ^note sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but lose by 't: out with 't! within ten year it will make itself ten ^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: marry, ill, to like him that ne'er it likes ^note. 'Tis ^note 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, which wear ^note not now. Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek: and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French withered pears, it looks ill, it eats drily; marry, 'tis a withered pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet ^note 'tis a withered pear: will you ^note any thing with it? ^note

Hel.
Not ^note my virginity yet. ^note.....
There shall ^note your ^note master have a thousand loves,
A mother ^note and a mistress and a friend,
A phœnix, captain ^note and an enemy,
A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,
A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear;
His humble ^note ambition, proud humility,
His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet,
His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world
Of pretty ^note, fond, adoptious ^note christendoms,
That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he ^note— ^note
I know not what he shall. God send him well!
The court's a learning place ^note, and he is one— ^note

Par.
What one, i' faith?

Hel.
That I wish well. 'Tis pity— ^note

Par.
What's pity? ^note

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

Page.

Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.

Par.

Little Helen, farewell: 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 ^note so kept you 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 ^{note note}: but the composition that your valour and fear makes ^note in you is a virtue of a good wing ^note, and I like the wear ^note well.

Par.

I am so full of businesses ^note, I cannot answer thee acutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the which, my instruction ^note shall serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of a ^note courtier's counsel, and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away: farewell. 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, farewell.

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.
What power is it which mounts my love so high;
That ^note makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?

The mightiest space ^note in fortune nature ^note brings ^note
To join like likes ^note and kiss like native things.
Impossible be strange attempts to those
That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose
What hath been cannot be ^note: who ever strove
To show her merit, that did miss her love?
The king's disease— ^notemy project may deceive me,
But my intents are fix'd, and will not leave me. [Exit. ^note Scene II. [Footnote: Paris. The King's palace. Flourish of cornets. ^note Enter the King of France with letters, and divers Attendants.

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

First Lord. ^note
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.

First Lord. ^note
His love and wisdom,
Approved so to your majesty, may plead
For amplest credence.

King.
He hath arm'd our answer,
And Florence is denied before he comes:

Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see
The Tuscan service, freely have they leave
To stand on either part.

Sec. Lord. ^note
It well may ^note serve
A nursery to our gentry, who are sick
For breathing and exploit.

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

First Lord. ^note
It is ^note the Count Rousillon ^note, my good lord,
Young Bertram.

King.
Youth, thou bear'st thy father's face;
Frank nature, rather curious than in haste,
Hath well composed thee ^note. Thy father's moral parts
Mayst 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 tried our soldiership! He did look far
Into the service of the time, and was
Discipled of the bravest ^note: 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 ^note 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 ^note:
So like a courtier, ^note contempt nor ^note bitterness
Were in his pride or sharpness; ^note if they were ^note,

His equal had awaked them; and his honour,
Clock ^note to itself, knew the true minute when
Exception ^note bid him speak, and at this ^note time
His tongue obey'd his hand ^note: who were below him
He used as creatures of another place ^note;
And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks,
Making them proud of ^note his humility,
In their poor praise he humbled ^{note note}. Such a man
Might be a copy to these younger times;
Which, follow'd well, would demonstrate them now ^note
But goers backward.

Ber.
His good remembrance, sir,
Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb;
So in approof lives not his ^note 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,’—
This ^note his good melancholy oft began,
On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,
When it ^note 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 judgements are
Mere fathers ^note 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 ^note room.

Sec. Lord. ^note
You are ^note 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 famed.

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 ^note your majesty. [Exeunt. ^note Flourish. ^note Scene III. [Footnote: Rousillon. The Count's palace. Enter Countess, Steward, and Clown.

Count.

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

Stew.

Madam, the care I have had to even ^note your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty and make foul ^note 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 ^note 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 ^note.

Clo.

'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am ^note a poor fellow.

Count.

Well, sir.

Clo.

No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damned: but, if I may have ^note your ladyship's good will to go to ^note the world, Isbel the woman ^note and I will ^note 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' ^note my body; for they say barnes ^note 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 o' ^note friends, madam; and I hope to have friends for my wife's sake.

Count.

Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

Clo.

You're ^note shallow, madam, in ^note great friends; for the

knaves come to do that for me, which I am aweary ^note of. He that ears my land spares my team, and gives me leave to in ^note 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 ^note 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 ^note the papist, howsome'er ^note their hearts are severed 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-mouthed and calumnious knave?

Clo.

A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way:

For I the ballad will repeat,
  Which men full true shall find;
Your marriage comes by destiny,
  Your cuckoo sings by kind ^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.
Was this fair face the cause, quoth she ^note,
  Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
Fond done, done fond ^note,
  Was this King Priam's joy? ^note

With that she sighed as she stood, ^note
With that she sighed as she stood ^note,
  And gave this sentence then;
Among nine bad if one ^note be good, ^note
Among nine bad if one ^note be good,
  There's yet one good in ten ^note.

Count.

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

Clo.

One good woman in ten, madam; which is a ^note purifying o' the ^note song ^note: 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 one ^note every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well ^note: a man may draw ^note his heart out, ere a' ^note pluck one.

Count.

You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you. ^note

Clo.

That man should be at woman's ^note command, and yet ^note no hurt done! Though honesty be no puritan ^note, yet it will do no hurt ^note; 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.

Count.

Well, now.

Stew.

I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.

Count.

Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to me; and she herself, without other advantage ^note, 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 wished me: alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son: Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no god, that would ^note not ^note extend his might, only ^note where qualities were level; .... queen ^note of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight ^note surprised ^note, without rescue in the first assault, ^note or ransom afterward. This she delivered in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e'er I heard virgin ^note exclaim in: which I held ^note my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it.

Count.

You have discharged this honestly ^note; keep it to yourself: many likelihoods informed me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance, that I could neither ^note 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.