Lafeu, all in Mourning.
Countess.
1 noteIn dissevering 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
-- 4 --
you; 2 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; and finds no other advantage in the process,
but only the losing of hope by time.
Count.
3 noteThis young gentlewoman had a father,
(O, that had! how sad a Presage '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'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:
-- 5 --
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 4 note
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 her simpleness; she
derives her honesty, and atchieves her goodness.
-- 6 --
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 it.
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.
5 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.
-- 7 --
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 Bertram and Lafeu.
SCENE II.
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 6 note
and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
Th' ambition in my love thus plagues itself;
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 sanctify his relicks. Who comes here!
-- 8 --
Enter Parolles.
One, that goes with him: I love him for his sake,
&wlquo;And yet I know him a notorious liar;
&wlquo;Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;
&wlquo;Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him,
&wlquo;That they take place, when virtue's steely bones
&wlquo;Look bleak in the cold wind:&wrquo; full oft we see
7 noteCold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
SCENE III.
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 8 notestain 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, tho' 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 yourselves made, you lose
-- 9 --
your city. It 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.
As 9 note
he, that hangs himself, so is a virgin:
&plquo;virginity murthers 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 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
itself two, which is a goodly increase, and the
principal itself not much the worse. Away with't.&prquo;
Hel.
How might one do, Sir, to lose it to her own
liking?
-- 10 --
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 toothpick, 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,
1 note
[A phœnix, captain, and an enemy,
A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,
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—]
-- 11 --
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, 2 noteis a virtue of a good ming, and I like the wear well.
-- 12 --
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 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 thy
friends; get thee a good husband, and use him as he
uses thee: so farewel.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
Hel.
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
Which we ascribe to heav'n. 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 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.
-- 13 --
SCENE V.
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,
-- 14 --
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 brav'st. He lasted long;
But on us both did 3 notehaggish 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,
4 note
Ere they can hide their levity in honour:
5 note
So like a courtier, no contempt or bitterness
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
-- 15 --
6 noteHe us'd as creatures of another place,
And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks;
7 note
Making them proud; and 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 8 notelives 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.
-- 16 --
To give some 9 notelabourer 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 VI.
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; 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, 1 noteyou lack not folly to commit them, and
have ability enough to make such knaveries yours.
-- 17 --
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 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.
-- 18 --
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.
2 noteA prophet, I, Madam; and I speak the
truth the next way.
&wlquo;For I the ballad will repeat, which men full true shall find;
&wlquo;Your marriage comes by destiny, your cuckow sings by kind.&wrquo;
-- 19 --
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.
&wlquo;Clo.
3 note
&wlquo;Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,
[Singing.
&wlquo;Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
&wlquo;Fond done, fond done; for Paris, he,
&wlquo;Was this King Priam's joy.
&wlquo;With that she sighed as she stood,
&wlquo;And gave this sentence then;
&wlquo;4 note
Among nine bad if one be good,
&wlquo;There's yet one good in ten.&wrquo;
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
-- 20 --
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 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.
[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 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 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 son; 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; 5 noteDiana, no Queen of
Virgins, that would suffer her poor Knight to be surpriz'd
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;
-- 21 --
which I held it 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.
SCENE VII.
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,
6 note
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 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'm your mother;
-- 22 --
And put you in the catalogue of those,
That were enwombed mine; 'tis often seen,
Adoption strives with nature; and choice breeds
7 noteA 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!8 note
—or were you both our mothers
(I can no more fear, than I do fear heav'n,)
-- 23 --
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 noteThe mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your 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 th'other; and thine eyes
See it so grosly shown in thy behaviour,
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've wound a goodly clew:
If it be not, sorswear't; howe'er, I charge thee,
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,
-- 24 --
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 waters 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 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
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, 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 itself, I swear.
You know, my father left me some prescriptions
Of rare and prov'd effects; such as his reading
-- 25 --
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 1 notesupposed 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 2 note
the schools,
Embowell'd of their doctrine, have left off
The danger to itself?
Hel.
3 note
There's something hints
More than my father's skill, (which was the great'st
-- 26 --
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 believ'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.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
The Court of France.
Enter the King, with divers young Lords taking leave
for the Florentine war. Bertram and Parolles.
Flourish Cornets.
King.
Farewel, young Lords: these warlike principles
Do not throw from you: you, my Lords, farewel;
Share the advice betwixt you. If both gain,
The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis receiv'd,
And is enough for both.
1 Lord.
'Tis our hope, Sir,
After well-enter'd soldiers, to return
And find your Grace in health.
-- 27 --
King.
No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart
Will not confess, it owns the malady
That doth my life besiege; farewel, young Lords;
Whether I live or die, be you the sons
Of worthy Frenchmen; 1 note
let higher Italy
(Those 'bated, that inherit but the Fall
Of the last Monarchy;) see, that you come
Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when
The bravest Questant shrinks, find what you seek,
That Fame may cry you loud: I say, farewel.
2 Lord.
Health at your bidding serve your Majesty!
King.
Those girls of Italy,—take heed of them;
They say, our French lack language to deny,
If they demand: beware of being captives,
Before you serve.
Both.
Our hearts receive your warnings.
King.
Farewel. Come hither to me.
[To Attendants.
[Exit.
1 Lord.
Oh, my sweet Lord, that you will stay behind us!—
Par.
'Tis not his fault; the spark—
2 Lord.
Oh, 'tis brave wars.
-- 28 --
Par.
Most admirable; I have seen those wars.
Ber.
I am commanded here, and kept a coil with,
Too young, and the next year, and 'tis too early.—
Par.
An thy mind stand to it, boy, steal away
bravely.
Ber.
Shall I stay here the forehorse to a smock,
Creeking my shoes on the plain masonry,
'Till Honour be bought up, and no sword worn
But one to dance with? by heav'n I'll steal away.
1 Lord.
There's honour in the theft.
Par.
Commit it, Count.
2 Lord.
I am your accessary, and so farewel.
Ber.
I grow to you, and our parting is a tortur'd
body.
1 Lord.
Farewel, Captain.
2 Lord.
Sweet Monsieur Parolles!—
Par.
Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin;
good sparks and lustrous. A word, good metals. You
shall find in the regiment of the Spinii, one captain
Spurio with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here on
his sinister cheek; it was this very sword entrench'd
it; say to him, I live, and observe his reports of
me.
2 Lord.
We shall, noble captain.
Par.
Mars doat on you for his novices! what will
ye do?
Ber.
Stay; the King—
[Exeunt Lords.
Par.
Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble
Lords, you have restrain'd yourself within the list of
too cold an adieu; be more expressive to them, for
2 notethey wear themselves in the cap of the time, there,
to muster true gate, eat, speak, and move under the
-- 29 --
influence of the most receiv'd star; and tho' the
devil lead the measure, such are to be follow'd: after
them, and take a more dilated farewel.
Ber.
And I will do so.
Par.
Worthy fellows, and like to prove most sinewy
sword-men.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter the King, and Lafeu.
Laf.
Pardon, my Lord, for me and for my tidings.
King.
I'll fee thee to stand up.
Laf.
Then here's a man stands, that hath bought his pardon.
I would, you had kneel'd, my Lord, to ask me mercy;
And that at my bidding you could so stand up.
King.
I would, I had; so I had broke thy pate,
And ask'd thee mercy for't.
Laf.
Goodfaith, across:—but, my good Lord, 'tis thus;
Will you be cur'd of your infirmity?
King.
No.
Laf.
O, will you eat no grapes, my royal fox?
Yes, but you will, an if
My royal fox could reach them: I have seen a medicine,
That's able to breathe life into a stone;
Quicken a rock, and make you dance Canary
With sprightly fire and motion; whose simple touch
Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay,
To give great Charlemain a pen in's hand,
And write to her a love-line.
King.
What her is this?
-- 30 --
Laf.
Why, doctor-she: my Lord, there's one arriv'd,
If you will see her. Now, by my faith and honour,
If seriously I may convey my thoughts
In this my light deliverance, I have spoke
With one, that in her sex, 3 noteher years, profession,
Wisdom and constancy, hath amaz'd me more
Than I dare blame my weakness: will you see her,
For that is her Demand, and know her business?
That done, laugh well at me.
King.
Now, good Lafeu,
Bring in the admiration, that we with thee
May spend our wonder too, or take off thine,
By wond'ring how thou took'st it.
Laf.
Nay, I'll fit you,
And not be all day neither.
[Exit Lafeu.
King.
Thus he his special nothing ever prologues.
Laf. [Returns.]
Nay, come your ways.
[Bringing in Helena.
King.
This haste hath wings, indeed.
Laf.
Nay, come your ways,
This is his Majesty, say your mind to him;
A traitor you do look like; but such traitors
His Majesty seldom fears; I'm Cressid's uncle,
That dare leave two together; fare you well.
[Exit.
SCENE III.
King.
Now, fair One, do's your business follow us?
Hel.
Ay, my good Lord.
Gerard de Narbon was my father,
In what he did profess, well found.
King.
I knew him.
Hel.
The rather will I spare my praise toward him;
Knowing him, is enough: on's bed of death
-- 31 --
Many receipts he gave me, chiefly one,
Which as the dearest issue of his practice,
And of his old experience th' only darling,
He bade me store up, as a triple eye,
Safer than mine own two: more dear I have so;
And hearing your high Majesty is touch'd
With that malignant cause, wherein the honour
Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power,
I come to tender it, and my appliance,
With all bound humbleness.
King.
We thank you, maiden;
But may not be so credulous of cure,
When our most learned doctors leave us; and
The congregated college have concluded,
That labouring art can never ransom nature
From her unaidable estate: we must not
So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope,
To prostitute our past-cure malady
To empericks; or to dissever so
Our great self and our credit, to esteem
A senseless help, when help past sense we deem.
Hel.
My duty then shall pay me for my pains;
I will no more enforce mine office on you;
Humbly intreating from your royal thoughts
A modest one to bear me back again.
King.
I cannot give thee less, to be call'd grateful;
Thou thought'st to help me, and such thanks I give,
As one near death to those that wish him live;
But what at full I know, thou know'st no part;
I knowing all my peril, thou no art.
Hel.
What I can do, can do no hurt to try,
Since you set up your rest 'gainst remedy.
He that of greatest works is finisher,
Oft does them by the weakest minister:
So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown,
When judges have been babes; great floods have flown
-- 32 --
From simple sources; and great seas have dry'd,
When mir'cles have by th' greatest been deny'd.
Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises: and oft it hits
Where hope is coldest, and despair most sits.
King.
I must not hear thee; fare thee well, kind Maid;
Thy pains, not us'd, must by thyself be paid:
Proffers, not took, reap thanks for their reward.
Hel.
Inspired merit so by breath is barr'd:
It is not so with him that all things knows,
As 'tis with us, that square our guess by shows:
But most it is presumption in us, when
The help of heav'n we count the act of men.
Dear Sir, to my endeavours give consent,
Of heav'n, not me, make an experiment.
I am not an impostor, that proclaim
4 noteMyself against the level of mine aim;
But know I think, and think I know most sure,
My art is not past power, nor you past cure.
King.
Art thou so confident? within what space
Hop'st thou my cure?
Hel.
The greatest grace lending grace,
Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring
Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring;
Ere twice in murk and occidental damp
Moist Hesperus hath quench'd his sleepy lamp;
Or four and twenty times the pilot's glass
Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass;
What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly,
Health shall live free, and sickness freely die.
King.
Upon thy certainty and confidence,
What dar'st thou venture?
Hel.
Tax of impudence,
-- 33 --
A strumpet's boldness, a divulged shame
Traduc'd by odious ballads: my maiden's name
Sear'd otherwise, no worse of worst extended;
With vilest torture let my life be ended.
King.
5 note
Methinks, in thee some blessed Spirit doth speak:
His power full sounds within an organ weak;
And what impossibility would slay
In common sense, sense saves another way.
Thy life is dear; for all that life can rate
Worth name of life, in thee hath estimate:
6 noteYouth, beauty, wisdom, courage, virtue, all
That happiness and prime can happy call;
Thou this to hazard, needs must intimate
Skill infinite, or monstrous desperate.
Sweet Practiser, thy physick I will try;
That ministers thine own death, if I die.
Hel.
If I break time, or flinch in property
Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die,
And well deserv'd! Not helping, death's my fee;
But if I help, what do you promise me?
-- 34 --
King.
7 note
Make thy demand.
Hel,
But will you make it even?
King.
Ay, by my scepter, and my hopes of heaven.
Hel.
Then shalt thou give me, with thy kingly hand,
What Husband in thy power I will command.
Exempted be from me the arrogance
To chuse from forth the royal blood of France;
My low and humble name to propagate
8 noteWith any branch or impage of thy state:
But such a one thy vassal, whom I know
Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow.
King.
Here is my hand, the premises observ'd,
Thy will by my performance shall be serv'd:
So, make the choice of thine own time; for I,
Thy resolv'd Patient, on thee still rely.
More should I question thee, and more I must;
(Tho' more to know, could not be more to trust:)
From whence thou cam'st, how tended on,—but rest
Unquestion'd welcome, and undoubted blest.
Give me some help here, hoa! if thou proceed
As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed.
[Exeunt.
-- 35 --
SCENE IV.
Changes to Rousillon.
Enter Countess and Clown.
Count.
Come on, Sir; I shall now put you to
the height of your breeding.
Clo.
I will shew myself highly fed, and lowly
taught; I know, my business is but to the court.
Count.
But to the court? why, what place make
you special, when you put off that with such contempt;
but to the court!
Clo.
Truly, Madam, if God have lent a man
any manners, he may easily put it off at court: he
that cannot make a leg, put off's cap, kiss his hand,
and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap;
and, indeed, such a fellow, to say precisely, were not
for the court: but for me, I have an answer will serve
all men.
Count.
Marry, that's a bountiful answer that fits
all questions.
Clo.
It is like a barber's chair, that fits all buttocks;
the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn-buttock,
or any buttock.
Count.
Will your answer serve fit to all questions?
Clo.
As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney,
as your French crown for your taffaty punk, as
Tib's rush for Tom's fore-finger, as a pancake for
Shrove-Tuesday, a morris for May-day, as the nail to
his hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding quean
to a wrangling knave, as the nun's lip to the friar's
mouth; nay, as the pudding to his skin.
Count.
Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness
for all questions?
Clo.
From below your duke, to beneath your
constable, it will fit any question.
-- 36 --
Count.
It must be an answer of most monstrous size,
that must fit all demands.
Clo.
But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned
should speak truth of it: here it is, and all that belongs
to't. Ask me, if I am a courtier;—it shall
do you no harm to learn.
Count.
To be young again, if we could: I will
be a fool in a question, hoping to be the wiser by
your answer. I pray you, Sir, are you a courtier?
Clo.
9 noteO lord, Sir—there's a simple putting off:
more, more, a hundred of them.
Count.
Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves
you.
Clo.
O lord, Sir—thick, thick, spare not me.
Count.
I think, Sir, you can eat none of this homely
meat.
Clo.
O lord, Sir—nay, put me to't, I warrant
you.
Count.
You were lately whip'd, Sir, as I think.
Clo.
O lord, Sir—spare not me.
Count.
Do you cry, O lord, Sir, at your whipping,
and spare not me? indeed, your O lord, Sir, is very
sequent to your whipping: you would answer very
well to a whipping, if you were but bound to't.
Clo.
I ne'er had worse luck in my life, in my—O
lord, Sir; I see, things may serve long, but not serve
ever.
Count.
I play the noble huswife with the time, to
entertain it so merrily with a fool.
Clo.
O lord, Sir—why, there't serves well again.
Count.
An end, Sir; to your business: give Helen this,
And urge her to a present answer back.
Commend me to my kinsmen, and my son:
This is not much.
-- 37 --
Clo.
Not much commendation to them?
Count.
Not much imployment for you, you understand
me.
Clo.
Most fruitfully, I am there before my legs.
Count.
Haste you again.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Changes to the Court of France.
Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles.
Laf.
They say, miracles are past; and we have
our philosophical persons to make modern,
and familiar, things supernatural and causeless. Hence
is it, that we make trifles of terrors; ensconsing our
selves into seeming knowledge, when we should submit
our selves to an 1 noteunknown fear.
Par.
Why, 'tis the rarest argument of wonder
that hath shot out in our later times.
Ber.
And so 'tis.
Laf.
To be relinquish'd of the artists—
2 note
Par.
So I say, both of Galen and Paracelsus.
Laf.
Of all the learned and authentick Fellows—
Par.
Right, so I say.
Laf.
That gave him out incurable,—
Par.
Why, there 'tis, so say I too.
-- 38 --
Laf.
Not to be help'd,—
Par.
Right, as 'twere a man assur'd of an—
Laf.
Uncertain life, and sure death,—
Par.
Just, you say well: so would I have said.
Laf.
I may truly say, it is a novelty to the world.
Par.
It is, indeed, if you will have it in shewing,
you shall read it in, what do you call there—
Laf.
3 noteA shewing of a heav'nly effect in an earthly
actor.
Par.
That's it, I would have said the very same.
Laf.
Why, your dolphin is not lustier: for me, I
speak in respect—
Par.
Nay, 'tis strange, 'tis very strange, that is
the brief and the tedious of it; and he's of a most facinerious
spirit, that will not acknowledge it to be
the—
Laf.
Very hand of heav'n.
Par.
Ay, so I say.
Laf.
In a most weak—
Par.
And debile minister, great power, great transcendence;
4 notewhich should, indeed, give us *** a
farther use to be made than alone the recov'ry of the
King; as to be—
Laf.
Generally thankful.
-- 39 --
SCENE VI.
Enter King, Helena, and Attendants.
Par.
I would have said it, you said well: here
comes the King.
Laf.
Lustick, as the Dutchman says: I'll like a
Maid the better, while I have a tooth in my head:
why, he's able to lead her a Corranto.
Par.
Mort du Vinaigre! is not this Helen?
Laf.
'Fore God, I think so.
King.
Go, call before me all the Lords in court.
Sit, my preserver, by thy patient's side;
And with this healthful hand, whose banish'd sense
Thou hast repeal'd, a second time receive
The confirmation of my promis'd gift;
Which but attends thy naming.
Enter three or four Lords.
Fair maid, send forth thine eye; this youthful parcel
Of noble batchelors stand at my bestowing,
O'er whom both sov'reign power and father's voice
I have to use; thy frank election make;
Thou hast power to chuse, and they none to forsake.
Hel.
To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress
Fall, when love please! marry, to each but one.—
Laf.
I'd give bay curtal and his furniture,
My mouth no more were broken than these boys,
And writ as little beard.
King.
Peruse them well:
Not one of those, but had a noble father.
[She addresses herself to a Lord.
Hel.
Gentlemen, heaven hath, through me, restor'd
The King to health.
All.
We understand it, and thank heaven for you.
Hel.
I am a simple maid, and therein wealthiest,
That, I protest, I simply am a maid.—
-- 40 --
Please it your Majesty, I have done already:
The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me,
We blush that thou should'st chuse, but be refus'd;
5 noteLet the white death sit on thy cheek for ever,
We'll ne'er come there again.
King.
Make choice, and see,
Who shuns thy love, shuns all his love in me.
Hel.
Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly,
6 noteAnd to impartial Love, that God most high,
Do my sighs stream: Sir, will you hear my suit?
1 Lord.
And grant it.
Hel.
Thanks, Sir;—all the rest is mute.
Laf.
I had rather be in this choice, than throw
ames-ace for my life.
Hel.
The honour, Sir, that flames in your fair eyes,
Before I speak, too threatningly replies:
Love make your fortunes twenty times above
Her that so wishes, and her humble love!
2 Lord.
No better, if you please.
Hel.
My wish receive,
Which great Love grant! and so I take my leave.
Laf.
Do all they deny her? if they were sons of
mine, I'd have them whipt, or I would send them
to the Turk to make eunuchs of.
Hel.
Be not afraid that I your hand should take,
I'll never do you wrong for your own sake:
Blessing upon your vows, and in your bed
Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed!
Laf.
These boys are boys of ice, they'll none of
her: sure, they are bastards to the English, the French
ne'er got 'em.
-- 41 --
Hel.
You are too young, too happy, and too good,
To make yourself a son out of my blood.
4 Lord.
Fair one, I think not so.
7 noteLaf.
There's one grape yet,—
Par.
I am sure, thy father drunk wine.—
Laf.
But if thou be'est not an ass, I am a
Youth of fourteen. I have known thee already.
Hel.
I dare not say, I take you; but I give
Me and my service, ever whilst I live,
Into your guided power: this is the man.
[To Bertram.
King.
Why then; young Bertram, take her, she's thy wife.
Ber.
My wife, my Liege? I shall beseech your Highness,
In such a business give me leave to use
The help of mine own eyes.
King.
Know'st thou not, Bertram,
What she hath done for me?
Ber.
Yes, my good Lord,
But never hope to know why I should marry her.
King.
Thou know'st, she has rais'd me from my sickly bed.
Ber.
But follows it, my Lord, to bring me down
Must answer for your raising? I know her well:
She had her breeding at my father's charge:
A poor physician's daughter my wife!—Disdain
Rather corrupt me ever!
King.
'Tis only title thou disdain'st in her, the which
I can build up: strange is it, that our bloods,
Of colour, weight, and heat, pour'd all together,
Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off
In differences, so mighty. If she be
All that is virtuous (save what thou dislik'st
A poor physician's daughter,) thou dislik'st
-- 42 --
Of virtue for the name: but do not so.
From lowest place (a) notewhen virtuous things proceed,
The place is dignify'd by th' doer's deed.
Where great addition swells, and virtue none,
It is a dropsied honour; 8 note
good alone
Is good; and, with a name, vileness is so:
The property by what it is should go,
Not by the title. 9 note
She is good, wise, fair;
In these, to nature she's immediate heir;
And these breed honour: That is honour's scorn,
Which challenges itself as honour's born,
-- 43 --
And is not like the sire. Honours best thrive,
When rather from our acts we them derive
Than our fore-goers: the mere word's a slave
Debaucht on every tomb, on ev'ry grave;
A lying trophy; 1 noteand as oft is dumb,
Where dust and damn'd oblivion is the tomb
Of honour'd bones, indeed. What should be said?
If thou can'st like this creature as a maid,
I can create the rest: virtue and she,
Is her own dow'r; honour and wealth from me.
Ber.
I cannot love her, nor will strive to do't.
King.
Thou wrong'st thyself, if thou should'st strive to chuse.
Hel.
That you are well restor'd, my lord, I'm glad:
Let the rest go.—
King.
My honour's at the stake; which to (a) notedefend,
I must produce my power. Here, take her hand,
Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift!
That doth in vile misprision shackle up
My love, and her desert; that canst not dream,
We, poizing us in her defective scale,
Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know,
It is in us to plant thine honour, where
We please to have it grow. Check thy contempt:
Obey our will, which travels in thy good;
-- 44 --
Believe not thy disdain, but presently
Do thine own fortunes that obedient right,
Which both thy duty owes, and our power claims;
Or I will throw thee from my care for ever
Into the staggers, and the careless lapse
Of youth and ignorance; my revenge and hate
Loosing upon thee in the name of justice,
Without all terms of pity. Speak, thine answer.
Ber.
Pardon, my gracious Lord; for I submit
My fancy to your eyes. When I consider,
What great creation, and what dole of honour
Flies where you bid; I find, that she, which late
Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now
2 noteThe prised of the King; who, so enobled,
Is, as 'twere, born so.
King.
Take her by the hand,
And tell her, she is thine: to whom I promise
A counterpoize; if not in thy estate,
A balance more repleat.
Ber.
I take her hand.
King.
Good fortune and the favour of the King
Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony
Shall seem expedient on the new-born brief,
And be perform'd to night; the solemn feast
Shall more attend upon the coming space,
Expecting absent friends. As thou lov'st her,
Thy love's to me religious; else does err.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VII.
Manent Parolles and Lafeu.
Laf.
Do you hear, Monsieur? a word with you.
Par.
Your pleasure, Sir?
-- 45 --
Laf.
Your Lord and Master did well to make his
recantation.
Par.
Recantation?—my Lord? my Master?
Laf.
Ay, is it not a language I speak?
Par.
A most harsh one, and not to be understood
without bloody succeeding. My master?
Laf.
Are you companion to the Count Rousillon?
Par.
To any Count; to all Counts; to what is
man.
Laf.
To what is Count's man; Count's master is
of another stile.
Par.
You are too old, Sir; let it satisfie you, you
are too old—
Laf.
I must tell thee, Sirrah, I write man; to
which title age cannot bring thee.
Par.
What I dare too well do, I dare not do.
Laf.
I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a
pretty wise fellow; thou didst make tolerable vent of
thy travel; it might pass; yet the scarfs and the bannerets
about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from believing
thee a vessel of too great a burthen. I have
now found thee; when I lose thee again, I care not:
yet art thou good for nothing but taking up, and that
thou'rt scarce worth.
Par.
Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon
thee—
Laf.
Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest
thou hasten thy tryal; which if,—Lord have
mercy on thee for a hen! so, my good window of
lattice, fare thee well; thy casement I need not open,
I look thro' thee. Give me thy hand.
Par.
My Lord, you give me most egregious indignity.
Laf.
Ay, with all my heart, and thou art worthy
of it.
Par.
I have not, my Lord, deserv'd it.
-- 46 --
Laf.
Yes, good faith, ev'ry dram of it; and I will
not bate thee a scruple.
Par.
Well, I shall be wiser—
Laf.
Ev'n as soon as thou can'st, for thou hast to
pull at a smack o'th' contrary. If ever thou beest
bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what
it is to be proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to
hold my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge,
that I may say in the default, he is a man I
know.
Par.
My Lord, you do me most insupportable
vexation.
Laf.
I would, it were hell-pains for thy sake, and
my poor doing eternal: 3 notefor doing, I am past; ***
as I will by thee, in what motion age will give me
leave.
[Exit.
Par.
4 noteWell, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace
off me; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy Lord!—
well, I must be patient, there is no fettering of authority.
I'll beat him, by my life, if I can meet him
with any convenience, an he were double and double
a Lord. I'll have no more pity of his age, than I
would have of—I'll beat him, an if I could but
meet him again.
-- 47 --
Re-enter Lafeu.
Laf.
Sirrah, your Lord and Master's married, there's
news for you: you have a new mistress.
Par.
I most unfeignedly beseech your Lordship to
make some reservation of your wrongs. He, my
good Lord, whom I serve above, is my master.
Laf.
Who? God?
Par.
Ay, Sir.
Laf.
The devil it is, that's thy master. Why dost
thou garter up thy arms o' this fashion? dost make
hose of thy sleeves? do other servants so? thou wert
best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By
mine honour, if I were but two hours younger, I'd
beat thee: methinks thou art a general offence, and
every man should beat thee. I think, thou wast created
for men to breathe themselves upon thee.
Par.
This is hard and undeserved measure, my
Lord.
Laf.
Go to, Sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking
a kernel out of a pomegranate; you are a vagabond,
and no true traveller: you are more sawcy with
lords and honourable personages, than the heraldry of
your birth and virtue gives you commission. You are not
worth another word, else I'd call you knave. I leave
you.
[Exit.
SCENE VIII.
Enter Bertram.
Par.
Good, very good, it is so then.—Good, very
good, let it be conceal'd a while.
Ber.
Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!
Par.
What is the matter, sweet heart?
Ber.
Although before the solemn Priest I've sworn,
I will not bed her.
Par.
What? what, sweet heart?
-- 48 --
Ber.
O my Parolles, they have married me:
I'll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.
Par.
France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits
the tread of a man's foot: to th' wars.
Ber.
There's letters from my mother; what the
import is, I know not yet.
Par.
Ay, that would be known: to th' wars, my
boy, to th' wars.
He wears his honour in a box, unseen,
That hugs his kicksy-wicksy here at home;
Spending his manly marrow in her arms,
Which should sustain the bound and high curvet
Of Mars's fiery steed: to other regions
France is a stable, we that dwell in't jades,
Therefore to th' war.
Ber.
It shall be so, I'll send her to my house,
Acquaint my mother with my hate to her,
And wherefore I am fled; write to the King
That which I durst not speak. His present gift
Shall furnish me to those Italian fields,
Where noble fellows strike. War is no strife
To the dark house, and the detested wife.
Par.
Will this capricio hold in thee, art sure?
Ber.
Go with me to my chamber, and advise me.
I'll send her straight away: to-morrow
I'll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.
Par.
Why, these balls bound, there's noise in it.—'Tis hard;
A young man, married, is a man that's marr'd:
Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go,
The King hath done you wrong: but, hush! 'tis so.
[Exeunt.
-- 49 --
SCENE IX.
Enter Helena and Clown.
Hel.
My mother greets me kindly, is she well?
Clo.
She is not well, but yet she has her health;
she's very merry, but yet she is not well: but, thanks
be given, she's very well, and wants nothing i'th' world;
but yet she is not well.
Hel.
If she be very well, what does she ail, that
she's not very well?
Clo.
Truly, she's very well, indeed, but for two
things.
Hel.
What two things?
Clo.
One, that she's not in heav'n, whither God
send her quickly; the other, that she's in earth, from
whence God send her quickly!
Enter Parolles.
Par.
Bless you, my fortunate lady!
Hel.
I hope, Sir, I have your good will to have
mine own good fortune.
Par.
You had my prayers to lead them on; and to
keep them on, have them still. O, my knave, how
does my old lady?
Clo.
So that you had her wrinkles and I her mony,
I would, she did, as you say.
Par.
Why, I say nothing.
Clo.
Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a
man's tongue 5 notespeaks out his master's undoing: to
say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to
have nothing, is to be a great part of your title; which
is within a very little of nothing.
Par.
Away, thou'rt a knave.
-- 50 --
Clo.
You should have said, Sir, before a knave,
th'art a knave; that's, before me th'art a knave:
this had been truth, Sir.
Par.
Go to, thou art a witty fool, I have found
thee.
Clo.
Did you find me in yourself, Sir? or were
you taught to find me? the search, Sir, was profitable,
and much fool may you find in you, even to the
world's pleasure, and the encrease of laughter.
Par.
A good knave, i' faith, and well fed.
Madam, my Lord will go away to night,
A very serious business calls on him.
The great prerogative and rite of love,
Which, as your due, time claims, he does acknowledge;
But puts it off by a compell'd restraint:
Whose want and whose delay, is strew'd with sweets
Which they distil now in the curbed time,
To make the coming hour o'erflow with joy,
6 noteAnd pleasure drown the brim.
Hel.
What's his will else?
Par.
That you will take your instant leave o'th' King.
And make this haste as your own good proceeding;
Strengthen'd with what apology, you think,
May make it probable need.
Hel.
What more commands he?
Par.
That having this obtain'd, you presently
Attend his further pleasure.
Hel.
In every thing I wait upon his will.
Par.
I shall report it so.
[Exit Parolles.
Hel.
I pray you.—Come, Sirrah.
[To Clown.
[Exeunt.
-- 51 --
SCENE X.
Enter Lafeu and Bertram.
Laf.
But, I hope, your Lordship thinks not him
a soldier.
Ber.
Yes, my Lord, and of very valiant approof.
Laf.
You have it from his own deliverance.
Ber.
And by other warranted testimony.
Laf.
Then my dial goes not true; I took this lark
for a bunting.
Ber.
I do assure you, my Lord, he is very great
in knowledge, and accordingly valiant.
Laf.
I have then sinned against his experience, and
transgress'd against his valour; and my state that way
is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to
repent: here he comes; I pray you, make us friends,
I will pursue the amity.
Enter Parolles.
Par.
These things shall be done, Sir.
Laf.
I pray you, Sir, who's his taylor?
Par.
Sir?
Laf.
O, I know him well; I, Sir, he, Sir's, a
good workman, a very good taylor.
Ber.
Is she gone to the King?
[Aside to Parolles.
Par.
She is.
Ber.
Will she away to night?
Par.
As you'll have her.
Ber.
I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure,
given order for our horses; and to night, when I
should take possession of the bride—and ere I
do begin—
Laf.
A good traveller is something at the latter end
of a dinner; but one that lyes three thirds, and uses
a known truth to pass a thousand nothings with, should
be once heard, and thrice beaten—God save you,
captain.
-- 52 --
Ber.
Is there any unkindness between my Lord and
you, Monsieur?
Par.
I know not, how I have deserved to run into
my Lord's displeasure.
Laf.
7 noteYou have made shift to run into't, boots
and spurs and all, like him that leapt into the custard;
and out of it you'll run again, rather than suffer
question for your residence.
Ber.
It may be, you have mistaken him, my Lord.
Laf.
And shall do so ever, tho' I took him at's
prayers. Fare you well, my Lord, and believe this
of me, there can be no kernel in this light nut: the
soul of this man is his clothes. Trust him not in
matter of heavy consequence: I have kept of them
tame, and know their natures. Farewel, Monsieur,
I have spoken better of you, than you have or will
deserve at my hand, but we must do good against
evil.
[Exit.
Par.
An idle lord, I swear.—
Ber.
I think so.
Par.
Why, do you not know him?
Ber.
Yes, I know him well, and common speech
Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.
SCENE XI.
Enter Helena.
Hel.
I have, Sir, as I was commanded from you,
Spoke with the King, and have procur'd his leave
For present parting; only, he desires
Some private speech with you.
Ber.
I shall obey his will.
You must not marvel, Helen, at my course,
Which holds not colour with the time; nor does
-- 53 --
The ministration and required office
On my particular. Prepar'd I was not
For such a business; therefore am I found
So much unsettled: this drives me to intreat you,
That presently you take your way for home,
And rather muse, than ask, why I intreat you;
For my respects are better than they seem,
And my appointments have in them a need
Greater than shews itself at the first view,
To you that know them not. This to my mother.
[Giving a letter,
'Twill be two days ere I shall see you, so
I leave you to your wisdom.
Hel.
Sir, I can nothing say,
But that I am your most obedient servant.
Ber.
Come, come, no more of that.
Hel.
And ever shall
With true observance seek to eke out That,
Wherein tow'rd me my homely stars have fail'd
To equal my great fortune.
Ber.
Let That go:
My haste is very great. Farewel; hie home.
Hel.
Pray, Sir, your pardon.
Ber.
Well, what would you say?
Hel.
I am not worthy of the wealth I owe;
Nor dare I say, 'tis mine, and yet it is;
But, like a tim'rous thief, most fain would steal
What law does vouch mine own.
Ber.
What would you have?
Hel.
Something, and scarce so much—nothing, indeed—
I would not tell you what I would, my Lord—'faith, yes;—
Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss.
Ber.
I pray you, stay not: but in haste to horse.
Hel.
I shall not break your bidding, good my Lord.
[Exit Helena.
Ber.
Where are my other men, Monsieur?—farewel.
-- 54 --
Go thou tow'rd home, where I will never come,
Whilst I can shake my sword, or hear the drum:
Away, and for our flight.
Par.
Bravely, Couragio!
[Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
The Duke's Court in Florence.
Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, two French Lords, with Soldiers.
Duke.
So that, from point to point, now have you heard
The fundamental reasons of this war,
Whose great decision hath much blood let forth,
And more thirsts after.
1 Lord.
Holy seems the quarrel
Upon your Grace's part; but black and fearful
On the opposer.
Duke.
Therefore we marvel much, our cousin France
Would, in so just a business, shut his bosom
Against our borrowing prayers.
2 Lord.
Good my Lord,
The reasons of our state I cannot yield,
But like a common and 1 notean outward man,
That the great figure of a council frames
2 noteBy self-unable notion; therefore dare not
Say what I think of it, since I have found
Myself in my incertain grounds to fail
As often as I guest.
Duke.
Be it his pleasure.
-- 55 --
2 Lord.
But I am sure, the younger of our nation,
That surfeit on their ease, will day by day
Come here for physick.
Duke.
Welcome shall they be:
And all the honours, that can fly from us,
Shall on them settle. You know your places well.
When better fall, for your avails they fell;
To-morrow, to the field.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Changes to Rousillon, in France.
Enter Countess and Clown.
Count.
It hath happen'd, all as I would have had it;
save, that he comes not along with her.
Clo.
By my troth, I take my young Lord to be a
very melancholy man.
Count.
By what observance, I pray you?
Clo.
Why, he will look upon his boot, and sing;
mend his ruff, and sing; ask questions, and sing;
pick his teeth, and sing. I knew a man that had this
trick of melancholy, sold a goodly manor for a song.
Count.
Let me see what he writes, and when he
means to come.
[Reads the letter.
Clo.
I have no mind to Isbel, since I was at court.
Our old ling, and our Isbels o'th' country, are nothing
like your old ling, and your Isbels o'th' court: the
brain of my Cupid's knock'd out; and I begin to
love, as an old man loves mony, with no stomach.
Count.
What have we here?
Clo.
E'en That you have there.
[Exit.
Countess reads a letter.
I have sent you a daughter-in-law: she hath recovered
the King, and undone me. I have wedded her,
-- 56 --
not bedded her; and sworn to make the not eternal. You
shall hear, I am run away; know it, before the report
come. If there be breadth enough in the world, I will
hold a long distance. My duty to you.
Your unfortunate Son,
Bertram.
This is not well, rash and unbridled boy,
To fly the favours of so good a King,
To pluck his indignation on thy head;
By the misprizing of a maid, too virtuous
For the contempt of empire.
Re-enter Clown.
Clo.
O Madam, yonder is heavy news within between
two soldiers and my young lady.
Count.
What is the matter?
Clo.
Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some
comfort; your son will not be kill'd so soon as I
thought he would.
Count.
Why should he be kill'd?
Clo.
So say I, Madam, if he run away, as I hear
he does; the danger is in standing to't; that's the
loss of men, though it be the getting of children.
Here they come, will tell you more. For my part,
I only hear, your son was run away.
SCENE III.
Enter Helena, and two Gentlemen.
1 Gent.
Save you, good Madam.
Hel.
Madam, my Lord is gone, for ever gone.—
2 Gent.
Do not say so.
Count.
Think upon patience: 'pray you, gentlemen,
I've felt so many quirks of joy and grief,
That the first face of neither, on the start,
Can woman me unto't. Where is my son?
-- 57 --
2 Gent.
Madam, he's gone to serve the Duke of Florence.
We met him thitherward, for thence we came;
And, after some dispatch in hand at court,
Thither we bend again.
Hel.
Look on this letter, Madam; here's my passport.
3 noteWhen thou canst get the ring, upon my finger, which
never shall come off; and shew me a child begotten
of thy body that I am father to, then call me husband:
but in such a Then I write a Never.
This is a dreadful sentence.
Count.
Brought you this letter, gentlemen?
1 Gent.
Ay, Madam, and, for the contents' sake,
are sorry for our pains.
Count.
I pr'ythee, lady, have a better cheer.
If thou engrossest all the griefs as thine,
Thou robb'st me of a moiety: he was my son,
But I do wash his name out of my blood,
And thou art all my child. Towards Florence is he?
2 Gent.
Ay, Madam.
Count.
And to be a soldier?
2 Gent.
Such is his noble purpose; and, believe't,
The Duke will lay upon him all the honour
That good convenience claims.
Count.
Return you thither?
1 Gent.
Ay, Madam, with the swiftest wing of speed.
Hel.
'Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.
'Tis bitter.
[Reading.
Count.
Find you that there?
Hel.
Yes, Madam.
-- 58 --
1 Gent.
'Tis but the boldness of his hand, happ'ly,
which his heart was not consenting to.
Count.
Nothing in France, until he have no wife?
There's nothing here, that is too good for him,
But only she; and she deserves a lord,
That twenty such rude boys might tend upon,
And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?
1 Gent.
A servant only, and a gentleman
Which I have some time known.
Count.
Parolles, was't not?
1 Gent.
Ay, my good lady, he.
Count.
A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness:
My son corrupts a well-derived nature
With his inducement.
1 Gent.
Indeed, good lady, the fellow has 4 note
a deal
of that too much, which holds him much to have.
Count.
Y'are welcome, gentlemen; I will intreat
you, when you see my son, to tell him, that his sword
can never win the honour that he loses: more I'll intreat
you written to bear along.
1 Gent.
We serve you, Madam, in that and all
your worthiest affairs.
Count.
Not so, but as we change our courtesies.
Will you draw near?
[Exeunt Countess and Gent.
SCENE IV.
Hel.
'Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.
Nothing in France, until he has no wife!
-- 59 --
Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France;
Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is't I
That chase thee from thy country, and expose
Those tender limbs of thine to the event
Of the none-sparing war? and is it I
That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark
Of smoaky muskets? O you leaden messengers,
That ride upon the violent speed of fire,
Fly with false aim; 5 note
pierce the still-moving air,
That sings with piercing, do not touch my lord:
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there.
Whoever charges on his forward breast,
I am the caitiff, that do hold him to it;
And tho' I kill him not, I am the cause
His death was so effected. Better 'twere,
I met the rav'ning lion when he roar'd
With sharp constraint of hunger: better 'twere,
That all the miseries, which nature owes,
Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Rousillon;
Whence honour but of danger wins a scar;
As oft it loses all. I will be gone:
My being here it is, that holds thee hence.
Shall I stay here to do't? no, no, although
The air of paradise did fan the house,
And angels offic'd all; I will be gone;
That pitiful rumour may report my flight,
To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day!
For with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away.
[Exit.
-- 60 --
SCENE V.
Changes to the Duke's Court in Florence.
Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Bertram, Drum and Trumpets, Soldiers, Parolles.
Duke.
The General of our Horse thou art, and we,
Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence
Upon thy promising fortune.
Ber.
Sir, it is
A charge too heavy for my strength; but yet
We'll strive to bear it for your worthy sake,
To th'extream edge of hazard.
Duke.
Then go forth,
And fortune play upon thy prosp'rous helm,
As thy auspicious mistress!
Ber.
This very day,
Great Mars, I put myself into thy file;
Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove
A lover of thy drum; hater of love.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Changes to Rousillon in France.
Enter Countess and Steward.
Count.
Alas! and would you take the letter of her?
Might you not know, she would do, as she has done,
By sending me a letter? Read it again.
-- 61 --
LETTER.
I am St. Jaques' pilgrim, thither gone;
Ambitious love hath so in me offended,
That bare-foot plod I the cold ground upon,
With sainted vow my faults to have amended.
Write, write, that from the bloody course of war
My dearest master, your dear son, may hie;
Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far
His name with zealous fervour sanctifie.
His taken labours bid him me forgive;
I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth
From courtly friends, with camping foes to live;
Where death and danger dog the heels of worth.
He is too good and fair for death and me,
Whom I myself embrace, to set him free.
Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words?
Rynaldo, you did never lack advice so much,
As letting her pass so; had I spoke with her,
I could have well diverted her intents,
Which thus she hath prevented.
Stew.
Pardon, Madam,
If I had given you this at over-night
She might have been o'er-ta'en; and yet she writes,
Pursuit would be but vain.
Count.
What angel shall
Bless this unworthy husband? he cannot thrive,
Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear,
And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath
Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rynaldo,
To this unworthy husband of his wife;
Let every word weigh heavy of her worth,
That he does weigh too light: my greatest grief,
Tho' little he do feel it, set down sharply.
Dispatch the most convenient messenger;
-- 62 --
When, haply, he shall hear that she is gone,
He will return, and hope I may, that she,
Hearing so much, will speed her foot again,
Led hither by pure love. Which of them both
Is dearest to me, I've no skill in sense
To make distinction; provide this messenger;
My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak;
Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VII.
Changes to a publick Place in Florence.
A Tucket afar off.
Enter an old Widow of Florence, Diana, Violenta, and Mariana, with other Citizens.
Wid.
Nay, come. For if they do approach the
city, we shall lose all the sight.
Dia.
They say, the French Count has done most
honourable service.
Wid.
It is reported, that he has ta'en their greatest
commander; and that with his own hand he slew the
Duke's brother. We have lost our labour, they are
gone a contrary way: hark, you may know by their
trumpets.
Mar.
Come, let's return again, and suffice ourselves
with the report of it. Well, Diana, take heed of
this French Earl; the honour of a maid is her name,
and no legacy is so rich as honesty.
Wid.
I have told my neighbour, how you have been
sollicited by a gentleman his companion.
Mar.
I know that knave, (hang him!) one Parolles;
a filthy officer he is in those suggestions for the
young Earl; beware of them, Diana; their promises,
enticements, oaths, tokens, and all these engines of
-- 63 --
lust, 6 noteare the things they go under; many a maid
hath been seduced by them; and the misery is, example,
that so terrible shews in the wreck of maidenhood,
cannot for all that dissuade succession, but that
they are limed with the twigs that threaten them. I
hope, I need not to advise you further; but, I hope,
your own grace will keep you where you are, tho'
there were 7 noteno further danger found, but the modesty
which is so lost.
Dia.
You shall not need to fear me.
Enter Helena, disguis'd like a Pilgrim.
Wid.
I hope so—Look, here comes a pilgrim;
I know, she will lye at my house; thither they send
one another; I'll question her: God save you, pilgrim!
whither are you bound?
-- 64 --
Hel.
To St. Jaques le Grand. Where do the palmers
lodge, I do beseech you?
Wid.
At the St. Francis, beside the port.
Hel.
Is this the way?
[A march afar off.
Wid.
Ay, marry, is't. Hark you, they come this way.
If you will tarry, holy pilgrim, but 'till the troops come by,
I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd;
The rather, for, I think, I know your hostess
As ample as myself.
Hel.
Is it yourself?
Wid.
If you shall please so, pilgrim.
Hel.
I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure.
Wid.
You came, I think, from France.
Hel.
I did so.
Wid.
Here you shall see a countryman of yours,
That has done worthy service.
Hel.
His name, I pray you?
Dia.
The Count Rousillon: know you such a one?
Hel.
But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him;
His face I know not.
Dia.
Whatsoe'er he is,
He's bravely taken here. He stole from France,
As 'tis reported; for the King had married him
Against his liking. Think you, it is so?
Hel.
Ay, surely, 8 note
meerlye truth; I know his lady.
Dia.
There is a gentleman that serves the Count,
Reports but coursely of her.
Hel.
What's his name?
Dia.
Monsieur Parolles.
Hel.
Oh, I believe with him,
In argument of praise, or to the worth
Of the great Count himself, she is too mean
-- 67 --
To have her name repeated; all her deserving
Is a reserved honesty, and That
I have not heard examin'd.
Dia.
Alas, poor lady!
'Tis a hard bondage, to become the wife
Of a detesting lord.
Wid.
Ah! right; good creature! wheresoe'er she is
Her heart weighs sadly; this young maid might do her
A shrewd turn, if she pleas'd.
Hel.
How do you mean?
May be, the am'rous Count sollicits her
In the unlawful purpose.
Wid.
He does, indeed;
And brokes with all, that can in such a suit
Corrupt the tender honour of a maid:
But she is arm'd for him, and keeps her guard
In honestest defence.
SCENE VIII.
Drum and Colours. Enter Bertram, Parolles, Officers and Soldiers attending.
Mar.
The Gods forbid else!
Wid.
So now they come:
That is Antonio, the Duke's eldest son;
That, Escalus.
Hel.
Which is the Frenchman?
Dia.
He;
That with the plume; 'tis a most gallant fellow;
I would, he lov'd his wife! if he were honester,
He were much goodlier. Is't not a handsome gentleman?
Hel.
I like him well.
Dia.
'Tis pity, he is not honest; yond's that same knave,
That leads him to these places; were I his lady,
I'd poison that vile rascal.
-- 68 --
Hel.
Which is he?
Dia.
That jack-an-apes with scarfs. Why is he
melancholy?
Hel.
Perchance, he's hurt i'th' battel.
Par.
Lose our drum! well.—
Mar.
He's shrewdly vex'd at something. Look,
he has spied us.
Wid.
Marry, hang you!
[Exeunt Bertram, Parolles, &c.
Mar.
And your courtesie, for a ring-carrier!—
Wid.
The troop is past: come, pilgrim, I will bring you,
Where you shall host: Of injoyn'd penitents
There's four or five, to great St. Jaques bound,
Already at my house.
Hel.
I humbly thank you:
Please it this matron, and this gentle maid
To eat with us to night, the charge and thanking
Shall be for me: and to requite you further,
I will bestow some precepts on this virgin
Worthy the note.
Both.
We'll take your offer kindly.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IX.
Enter Bertram, and the two French Lords.
1 Lord.
Nay, good my lord, put him to't: let
him have his way.
2 Lord.
If your lordship find him not a hilding,
hold me no more in your respect.
1 Lord.
On my life, my lord, a bubble.
Ber.
Do you think, I am so far deceiv'd in him?
1 Lord.
Believe it, my lord, in mine own direct
knowledge, without any malice, but to speak of him
as my kinsman; he's a most notable coward, an infinite
and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the
-- 69 --
owner of no one good quality worthy your lordship's
entertainment.
2 Lord.
It were fit you knew him, lest, reposing
too far in his virtue, which he hath not, he might
at some great and trusty business in a main danger fail
you.
Ber.
I would, I knew in what particular action to
try him.
2 Lord.
None better than to let him fetch off his
drum; which you hear him so confidently undertake
to do.
1 Lord.
I, with a troop of Florentines, will suddenly
surprize him; such I will have, whom, I am
sure, he knows not from the enemy: we will bind
and hood-wink him so, that he shall suppose no other
but that he is carried into the leaguer of the adversaries,
when we bring him to our own tents; be but
your lordship present at his examination, if he do not
for the promise of his life, and in the highest compulsion
of base fear, offer to betray you, and deliver
all the intelligence in his power against you, and that
with the divine forfeit of his soul upon oath, never
trust my judgment in any thing.
2 Lord.
O, for the love of laughter, let him fetch
his drum; he says, he has a stratagem for't; when
your lordship sees the bottom of his success in't, and
to what metal this counterfeit lump of 9 noteOar will be
melted, if you give him not 1 noteJohn Drum's entertainment,
-- 70 --
your inclining cannot be removed. Here he
comes.
SCENE X.
Enter Parolles.
1 Lord.
O, for the love of laughter, hinder not
the humour of his design, let him fetch off his drum
in any hand.
Ber.
How now, Monsieur? this drum sticks sorely
in your disposition.
2 Lord.
A pox't on't, let it go, 'tis but a drum.
Par.
But a drum! is't but a drum? a drum so lost!
there was an excellent command! to charge in with
our horse upon our own wings, and to rend our own
soldiers.
2 Lord.
That was not to be blamed in the command
of the service; it was a disaster of war that Cæsar
himself could not have prevented, if he had been there
to command.
Ber.
Well, we cannot greatly condemn our success:
some dishonour we had in the loss of that drum, but
it is not to be recover'd.
Par.
It might have been recover'd.
Ber.
It might, but it is not now.
Par.
It is to be recover'd; but that the merit of
service is seldom attributed to the true and exact performer,
I would have that drum or another, or hic
jacet—
Ber.
Why, if you have a stomach to't, Monsieur;
if you think your mystery in stratagem, can bring
this instrument of honour again into his native quarter,
be magnanimous in the enterprize and go on; I will
grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speed
well in it, the Duke shall both speak of it, and extend
to you what further becomes his greatness, even to the
utmost syllable of your worthiness.
-- 71 --
Par.
By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it.
Ber.
But you must not now slumber in it.
Par.
I'll about it this evening; and 2 noteI will presently
pen down my dilemmas, encourage myself in
my certainty, put myself into my mortal preparation;
and, by midnight, look to hear further from me.
Ber.
May I be bold to acquaint his Grace, you are
gone about it?
Par.
I know not what the success will be, my Lord;
but the attempt I vow.
Ber.
I know, th'art valiant; and to the 3 notepossibility
of soldiership, will subscribe for thee; farewel.
Par.
I love not many words.
[Exit.
SCENE XI.
1 Lord.
No more than a fish loves water.—Is not
this a strange fellow, my Lord, that so confidently
seems to undertake this business, which he knows is not
to be done; damns himself to do it, and dares better
be damn'd than to do't?
2 Lord.
You do not know him, my Lord, as we do;
certain it is, that he will steal himself into a man's favour,
and for a week escape a great deal of discoveries;
but when you find him out, you have him ever after.
Ber.
Why, do you think, he will make no deed at
all of this, that so seriously he does address himself
unto?
2 Lord.
None in the world, but return with an invention,
and clap upon you two or three probable lies;
but we have almost imboss'd him, you shall see his fall
to night; for, indeed, he is not for your lordship's
respect.
-- 72 --
1 Lord.
We'll make you some sport with the fox,
ere we case him. He was first smoak'd by the old
lord Lafeu; when his disguise and he is parted, tell me
what a sprat you shall find him; which you shall see,
this very night.
2 Lord.
I must go and look my twigs; he shall be
caught.
Ber.
Your brother, he shall go along with me.
2 Lord.
As't please your lordship. I'll leave you.
[Exit.
Ber.
Now will I lead you to the house, and shew you
The lass I spoke of.
1 Lord.
But you say, she's honest.
Ber.
That's all the fault: I spoke with her but once,
And found her wondrous cold; but I sent to her,
By this same coxcomb that we have i'th' wind,
Tokens and letters, which she did re-send;
And this is all I've done: she's a fair creature,
Will you go see her?
1 Lord.
With all my heart, my lord.
[Exeunt.
SCENE XII.
Changes to the Widow's House.
Enter Helena, and Widow.
Hel.
If you misdoubt me that I am not she,
I know not, how I shall assure you further;
4 noteBut I shall lose the grounds I work upon.
Wid.
Tho' my estate be fallen, I was well born,
Nothing acquainted with these businesses;
And would not put my reputation now
In any staining act.
-- 73 --
Hel.
Nor would I wish you.
First, give me trust, the Count he is my husband;
And what to your sworn counsel I have spoken,
Is so, from word to word; and then you cannot,
By the good aid that I of you shall borrow,
Err in bestowing it.
Wid.
I should believe you,
For you have shew'd me that, which well approves
Y'are great in fortune.
Hel.
Take this purse of gold,
And let me buy your friendly help thus far,
Which I will over-pay, and pay again
When I have found it. The Count wooes your daughter,
Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty,
Resolves to carry her; let her consent,
As we'll direct her how, 'tis best to bear it.
Now his important blood will nought deny,
That she'll demand: a ring the Count does wear,
That downward hath succeeded in his house
From son to son, some four or five descents,
Since the first father wore it. This ring he holds
In most rich choice; yet in his idle fire,
To buy his will, it would not seem too dear,
Howe'er repented after.
Wid.
Now I see the bottom of your purpose.
Hel.
You see it lawful then. It is no more,
But that your daughter, ere she seems as won,
Desires this ring; appoints him an encounter;
In fine, delivers me to fill the time,
Herself most chastly absent: after this,
To marry her, I'll add three thousand crowns
To what is past already.
Wid.
I have yielded:
Instruct my daughter how she shall persevere,
That time and place, with this deceit so lawful,
May prove coherent. Every night he comes
-- 74 --
With musick of all sorts, and songs compos'd
To her unworthiness: it nothing steads us
To chide him from our eaves, for he persists,
As if his life lay on't.
Hel.
Why then, to night
Let us assay our plot; which if it speed,
5 note
Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed;
And lawful meaning in a wicked act;
Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact.
But let's about it—
[Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
Part of the French Camp in Florence.
Enter one of the French Lords, with five or six Soldiers in ambush.
Lord.
He can come no other way but by this hedge-corner;
when you sally upon him, speak what
terrible language you will; though you understand it
not yourselves, no matter; for we must not seem to
-- 75 --
understand him, unless some one amongst us, whom
we must produce for an interpreter.
Sol.
Good captain, let me be th' interpreter.
Lord.
Art not acquainted with him? knows he not
thy voice?
Sol.
No, Sir, I warrant you.
Lord.
But what linsie-woolsie hast thou to speak to
us again?
Sol.
Ev'n such as you speak to me.
Lord.
He must think us some band of strangers
i'th' adversaries' entertainment. Now he hath a smack
of all neighbouring languages, therefore we must every
one be a man of his own fancy; not to know what
we speak one to another, so we seem to know, is to
know straight our purpose: chough's language, gabble
enough, and good enough. As for you, interpreter,
you must seem very politick. But couch, hoa! here
he comes, to beguile two hours in a sleep, and then
to return and swear the lies he forges.
Enter Parolles.
Par.
Ten o'clock; within these three hours 'twill
be time enough to go home. What shall I say, I
have done? it must be a very plausive invention that
carries it. They begin to smoak me, and disgraces
have of late knock'd too often at my door; I find,
my tongue is too fool-hardy; but my heart hath the
fear of Mars before it and of his creatures, not daring
the reports of my tongue.
Lord.
This is the first truth that e'er thine own
tongue was guilty of.
[Aside.
Par.
What the devil should move me to undertake
the recovery of this drum, being not ignorant of
the impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose?
I must give myself some hurts, and say, I got
them in exploit; yet slight ones will not carry it.
They will say, came you off with so little? and great
-- 76 --
ones I dare not give; wherefore what's the instance?
Tongue, I must put you into a butter-woman's mouth,
1 note
and buy myself another of Bajazet's mute, if you
prattle me into these perils.
Lord.
Is it possible, he should know what he is,
and be that he is?
[Aside.
Par.
I would the cutting of my garments would
serve the turn, or the breaking of my Spanish sword.
Lord.
We cannot afford you so.
[Aside.
Par.
Or the baring of my beard, and to say, it
was in stratagem.
Lord.
'Twould not do.
[Aside.
Par.
Or to drown my cloaths, and say, I was stript.
Lord.
Hardly serve.
[Aside.
Par.
Though I swore, I leap'd from the window
of the citadel—
Lord.
How deep?
[Aside.
Par.
Thirty fathom.
Lord.
Three great oaths would scarce make that
be believed.
[Aside.
Par.
I would, I had any drum of the Enemies; I
would swear, I recover'd it.
Lord.
You shall hear one anon.
[Aside.
Par.
A drum now of the enemies!
[Alarum within.
Lord.
Throco movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo.
All.
Cargo, cargo, villiando par corbo, cargo.
Par.
Oh! ransom, ransom:—do not hide mine eyes.
[They seize him and blindfold him.
Inter.
Boskos thromuldo boskos.
Par.
I know, you are the Muskos regiment,
And I shall lose my life for want of language.
-- 77 --
If there be here German, or Dane, low Dutch,
Italian, or French, let him speak to me,
I'll discover That which shall undo the Florentine.
Inter.
Boskos vauvado; I understand thee, and can
speak thy tongue; Kerelybonto,—Sir, betake thee to
thy faith, for seventeen poniards are at thy bosom.
Par.
Oh!
Int.
Oh, pray, pray, pray.
Mancha ravancha dulche.
Lord.
Osceoribi dulchos volivorco.
Int.
The general is content to spare thee yet,
And, hood-winkt as thou art, will lead thee on
To gather from thee. Haply thou may'st inform
Something to save thy life.
Par.
Oh let me live,
And all the secrets of our Camp I note shew;
Their force, their purposes: nay, I'll speak That
Which you will wonder at.
Int.
But wilt thou faithfully?
Par.
If I do not, damn me.
Int.
Acordo linta.
Come on, thou art granted space.
[Exit.
[A short alarum within.
Lord.
Go, tell the Count Rousillon and my brother,
We've caught the woodcock, and will keep him muffled
'Till we do hear from them.
Sol.
Captain, I will.
Lord.
He will betray us all unto ourselves.
Inform 'em That.
Sol.
So I will, Sir.
Lord.
'Till then I'll keep him dark and safely lockt.
[Exeunt.
-- 78 --
SCENE II.
Changes to the Widow's House.
Enter Bertram, and Diana.
They told me, that your name was Fontibell.
Dia.
No, my good lord, Diana,
Ber.
Titled Goddess,
And worth it with addition! but, fair soul,
In your fine frame hath love no quality?
If the quick fire of youth light not your mind,
You are no Maiden, but a Monument:
When you are dead, you should be such a one
As you are now, for you are cold and stern;
And now you should be as your Mother was,
When your sweet self was got.
Dia.
She then was honest.
Ber.
So should you be.
Dia.
No.
My Mother did but duty; such, my Lord,
As you owe to your Wife.
Ber.
No more o'that!
I pr'ythee do not strive against my vows:
I was compell'd to her, but I love thee
By love's own sweet constraint, and will for ever
Do thee all rights of service.
Dia.
Ay, so you serve us,
'Till we serve you: but when you have our roses,
You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves,
And mock us with our bareness.
Ber.
How have I sworn!
Dia.
'Tis not the many oaths, that make the truth;
But the plain single vow, that is vow'd true;
2 note
What is not holy, that we swear, not 'bides,—
-- 79 --
But take the High'st to witness: then, pray tell me,
If I should swear by Jove's great Attributes
I lov'd you dearly, would you believe my oaths,
When I did love you ill? this has no holding,
To swear by him whom I protest to love,
That I will work against him. Therefore your oaths
Are words, and poor conditions but unseal'd;
At least, in my opinion.
Ber.
Change it, change it:
Be not so holy-cruel. Love is holy,
And my integrity ne'er knew the crafts,
That you do charge men with: stand no more off,
But give thyself unto my sick desires,
Which then recover. Say, thou art mine; and ever
My love, as it begins, shall so persever.
Dia.
I see, that men make hopes in such affairs
That we'll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.
Ber.
I'll lend it thee, my Dear, but have no power
To give it from me.
-- 80 --
Dia.
Will you not, my Lord?
Ber.
It is an Honour 'longing to our House,
Bequeathed down from many Ancestors;
Which were the greatest obloquy i'th' world
In me to lose.
Dia.
Mine Honour's such a ring;
My chastity's the jewel of our House,
Bequeathed down from many Ancestors;
Which were the greatest obloquy i'th' world
In me to lose. Thus your own proper wisdom
Brings in the champion Honour on my part,
Against your vain assault.
Ber.
Here, take my ring.
My House, my Honour, yea, my life be thine,
And I'll be bid by thee.
Dia.
When midnight comes knock at my chamber window;
I'll order take, my Mother shall not hear.
Now will I charge you in the band of truth,
When you have conquer'd my yet maiden-bed,
Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me:
My reasons are most strong, and you shall know them,
When back again this ring shall be deliver'd;
And on your finger, in the night, I'll put
Another ring, that, what in time proceeds,
May token to the future our past deeds.
Adieu, 'till then; then, fail not: you have won
A wife of me, tho' there my hope be done.
Ber.
A heav'n on earth I've won by wooing thee.
[Exit.
Dia.
For which live long to thank both heav'n and me.
You may so in the end.—
My Mother told me just how he would woo,
As if she sat in's heart; she says, all men
Have the like oaths: he had sworn to marry me,
When his Wife's dead: therefore I'll lye with him,
-- 81 --
When I am buried. 3 note
Since Frenchmen are so braid,
Marry 'em that will, I'd live and die a maid;
Only, in this disguise, I think't no sin
To cozen him, that would unjustly win.
[Exit.
SCENE III.
Changes to the French Camp in Florence.
Enter the two French Lords, and two or three Soldiers.
1 Lord.
You have not given him his Mother's
letter?
2 Lord.
I have deliver'd it an hour since; there is
something in't, that stings his nature; for, on the
reading it, he chang'd almost into another man.
1 Lord.
He has much worthy blame laid upon him
for shaking off so good a wife, and so sweet a lady.
2 Lord.
Especially, he hath incurred the everlasting
displeasure of the King, who had even tun'd his
bounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you a thing,
but you shall let it dwell darkly with you.
1 Lord.
When you have spoken it, 'tis dead, and
I am the grave of it.
2 Lord.
He hath perverted a young Gentlewoman
here in Florence, of a most chaste renown; and this
night he fleshes his will in the spoil of her honour; he
-- 82 --
hath given her his monumental ring, and thinks himself
made in the unchaste composition.
2 Lord.
Now God delay our rebellion; as we are
our selves, what things are we!
2 Lord.
Meerly our own traitors; and, as in the
common course of all treasons, we still see them reveal
themselves, 'till they attain to their abhorr'd ends; so
he, that in this action contrives against his own Nobility,
in his proper stream o'erflows himself.
1 Lord.
Is it not meant damnable in us to be the
trumpeters of our unlawful intents? we shall not then
have his company to night?
2 Lord.
Not till after midnight; for he is dieted
to his hour.
1 Lord.
That approaches apace: I would gladly
have him see his company anatomiz'd, that he might
take a measure of his own Judgment, wherein so curiously
he had set this counterfeit.
2 Lord.
We will not meddle with him 'till he come;
for his presence must be the whip of the other.
1 Lord.
In the mean time, what hear you of these
wars?
2 Lord.
I hear, there is an overture of Peace.
1 Lord.
Nay, I assure you, a Peace concluded.
2 Lord.
What will Count Rousillon do then? will
he travel higher, or return again into France?
1 Lord.
I perceive by this demand, you are not
altogether of his Council.
2 Lord.
Let it be forbid, Sir! so should I be a great
deal of his act.
1 Lord.
Sir, his Wife some two months since fled
from his House, her pretence is a Pilgrimage to St.
Jaques le Grand; which holy Undertaking, with most
austere sanctimony, she accomplish'd; and there residing,
the tenderness of her nature became as a prey
to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last breath,
and now she sings in heaven.
-- 81 --
2 Lord.
How is this justified?
1 Lord.
The stronger part of it by her own letters,
which makes her story true, even to the point of her
death; her Death it self (which could not be her office
to say, is come) was faithfully confirm'd by the
Rector of the place.
2 Lord.
Hath the Count all this intelligence?
1 Lord.
Ay, and the particular confirmations, point
from point, to the full arming of the verity.
2 Lord.
I am heartily sorry that he'll be glad of
this.
1 Lord.
How mightily sometimes we make us
comforts of our losses!
2 Lord.
And how mightily some other times we
drown our gain in tears! the great dignity, that his valour
hath here acquired for him, shall at home be encounter'd
with a shame as ample.
1 Lord.
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn,
good and ill together: our virtues would be proud, if
our faults whipt them not; and our crimes would despair,
if they were not cherish'd by our virtues.
Enter a Servant.
How now? where's your Master?
Ser.
He met the Duke in the street, Sir, of whom
he hath taken a solemn leave: his Lordship will next
morning for France. The Duke hath offered him letters
of commendations to the King.
2 Lord.
They shall be no more than needful there,
if they were more than they can commend.
SCENE IV.
Enter Bertram.
1 Lord.
They cannot be too sweet for the King's
tartness: here's his Lordship now. How now, my
Lord, is't not after midnight?
-- 82 --
Ber.
I have to night dispatch'd sixteen businesses, a
month's length a-piece, by an abstract of success; I
have congied with the Duke, done my adieu with his
nearest; buried a wife, mourn'd for her; writ to my
lady mother, I am returning; entertained my convoy;
and, between these main parcels of dispatch, effected
many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but That
I have not ended yet.
2 Lord.
If the business be of any difficulty, and
this morning your departure hence, it requires haste
of your Lordship.
Ber.
I mean, the business is not ended, as fearing to
hear of it hereafter. But shall we have this dialogue between
the fool and the soldier? come, 4 notebring forth
this counterfeit Medal; h'as deceiv'd me, like a double-meaning
prophesier.
2 Lord.
Bring him forth; h'as sate in the Stocks
all night, poor gallant knave.
Ber.
No matter; his heels have deserv'd it, in
usurping his spurs so long. How does he carry himself?
1 Lord.
I have told your Lordship already: the
Stocks carry him. But to answer you as you would be
understood, he weeps like a wench that had shed her
milk; he hath confess'd himself to Morgan, whom he
supposes to be a Friar, from the time of his remembrance,
to this very instant disaster of his setting i'th'
Stocks; and what, think you, he hath confest?
Ber.
Nothing of me, has he?
2 Lord.
His confession is taken, and it shall be read
to his face: if your Lordship be in't, as, I believe,
you are, you must have the patience to hear it.
-- 83 --
Enter Parolles, with his Interpreter.
Ber.
A plague upon him, muffled! he can say nothing
of me; hush! hush!
1 Lord.
Hoodman comes: Portotartarossa.
Int.
He calls for the tortures; what will you say
without 'em?
Par.
I will confess what I know without constraint;
if ye pinch me like a pasty, I can say no more.
Int.
Bosko Chimurcho.
2 Lord.
Biblibindo chicurmurco.
Int.
You are a merciful General: our General bids
you answer to what I shall ask you out of a note.
Par.
And truly, as I hope to live.
Int.
First demand of him, how many Horse the
Duke is strong. What say you to that?
Par.
Five or six thousand, but very weak and unserviceable:
the troops are all scatter'd, and the Commanders
very poor rogues, upon my reputation and
credit, and as I hope to live.
Int.
Shall I set down your answer so?
Par.
Do, I'll take the Sacrament on't, how and
which way you will: all's one to me.
Ber.
What a past-saving slave is this!
1 Lord.
Y'are deceiv'd, my Lord, this is Monsieur
Parolles, the gallant militarist, that was his own
phrase, that had the whole theory of war in the knot
of his scarf, and the practice in the chape of his
dagger.
2 Lord.
I will never trust a man again for keeping
his sword clean; nor believe, he can have every thing
in him, by wearing his apparel neatly.
Int.
Well, that's set down.
Par.
Five or six thousand horse I said (I will say
true) or thereabouts, set down, for I'll speak truth.
1 Lord.
He's very near the truth in this.
-- 84 --
Ber.
But I con him no thanks for't, in the nature
he delivers it.
Par.
Poor rogues, I pray you, say.
Int.
Well, that's set down.
Par.
I humbly thank you, Sir: a truth's a truth,
the rogues are marvellous poor.
Int.
Demand of him, of what strength they are a-foot.
What say you to that?
Par.
By my troth, Sir, if I were to live this present
hour, I will tell true. Let me see; Spurio a hundred
and fifty, Sebastian so many, Corambus so many,
Jaques so many; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick, and Gratii,
two hundred and fifty each; mine own company,
Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred and fifty
each: so that the muster file, rotten and sound, upon
my life, amounts not to fifteen thousand Poll; half
of the which dare not shake the snow from off their
cassocks, lest they shake themselves to pieces.
Ber.
What shall be done to him?
1 Lord.
Nothing, but let him have thanks. Demand
of him my conditions, and what credit I have
with the Duke.
Int.
Well, that's set down. You shall demand of
him, whether one Captain Dumain be i'th' camp, a
Frenchman: what his reputation is with the Duke,
what his valour, honesty, and expertness in war; or
whether he thinks, it were not possible with well-weighing
sums of gold to corrupt him to a revolt. What
say you to this? what do you know of it?
Par.
I beseech you, let me answer to the particular
of the Interrogatories. Demand them singly.
Int.
Do you know this Captain Dumain?
Par.
I know him; he was a botcher's prentice in
Paris, from whence he was whipt for getting the
sheriff's fool with child; a dumb innocent, that could
not say him nay.
-- 85 --
Ber.
Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; tho' I
know, his brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls.
Int.
Well, is this Captain in the Duke of Florence's
Camp?
Par.
Upon my knowledge he is, and lowsie.
1 Lord.
Nay, look not so upon me, we shall hear
of your Lordship anon.
Int.
What is his reputation with the Duke?
Par.
The Duke knows him for no other but a poor
officer of mine; and writ to me the other day, to
turn him out o'th' band. I think, I have his letter in
my pocket.
Int.
Marry, we'll search.
Par.
In good sadness, I do not know; either it is
there, or it is upon the file with the Duke's other letters
in my tent.
Int.
Here 'tis, here's a paper, shall I read it to you?
Par.
I do not know, if it be it or no.
Ber.
Our Interpreter does it well.
1 Lord.
Excellently.
Int.
Dian, the Count's a fool, and full of gold.
Par.
That is not the Duke's letter, Sir; that is an
advertisement to a proper maid in Florence, one Diana,
to take heed of the allurement of one Count Rousillon,
a foolish idle boy; but, for all that, very ruttish.
I pray you, Sir, put it up again.
Int.
Nay, I'll read it first, by your favour.
Par.
My meaning in't, I protest, was very honest
in the behalf of the maid; for I knew the young
Count to be a dangerous and lascivious boy, who is a
whale to virginity, and devours up all the fry it finds.
Ber.
Damnable! both sides rogue.
Interpreter reads the letter.
When he swears oaths, bid him drop gold, and take it.
After he scores, he never pays the score:
Half won, is match well made; match, and well make it:
He ne'er pays after debts, take it before.
-- 86 --
And say, a soldier (Dian) told thee this:
Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss.
For, count of this, the Count's a fool, I know it;
Who pays before, but not when he does owe it.
Thine, as he vow'd to thee in thine ear.
Parolles.
Ber.
He shall be whipt through the army with this
rhime in his forehead.
2 Lord.
This is your devoted friend, Sir, the manifold
linguist, and the armi-potent soldier.
Ber.
I could endure any thing before but a cat, and
now he's a cat to me.
Int.
I perceive, Sir, by the General's looks, we shall
be fain to hang you.
Par.
My life, Sir, in any case; not that I am afraid
to die; but that my offences being many, I would repent
out the remainder of nature. Let me live, Sir, in
a Dungeon, i'th' Stocks, any where, so I may live.
Int.
We'll see what may be done, so you confess
freely; therefore, once more, to this Captain Dumain:
you have answer'd to his reputation with the Duke, and
to his valour. What is his honesty?
Par.
He will steal, Sir, an egg out of a cloister;
for rapes and ravishments he parallels Nessus. He professes
no keeping of oaths; in breaking them he is
stronger than Hercules. He will lie, Sir, with such volubility,
that you would think, truth were a fool:
drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will be swine-drunk,
and in his sleep he does little harm, save to his
bed-cloaths about him; but they know his conditions,
and lay him in straw. I have but little more to say,
Sir, of his honesty, he has every thing that an honest
man should not have; what an honest man should
have, he has nothing.
1 Lord.
I begin to love him for this.
-- 87 --
Ber.
For this description of thine honesty? a pox upon
him for me, he is more and more a cat.
Int.
What say you to his expertness in war?
Par.
Faith, Sir, h'as led the drum before the English
Tragedians: to belie him, I will not; and more
of his soldiership I know not; except, in that Country,
he had the honour to be the Officer at a place there
call'd Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files. I
would do the man what honour I can, but of this I am
not certain.
1 Lord.
He hath out-villain'd villany so far, that the
rarity redeems him.
Ber.
A pox on him, he's a cat still.
Int.
His Qualities being at this poor price, I need
not to ask you, if gold will corrupt him to revolt.
Par.
Sir, for a Quart-d' ecu, he will sell the fee-simple
of his salvation, the inheritance of it, and cut th' intail
from all remainders, and a perpetual succession for
it perpetually.
Int.
What's his Brother, the other Captain Dumain?
2 Lord.
Why does he ask him of me?
Int.
What's he?
Par.
E'en a crow o'th' same nest; not altogether
so great as the first in goodness, but greater a great deal
in evil. He excels his Brother for a Coward, yet his
brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a Retreat
he out-runs any lacquey; marry, in coming on he has
the cramp.
Int.
If your life be saved, will you undertake to betray
the Florentine?
Par.
Ay, and the Captain of his horse, Count Rousillon.
Int.
I'll whisper with the General, and know his
pleasure.
Par.
I'll no more drumming, a plague of all drums!
Only to seem to deserve well, and to beguile the supposition
of that lascivious young boy the Count, have
-- 88 --
I run into danger; yet who would have suspected an
ambush where I was taken?
[Aside.
Int.
There is no remedy, Sir, but you must die; the
General says, you, that have so traiterously discovered
the secrets of your army, and made such pestiferous
reports of men very nobly held, can serve the world
for no honest use; therefore you must die. Come,
headsman, off with his head.
Par.
O lord, Sir, let me live, or let me see my
death.
Int.
That shall you, and take your leave of all your
friends.
[Unbinding him.
So, look about you; know you any here?
Ber.
Good morrow, noble Captain.
2 Lord.
God bless you, Captain Parolles.
1 Lord.
God save you, noble Captain.
2 Lord.
Captain, what Greeting will you to my
Lord Lafeu? I am for France.
1 Lord.
Good Captain, will you give me a copy of
that same Sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf of the
Count Rousillon? if I were not a very coward, I'd
compel it of you; but fare you well.
[Exeunt.
Int.
You are undone, Captain, all but your scarf;
that has a knot on't yet.
Par.
Who cannot be crush'd with a Plot?
Int.
If you could find out a Country where but women
were that had receiv'd so much shame, you might
begin an impudent Nation. Fare you well, Sir, I am
for France too, we shall speak of you there.
[Exit.
SCENE VI.
Par.
Yet am I thankful: if my heart were great,
'Twould burst at this. Captain I'll be no more,
But I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft,
As Captain shall. Simply the thing I am
Shall make me live: who knows himself a braggart,
-- 89 --
Let him fear this; for it will come to pass,
That every braggart shall be found an ass.
Rust, sword! cool, blushes! and, Parolles, live
Safest in shame! being fool'd, by fool'ry thrive;
There's place and means for every man alive.
I'll after them.
[Exit.
SCENE VII.
Changes to the Widow's House, at Florence.
Enter Helena, Widow and Diana.
Hel.
That you may well perceive I have not wrong'd you,
One of the Greatest in the christian world
Shall be my Surety; 'fore whose Throne 'tis needful,
Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel.
Time was, I did him a desired office
Dear almost as his life; which, gratitude
Through flinty Tartar's bosom would peep forth,
And answer thanks. I duly am inform'd,
His Grace is at Marseilles, to which place
We have convenient Convoy; you must know,
I am supposed dead; the Army breaking,
My husband hies him home; where, heaven aiding,
And by the leave of my good lord the King,
We'll be before our welcome.
Wid.
Gentle Madam,
You never had a servant, to whose trust
Your business was more welcome.
Hel.
Nor you, Mistress,
Ever a friend, whose thoughts more truly labour
To recompense your love: doubt not, but heav'n
Hath brought me up to be your Daughter's dower,
As it hath fated her to be 5 notemy motive
-- 90 --
And helper to a husband. But, O strange men!
That can such sweet use make of what they hate,
6 note
When Fancy, trusting of the cozen'd thoughts,
Defiles the pitchy night; so lust doth play
With what it loaths, for that which is away.
But more of this hereafter. You, Diana,
(Under my poor instructions) yet must suffer
Something in my behalf.
Diana.
Let death and honesty
Go with your impositions, I am yours
Upon your will to suffer.
Hel.
Yet I pray you:
7 noteBut with the word the time will bring on summer,
When briars shall have leaves as well as thorns,
And be as sweet as sharp: we must away,
8 note
Our Waggon is prepar'd, and time revyes us;
All's well, that ends well; still the fine's the crown;
Whate'er the course, the end is the renown.
[Exeunt.
-- 91 --
SCENE VIII.
Changes to Rousillon in France.
Enter Countess, Lafeu, and Clown.
Laf.
No, no, no, your Son was mis-led with a
snipt-taffata fellow there, 9 note
whose villainous
saffron would have made all the unbak'd and dowy
youth of a nation in his colour. Your daughter-in-law
had been alive at this hour; and your son here at
-- 92 --
home, 1 notemore advantaged by the King, than by that
red-tail'd humble-bee I speak of.
Count.
I would, I had not known him! it was the
death of the most virtuous Gentlewoman that ever Nature
had Praise for creating; if she had partaken of
my flesh, and cost me the dearest groans of a Mother,
I could not have owed her a more rooted love.
Laf.
'Twas a good lady, 'twas a good lady. We
may pick a thousand sallets ere we light on such another
herb.
Clo.
Indeed, Sir, she was the sweet marjoram of the
sallet, or rather the herb of grace.
Laf.
They are not sallet-herbs, you knave, they
are nose-herbs.
Clo.
I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, Sir, I have
not much skill in grass.
Laf.
Whether dost thou profess thy self, a knave
or a fool?
Clo.
A fool, Sir, at a woman's service; and a
knave, at a man's.
Laf.
Your distinction?
Clo.
I would cozen the man of his wife, and do his
service.
Laf.
So you were a knave at his service, indeed.
Clo.
And I would give his wife my folly, Sir, to
do her service.
Laf.
I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knave
and fool.
Clo.
At your service.
Laf.
No, no, no.
-- 93 --
Clo.
Why, Sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serve
as great a Prince as you are.
Laf.
Who's that, a Frenchman?
Clo.
Faith, Sir, he has an English name; but his
2 notephisnomy is more honour'd in France than there.
Laf.
What Prince is that?
Clo.
The black Prince, Sir, alias the Prince of
Darkness, alias the Devil.
Laf.
Hold thee, there's my purse; I give thee not
this to seduce thee from thy Master thou talk'st of,
serve him still.
Clo.
3 noteI'm a woodland fellow, Sir, that always
lov'd a great fire; and the Master I speak of ever
keeps a good fire; but, sure, he is the Prince of the
world, let his Nobility remain in's Court. I am for
the House with the narrow gate, which I take to
be too little for Pomp to enter: some, that humble
themselves, may; but the many will be too chill and
tender, and they'll be for the flow'ry way that leads to
the broad gate, and the great fire.
Laf.
Go thy ways, I begin to be a weary of thee,
and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out
with thee. Go thy ways, let my horses be well look'd
to, without any tricks.
Clo.
If I put any tricks upon 'em, they shall be jades'
tricks, which are their own right by the law of Nature.
[Exit.
-- 94 --
Laf.
A shrewd knave, and an unhappy.
Count.
So he is. My Lord, that's gone, made himself
much sport out of him; by his authority he remains
here, which he thinks is a patent for his sawciness;
and, indeed, he has no pace, but runs where he
will.
Laf.
I like him well, 'tis not amiss; and I was
about to tell you, since I heard of the good Lady's
death, and that my Lord your Son was upon his
return home, I mov'd the King, my Master, to speak
in the behalf of my Daughter; which, in the minority
of them both, his Majesty, out of a self-gracious
remembrance, did first propose; his Highness hath
promis'd me to do it; and to stop up the displeasure
he hath conceived against your son, there is no fitter
matter. How do's your Ladyship like it?
Count.
With very much content, my Lord, and I
wish it happily effected.
Laf.
His Highness comes post from Marseilles, of
as able a body as when he number'd thirty; he will be
here to morrow, or I am deceiv'd by him that in such
intelligence hath seldom fail'd.
Count.
4 noteIt rejoices me, that hope, that I shall see
him ere I die. I have letters, that my son will be
here to night: I shall beseech your Lordship to remain
with me 'till they meet together.
Laf.
Madam, I was thinking with what manners I
might safely be admitted.
Count.
You need but plead your honourable privilege.
Laf.
Lady, of that I have made a bold charter;
but, I thank my God, it holds yet.
-- 95 --
Enter Clown.
Clo.
O Madam, yonder's my Lord, your son, with
a patch of velvet on's face; whether there be a scar
under't, or no, the velvet knows, but 'tis a goodly
patch of velvet; his left cheek is a cheek of two pile
and a half, but his right cheek is worn bare.
Count.
A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good
livery of honour. So, belike, is that.
Clo.
5 noteBut it is your carbinado'd face.
Laf.
Let us go see your son, I pray you: I long
to talk with the young noble soldier.
Clo.
'Faith, there's a dozen of 'em with delicate fine
hats and most courteous feathers, which bow the head,
and nod at every man.
[Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
The Court of France, at Marseilles.
Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana, with two Attendants.
Helena.
But this exceeding posting day and night
Must wear your spirits low; we cannot help it.
But since you've made the days and nights as one,
To wear your gentle limbs in my affairs;
Be bold, you do so grow in my requital,
As nothing can unroot you. In happy time,—
Enter a Gentleman.
This man may help me to his Majesty's ear,
-- 96 --
If he would spend his power. God save you, Sir.
Gent.
And you.
Hel.
Sir, I have seen you in the court of France.
Gent.
I have been sometimes there.
Hel.
I do presume, Sir, that you are not fallen
From the report that goes upon your goodness;
And therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions
Which lay nice manners by, I put you to
The use of your own virtues, for the which
I shall continue thankful.
Gent.
What's your will?
Hel.
That it will please you
To give this poor petition to the King;
And aid me with that store of power you have,
To come into his presence.
Gent.
The King's not here.
Hel.
Not here, Sir?
Gent.
Not, indeed.
He hence remov'd last night, and with more haste
Than is his use.
Wid.
Lord, how we lose our pains!
Hel.
All's well, that ends well yet,
Tho' time seem so adverse, and means unfit:
I do beseech you, whither is he gone?
Gent.
Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon,
Whither I'm going.
Hel.
I beseech you, Sir,
Since you are like to see the King before me,
Commend this paper to his gracious hand;
Which, I presume, shall render you no blame,
But rather make you thank your pains for it.
I will come after you with what good speed
Our means will make us means.
Gent.
This I'll do for you.
Hel.
And you shall find yourself to be well thank'd,
What-e'er falls more. We must to horse again.
Go, go, provide.
[Exeunt.
-- 97 --
SCENE II.
Changes to Rousillon.
Enter Clown, and Parolles.
Par.
Good Mr. Levatch, give my Lord Lafeu
this letter; I have ere now, Sir, been better
known to you, when I have held familiarity with
fresher cloaths; 1 notebut I am now, Sir, muddied in fortune's
moat, and smell somewhat strong of her strong
displeasure.
Clo.
Truly, fortune's displeasure is but sluttish, if
it smell so strongly as thou speak'st of: I will henceforth
eat no fish of fortune's butt'ring. Pr'ythee,
allow the wind.
Par.
Nay, you need not to stop your nose, Sir; I
spake but by a metaphor.
Clo.
2 note
Indeed, Sir, if your metaphor stink, I will
stop my nose against any man's metaphor. Pr'ythee,
get thee further.
-- 98 --
Par.
Pray you, Sir, deliver me this paper.
Clo.
Foh! pr'ythee, stand away; a paper from
fortune's close-stool, to give to a Nobleman! look,
here he comes himself.
Enter Lafeu.
Here is a pur of fortune's, Sir, or fortune's cat,
(but not a musk-cat;) that hath fall'n into the unclean
fishpond of her displeasure, and, as he says, is muddied
withal. Pray you, Sir, use the carp as you may;
for he looks like a poor, decayed, ingenious, foolish,
rascally knave. 3 noteI do pity his distress in my similies
of comfort, and leave him to your Lordship.
Par.
My Lord, I am a man whom fortune hath
cruelly scratch'd.
Laf.
And what would you have me to do? 'tis too
late to pare her nails now. Wherein have you play'd
the knave with fortune, that she should scratch you,
who of herself is a good Lady, and would not have
knaves thrive long under her? there's a Quart-d'ecu
for you: let the justices make you and fortune friends;
I am for other business.
-- 99 --
Par.
I beseech your honour, to hear me one single
word.
Laf.
You beg a single penny more: come, you
shall ha't, save your word.
Par.
My name, my good Lord, is Parolles.
Laf.
You beg more than one word then. Cox'
my passion! give me your hand: how does your
drum?
Par.
O my good lord, you were the first that
found me.
Laf.
Was I, insooth? and I was the first that lost
thee.
Par.
It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some
grace, for you did bring me out.
Laf.
Out upon thee, knave! dost thou put upon
me at once both the office of God and the Devil? one
brings thee in grace, and the other brings thee out.
[Sound Trumpets.] The King's coming, I know, by
his trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me, I had
talk of you last night; tho' you are a fool and a
knave, you shall eat; go to, follow.
Par.
I praise God for you.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafeu, the two French Lords, with Attendants.
King.
We lost a jewel of her, 4 noteour esteem
Was made much poorer by it; but your son,
As mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know
Her estimation home.
Count.
'Tis past, my Liege;
And I beseech your Majesty to make it
-- 100 --
5 note
Natural rebellion, done i'th' blade of youth,
When oil and fire, too strong for reason's force,
O'erbears it, and burns on.
King.
My honour'd Lady,
I have forgiven and forgotten all;
Tho' my revenges were high bent upon him,
And watch'd the time to shoot.
Laf.
This I must say,
But first I beg my pardon; the young Lord
Did to his Majesty, his mother, and his lady,
Offence of mighty note; but to himself
The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife,
Whose beauty did astonish the survey
Of richest eyes; whose words all ears took captive;
Whose dear perfection, hearts, that scorn'd to serve,
Humbly call'd mistress.
King.
Praising what is lost,
Makes the remembrance dear. Well—call him hither;
We're reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill
All repetition: let him not ask our pardon.
The nature of his great offence is dead,
And deeper than oblivion we do bury
Th' incensing relicks of it. Let him approach,
A stranger, no offender; and inform him,
So 'tis our will he should.
Gent.
I shall, my Liege.
King.
What says he to your daughter? Have you spoke?
Laf.
All, that he is, hath reference to your Highness.
-- 101 --
King.
Then shall we have a match. I have letters sent me,
That set him high in fame.
SCENE IV.
Enter Bertram.
Laf.
He looks well on't.
King.
I'm not a day of season,
For thou may'st see a sun-shine and a hail
In me at once; but to the brightest beams
Distracted clouds give way; so stand thou forth,
The time is fair again.
Ber.
My high repented blames,
Dear Sovereign, pardon to me.
King.
All is whole,
Not one word more of the consumed time,
Let's take the instant by the forward top;
For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees
Th' inaudible and noiseless foot of time
Steals, ere we can effect them. You remember
The daughter of this Lord?
Ber.
Admiringly, my Liege. At first
I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart
Durst make too bold a herald of my tongue:
Where the impression of mine eye enfixing,
Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me,
Which warp'd the line of every other favour;
6 note
Scorch'd a fair colour, or express'd it stoll'n;
-- 102 --
Extended or contracted all proportions
To a most hideous object: thence it came,
That she, whom all men prais'd, and whom myself,
Since I have lost, have lov'd, was in mine eye
The dust that did offend it.
King.
Well excus'd:
That thou do'st love her, strikes some scores away
From the great 'compt; but love, that comes too late,
Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried,
To the great sender turns a sowre offence,
Crying, that's good that is gone: our rash faults
7 noteMake trivial price of serious things we have,
Not knowing them, until we know their grave.
Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust,
Destroy our friends, and, after, weep their dust:
-- 103 --
Our own love waking cries to see what's done,
While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon.
Be this sweet Helen's knell; and now, forget her.
Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin,
The main consents are had, and here we'll stay
To see our widower's second marriage-day:
Count.
Which better than the first, O dear heav'n, bless,
Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cease!
Laf.
Come on, my son, in whom my house's name
Must be digested: give a favour from you
To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter,
That she may quickly come. By my old beard,
And every hair that's on't, Helen, that's dead,
Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this,
The last that ere she took her leave at court,
I saw upon her finger.
Ber.
Her's it was not.
King.
Now, pray you, let me see it: For mine eye,
While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd to't.
This ring was mine; and, when I gave it Helen,
I bad her, if her fortunes ever stood
Necessitied to help, that by this token
I would relieve her. Had you that craft to reave her
Of what should stead her most?
Ber.
My gracious Sovereign,
Howe'er it pleases you to take it so,
The ring was never her's.
Count.
Son, on my life,
I've seen her wear it, and she reckon'd it
At her life's rate.
Laf.
I'm sure, I saw her wear it.
Ber.
You are deceiv'd, my Lord, she never saw it;
In Florence was it from a casement thrown me,
Wrap'd in a paper, which contain'd the name
Of her that threw it: Noble she was, and thought
I stood engag'd; but when I had subscrib'd
-- 104 --
To mine own fortune, and inform'd her fully,
I could not answer in that course of honour
As she had made the overture, she ceast
In heavy satisfaction, and would never
Receive the ring again.
King.
Plutus himself,
That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine,
Hath not in nature's mystery more science,
Than I have in this ring. 'Twas mine, 'twas Helen's,
Whoever gave it you: 8 note
then if you know,
That you are well acquainted with yourself,
Confess 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement
You got it from her. She call'd the Saints to surety,
That she would never put it from her finger,
Unless she gave it to yourself in bed,
(Where you have never come) or sent it us
Upon her great disaster.
Ber.
She never saw it.
King.
Thou speak'st it falsely, as I love mine honour;
And mak'st conject'ral fears to come into me,
Which I would fain shut out; if it should prove
That thou art so inhuman—'twill not prove so—
And yet I know not—thou didst hate her deadly,
And she is dead; which nothing, but to close
Her eyes myself, could win me to believe,
More than to see this ring. Take him away.
[Guards seize Bertram.
My fore-past proofs, howe'er the matter fall,
Shall tax my fears of little vanity,
Having vainly fear'd too little. Away with him,
We'll sift this matter further.
Ber.
If you shall prove,
This ring was ever hers, you shall as easie
-- 105 --
Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence,
Where yet she never was.
[Exit Bertram guarded.
SCENE V.
Enter a Gentleman.
King.
I'm wrap'd in dismal thinkings.
Gent.
Gracious Sovereign,
Whether I've been to blame or no, I know not:
Here's a petition from a Florentine,
9 note
Who hath some four or five removes come short
To tender it herself. I undertook it,
Vanquish'd thereto by the fair grace and speech
Of the poor suppliant, who by this, I know,
Is here attending: her business looks in her
With an importing visage; and she told me,
In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern
Your Highness with herself.
The King reads a letter.
Upon his many protestations to marry me, when his
wife was dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Now is
the Count Rousillon a widower, his vows are forfeited
to me, and my honour's paid to him. He stole from
Florence, taking no leave, and I follow him to this
country for justice: grant it me, O King, in you it best
lyes; otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poor maid is
undone.
Diana Capulet.
Laf.
I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll
for him. For this, I'll none of him.
-- 106 --
King.
The heavens have thought well on thee, Lafeu,
To bring forth this discov'ry. Seek these suitors:
Go speedily, and bring again the Count.
Enter Bertram.
I am afraid, the life of Helen (lady)
Was foully snatch'd.
Count.
Now justice on the doers!
King.
I wonder, Sir, wives are so monstrous to you,
And that you fly them as you swear to them;
Yet you desire to wed. What woman's that?
Enter Widow and Diana.
Dia.
I am, my Lord, a wretched Florentine,
Derived from the ancient Capulet;
My suit, as I do understand, you know,
And therefore know how far I may be pitied.
Wid.
I am her mother, Sir, whose age and honour
Both suffer under this complaint we bring,
And both shall cease without your remedy.
King.
Come hither, Count; do you know these women?
Ber.
My Lord, I neither can, nor will, deny
But that I know them; do they charge me further?
Dia.
Why do you look so strange upon your wife?
Ber.
She's none of mine, my Lord.
Dia.
If you shall marry,
You give away this hand, and that is mine;
You give away heav'n's vows, and those are mine;
You give away myself, which is known mine;
For I by vow am so embodied yours,
That she, which marries you, must marry me,
Either both or none.
Laf.
Your reputation comes too short for my
daughter, you are no husband for her.
[To Bertram.
-- 107 --
Ber.
My Lord, this is a fond and desp'rate creature,
Whom sometime I have laugh'd with: let your Highness
Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour,
Than for to think that I would sink it here.
King.
Sir for my thoughts, you have them ill to friend,
'Till your deeds gain them: fairer prove your honour,
Than in my thought it lies!
Dia.
Good my lord,
Ask him upon his oath, if he does think
He had not my virginity.
King.
What say'st thou to her?
Ber.
She's impudent, my Lord;
And was a common gamester to the camp.
Dia.
He does me wrong, my Lord; if I were so,
He might have bought me at a common price.
Do not believe him. O, behold this ring,
Whose high respect and rich validity
Did lack a parallel: yet for all that,
He gave it to a commoner o'th' camp,
If I be one.
Count.
He blushes, and 'tis his:
Of six preceding ancestors, that gemm
Conferr'd by Testament to th' sequent issue,
Hath it been ow'd and worn. This is his wife,
That ring's a thousand proofs.
King.
Methought, you said,
You saw one here in Court could witness it.
Dia.
I did, my Lord, but loth am to produce
So bad an instrument; his name's Parolles.
Laf.
I saw the man to day, if man he be.
King.
Find him, and bring him hither.
Ber.
What of him?
He's quoted for a most perfidious slave,
With all the spots o'th' world tax'd and debosh'd,
Which nature sickens with: but to speak truth,
-- 108 --
Am I or that or this, for what he'll utter,
That will speak any thing?
King.
She hath that ring of yours.
Ber.
I think, she has; certain it is, I lik'd her,
And boarded her i'th' wanton way of youth:
She knew her distance, and did angle for me,
Madding my eagerness with her restraint;
As all impediments in fancy's course
Are motives of more fancy: and in fine,
Her insuit coming with her modern grace,
Subdu'd me to her rate: she got the ring;
And I had That, which any inferior might
At market-price have bought.
Dia.
I must be patient:
You, that turn'd off a first so noble wife,
May justly 1 notediet me. I pray you yet,
(Since you lack virtue, I will lose a husband,)
Send for your ring, I will return it home,
And give me mine again.
Ber.
I have it not.
King.
What ring was yours, I pray you?
Dia.
Sir, much like the same upon your finger.
King.
Know you this ring? this ring was his of late.
Dia.
And this was it I gave him, being a-bed.
King.
The story then goes false, you threw it him
Out of a casement.
Dia.
I have spoke the truth.
SCENE VI.
Enter Parolles.
Ber.
My Lord, I do confess, the ring was hers.
King.
You boggle shrewdly, every feather starts you!—
-- 109 --
Is this the man you speak of?
Dia.
It is, my Lord.
King.
Tell me, Sirrah, but tell me true, I charge you,
Not fearing the displeasure of your master,
Which on your just proceeding I'll keep off;
By him and by this woman here, what know you?
Par.
So please your Majesty, my master hath been
an honourable Gentleman. Tricks he hath had in
him, which Gentlemen have.
King.
Come, come, to the purpose; did he love this
Woman?
Par.
'Faith, Sir, he did love her; but how?
King.
How, I pray you?
Par.
He did love her, Sir, as a Gentleman loves
a Woman.
King.
How is that?
Par.
He lov'd her, Sir, and lov'd her not,
King.
As thou art a knave, and no knave; what
an equivocal companion is this?
Par.
I am a poor man, and at your Majesty's
Command.
Laf.
He's a good drum, my Lord, but a naughty
Orator.
Dia.
Do you know, he promis'd me marriage?
Par.
'Faith, I know more than I'll speak.
King.
But wilt thou not speak all thou know'st?
Par.
Yes, so please your Majesty. I did go between
them, as I said; but more than that, he lov'd her:
for, indeed, he was mad for her, and talk'd of Satan,
and of limbo, and of furies, and I know not what;
yet I was in that credit with them at that time, that
I knew of their going to bed, and of other motions,
as promising her marriage, and things that would
derive me ill will to speak of; therefore I will not
speak what I know.
-- 110 --
King.
Thou hast spoken all already, unless thou can'st
say they are married; but thou art too fine in thy
evidence; therefore stand aside. This ring, you say,
was yours?
Dia.
Ay, my good Lord.
King.
Where did you buy it? or who gave it you?
Dia.
It was not given me, nor did I buy it.
King.
Who lent it you?
Dia.
It was not lent me neither.
King.
Where did you find it then?
Dia.
I found it not.
King.
If it were yours by none of all these ways,
How could you give it him?
Dia.
I never gave it him.
Laf.
This woman's an easie glove, my Lord, she
goes off and on at pleasure.
King.
This ring was mine, I gave it his first wife.
Dia.
It might be yours, or hers, for aught I know.
King.
Take her away, I do not like her now;
To prison with her: and away with him.
Unless thou tell'st me where thou hadst this ring,
Thou diest within this hour.
Dia.
I'll never tell you.
King.
Take her away.
Dia.
I'll put in bail, my Liege.
King.
I think thee now some common customer.
Dia.
By Jove, if ever I knew man, 'twas you.
King.
Wherefore hast thou accus'd him all this while?
Dia.
Because he's guilty, and he is not guilty;
He knows, I am no maid, and he'll swear to't;
I'll swear, I am a maid, and he knows not.
Great King, I am no strumpet, by my life;
I'm either maid, or else this old man's wife.
[Pointing to Lafeu.
-- 111 --
King.
She does abuse our ears; to prison with her.
Dia.
Good mother, fetch my bail. Stay, royal Sir.
[Exit Widow.
The jeweller, that owes the ring, is sent for,
And he shall surety me. But for this Lord,
[To Bertram.
Who hath abus'd me, as he knows himself,
Tho' yet he never harm'd me, here I quit him.
He knows himself, my bed he hath defil'd,
And at that time he got his wife with child;
Dead tho' she be, she feels her young one kick:
So there's my riddle; one, that's dead, is quick.
And now behold the meaning.
Enter Helena, and Widow.
King.
Is there no Exorcist
Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes?
Is't real, that I see?
Hel.
No, my good Lord,
'Tis but a shadow of a wife you see,
The name, and not the thing.
Ber.
Both, both; oh, pardon!
Hel.
Oh, my good Lord, when I was like this maid,
I found you wond'rous kind; there is your ring,
And look you, here's your letter: this it says,
When from my finger you can get this ring,
And are by me with child, &c. This is done.
Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?
Ber.
If she, my Liege, can make me know this clearly,
I'll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly.
Hel.
If it appear not plain, and prove untrue,
Deadly divorce step between me and you!
O my dear mother, do I see you living?
[To the Countess.
-- 112 --
Laf.
Mine eyes smell onions, I shall weep anon:
Good Tom Drum, lend me a handkerchief,
[To Parolles.
So, I thank thee, wait on me home. I'll make sport
with thee: let thy courtesies alone, they are scurvy
ones.
King.
Let us from point to point this story know,
To make the even truth in pleasure flow:
If thou beest yet a fresh uncropped flower,
[To Diana.
Chuse thou thy husband, and I'll pay thy dower;
For I can guess, that, by thy honest aid,
Thou kept'st a wife herself, thyself a maid.
Of that and all the progress more and less,
Resolvedly more leisure shall express:
All yet seems well; and if it end so meet,
The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.
[Exeunt.
-- 113 --
EPILOGUE,
Spoken by the KING.
The King's a beggar, now the play is done:
All is well ended, if this suit be won,
That you express content; which we will pay,
With strife to please you, day exceeding day;
Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts;
Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts.
