Lafeu, all in black1 note.
Count.
In delivering my son from me, I bury a
second husband.
Ber.
And I, in going, madam, weep o'er my father's
death anew; but I must attend his majesty's command,
to whom I am now in ward2 note, evermore in subjection.
Laf.
You shall find of the king a husband, madam;
—you, sir, a father. He that so generally is at all
times good, must of necessity hold his virtue to you,
whose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted,
rather than lack it where there is such abundance.
Count.
What hope is there of his majesty's amendment?
Laf.
He hath abandoned his physicians, madam;
under whose practices he hath persecuted time with
hope, and finds no other advantage in the process but
only the losing of hope by time.
-- 208 --
Count.
This young gentlewoman had a father,—O,
that had! how sad a passage 'tis!—whose skill was
almost as great as his honesty; had it stretched so far,
would have made nature immortal 11Q03963 note, and death should
have play for lack of work. Would, for the king's
sake, he were living! I think it would be the death of
the king's disease.
Laf.
How called you the man you speak of, madam?
Count.
He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it
was his great right to be so—Gerard de Narbon.
Laf.
He was excellent, indeed, madam: the king
very lately spoke of him, admiringly and mourningly.
He was skilful enough to have lived still, if knowledge
could be set up against mortality.
Ber.
What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of?
Laf.
A fistula, my lord4 note.
Ber.
I heard not of it before.
Laf.
I would it were not notorious.—Was this gentlewoman
the daughter of Gerard de Narbon?
Count.
His sole child, my lord; and bequeathed to
my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that
her education promises: her dispositions she inherits,
which make fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean
mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go
with pity; they are virtues and traitors too: in her
they are the better for their simpleness; she derives
her honesty, and achieves her goodness.
Laf.
Your commendations, madam, get from her
tears.
Count.
'Tis the best brine a maiden can season her
praise in. The remembrance of her father never
-- 209 --
approaches her heart, but the tyranny of her sorrows
takes all livelihood from her cheek.—No more of this,
Helena: go to, no more; lest it be rather thought you
affect a sorrow, than to have.
Hel.
I do affect a sorrow, indeed; but I have it too.
Laf.
Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead,
excessive grief the enemy to the living.
Count.
If the living be 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 heaven more will,
That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck down,
Fall on thy head!—Farewell, my lord:
'Tis an unseason'd courtier: good my lord,
Advise him.
Laf.
He cannot want the best
That shall attend his love.
Count.
Heaven bless him!—
Farewell, Bertram.
[Exit Countess.
Ber. [To Helena.]
The best wishes that can be
forged in your thoughts be servants to you! Be comfortable
to my mother, your mistress, and make much
of her.
Laf.
Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the credit
of your father.
[Exeunt Bertram and Lafeu.
Hel.
O, were that all!—I think not on my father;
And these great tears grace his remembrance more
-- 210 --
Than those I shed for him5 note
. What was he like?
I have forgot him: my imagination
Carries no favour in't but Bertram's. 11Q0397
I am undone: there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me:
In his bright radiance 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, though a plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table6 note; heart, too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics. Who comes here?
Enter Parolles.
One that goes with him: I love him for his sake,
And yet I know him a notorious liar,
Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;
Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him,
That they take place, when virtue's steely bones
Look bleak in the cold wind: withal, full oft we see
-- 211 --
Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
Par.
Save you, fair queen.
Hel.
And you, monarch7 note.
Par.
No.
Hel.
And no.
Par.
Are you meditating on virginity?
Hel.
Ay. You have some stain of soldier8 note in you,
let me ask you a question: man is enemy to virginity;
how may we barricado it against him?
Par.
Keep him out.
Hel.
But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant
in the defence, yet is weak. Unfold to us some warlike
resistance.
Par.
There is none: man, sitting down before you,
will undermine you, and blow you up.
Hel.
Bless our poor virginity from underminers, and
blowers up!—Is there no military policy, how virgins
might blow up men?
Par.
Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier
be blown up: marry, in blowing him down again, with
the breach yourselves made you lose your city. It is
not politic in the commonwealth of nature to preserve
virginity. Loss of virginity is rational 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
-- 212 --
accuse your mothers, which is most infallible disobedience.
He that hangs himself is a virgin: virginity
murders itself, and should be buried in highways, out
of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against
nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese;
consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with
feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish,
proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most
inhibited sin9 note in the canon. Keep it not: you cannot
choose but lose by't. Out with't: within ten years it
will make itself ten 11Q039810 note, which is a goodly increase, and
the principal itself not much the worse. Away with't.
Hel.
How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own
liking?
Par.
Let me see: marry, ill; to like him that ne'er
it likes1 note. 'Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with
lying; the longer kept, the less worth: off with't,
while 'tis vendible: answer the time of request. Virginity,
like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion;
richly suited, but unsuitable: just like the brooch and
the tooth-pick, which wear not now. Your date is better
in your pie and your porridge, than in your cheek:
and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of
our French withered pears: it looks ill, it eats dryly;
marry, 'tis a withered pear; it was formerly better;
marry, yet, 'tis a withered pear. Will you any thing
with it?
Hel.
Not my virginity yet2 note.
-- 213 --
There shall your master have a thousand loves3 note,
A mother, and a mistress, and a friend,
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, adoptions christendoms,
That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he—
I know not what he shall:—God send him well!—
The court's a learning-place;—and he is one—
Par.
What one, i'faith?
Hel.
That I wish well.—'Tis pity—
Par.
What's pity?
Hel.
That wishing well had not a body in't,
Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born,
Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,
Might with effects of them follow our friends,
And show what we alone must think; which never
Returns us thanks.
Enter a Page.
Page.
Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.
[Exit Page.
Par.
Little Helen, farewell: if I can remember thee,
I will think of thee at court.
Hel.
Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a
charitable star.
Par.
Under Mars, I.
-- 214 --
Hel.
I especially think, under Mars.
Par.
Why under Mars?
Hel.
The wars have so kept you under, that you
must needs be born under Mars.
Par.
When he was predominant.
Hel.
When he was retrograde, I think, rather.
Par.
Why think you so?
Hel.
You go so much backward, when you fight.
Par.
That's for advantage.
Hel.
So is running away, when fear proposes the
safety: but the composition that your valour and fear
makes in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the
wear well.
Par.
I am so full of businesses, 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 a courtier's counsel, and
understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else
thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance
makes thee away: farewell. When thou hast leisure,
say thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember thy
friends. Get thee a good husband, and use him as he
uses thee: so farewell.
[Exit.
Hel.
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky
Gives us free scope; only, doth backward pull
Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull.
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. 11Q0399
Impossible be strange attempts to those
That weigh their pains in sense; and do suppose,
What hath been cannot be. Who ever strove
To show 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.
-- 215 --
SCENE II.
Paris. A Room in the King's Palace.
Flourish of cornets. Enter the King of France, with letters; Lords and others attending.
King.
The Florentines and Senoys4 note are by th' ears;
Have fought with equal fortune, and continue
A braving war.
1 Lord5 note.
So 'tis reported, sir.
King.
Nay, 'tis most credible: we here receive it
A certainty, vouch'd from our cousin Austria,
With caution, that the Florentine will move us
For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend
Prejudicates the business, and would seem
To have us make denial.
1 Lord.
His love and wisdom,
Approv'd so to your majesty, may plead
For amplest credence.
King.
He hath arm'd our answer,
And Florence is denied 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.
-- 216 --
King.
Youth, thou bear'st thy father's face;
Frank nature, rather curious than in haste,
Hath well compos'd thee. Thy father's moral parts
May'st thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.
Ber.
My thanks and duty are your majesty's.
King.
I would I had that corporal soundness now,
As when thy father, and myself, in friendship
First tried our soldiership. He did look far
Into the service of the time, and was
Discipled of the bravest: he lasted long;
But on us both did haggish age steal on,
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me
To talk of your good father. In his youth
He had the wit, which I can well observe
To-day in our young lords; but they may jest,
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted,
Ere they can hide their levity in honour:
So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness
Were in his pride, or sharpness; if they were,
His equal had awak'd them; and his honour,
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when
Exception bid him speak, and at this time
His tongue obey'd his hand: who were below him
He us'd as creatures of another place,
And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks,
Making them proud of his humility,
In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man
Might be a copy to these younger times,
Which, follow'd well, would demonstrate them now
But goers backward.
Ber.
His good remembrance, sir,
Lies richer in your thoughts, than on his tomb:
So in approof lives not his epitaph6 note,
As in your royal speech.
-- 217 --
King.
'Would I were with him! He would always say,
(Methinks, I hear him now; his plausive words
He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them,
To grow there, and to bear,)—“Let me not live,”—
This 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
Mere fathers of their garments7 note; whose constancies
Expire before their fashions.”—This he wish'd:
I, after him, do after him wish too,
Since I nor wax, nor honey, can bring home,
I quickly were dissolved from my hive,
To give some labourers room.
2 Lord.
You are lov'd, sir;
They, that least lend it you, shall lack you first.
King.
I fill a place, I know't.—How long is't, count,
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.
[Exeunt.
-- 218 --
SCENE III.
Rousillon. A Room in the Countess's Palace.
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
you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability
enough to make such knaveries yours8 note.
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,
though many of the rich are damned. But, if I may
have your ladyship's good-will to go to the world9 note,
Isbel, the woman, and I will do as we may10 note.
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
-- 219 --
heritage; and, I think, I shall never have the blessing
of God, till I have issue of my body, for they say,
bairns are blessings.
Count.
Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.
Clo.
My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven
on by the flesh, and he must needs go, that the devil
drives.
Count.
Is this all your worship's reason?
Clo.
Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such
as they are.
Count.
May the world know them?
Clo.
I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you
and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry
that I may repent.
Count.
Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.
Clo.
I am out o' friends, madam; and I hope to
have friends for my wife's sake.
Count.
Such friends are thine enemies, knave.
Clo.
You are shallow, madam; e'en great friends1 note;
for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am
a-weary of. He, that ears my land, spares my team,
and gives me leave to inn the crop: if I be his cuckold,
he's my drudge. He that comforts my wife is the
cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my
flesh and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that
loves my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo he that
kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be contented
to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage;
for young Charbon the puritan, and old Poysam
the papist, howsome'er their hearts are severed2 note in
religion, their heads are both one; they may joll horns
together, like any deer i' the herd.
-- 220 --
Count.
Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious
knave?
Clo.
A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth
the next way3 note:
For I the ballad will repeat,
Which men full true shall find;
Your marriage comes by destiny,
Your cuckoo sings by kind.
Count.
Get you gone, sir: I'll talk with you more
anon.
Stew.
May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen
come to you: of her I am to speak.
Count.
Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman, I would speak
with her; Helen I mean.
Clo.
Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,
Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
Fond done, done fond4 note,
Was this king Priam's joy? 11Q0400
With that she sighed as she stood5 note
With that she sighed as she stood,
And gave this sentence then;
Among nine bad if one be good,
Among nine bad if one be good,
There's yet one good in ten.
Count.
What! one good in ten? you corrupt the
song, sirrah.
-- 221 --
Clo.
One good woman in ten, madam, which is a
purifying o' the song. Would God would serve the
world so all the year! we'd find no fault with the
tythe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth
a'! an we might have a good woman born but ere
every blazing star6 note, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend
the lottery well: a man may draw his heart out, ere
he pluck one.
Count.
You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command
you?
Clo.
That man should be at woman's command, and
yet no hurt done!—Though honesty be no puritan, yet
it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility
over the black gown of a big heart 11Q04017 note.—I am going,
forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither.
[Exit.
Count.
Well, now.
Stew.
I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman
entirely.
Count.
Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to
me; and she herself, without other advantage, may
lawfully make title to as much love as she finds: there
is more owing her than is paid, and more shall be paid
her than she'll demand.
Stew.
Madam, I was very late more near her than,
I think, she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate
to herself, her own words to her own ears;
she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any
-- 222 --
stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son:
fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such
difference betwixt their two estates; love, no god, that
would not extend his might, only where qualities were
level; Diana, no queen of virgins 11Q04028 note, that would suffer
her poor knight to be surprised, without rescue, in the
first assault, or ransom afterward. This she delivered
in the most bitter touch of sorrow, that e'er I heard
virgin exclaim in; which I held my duty speedily to
acquaint you withal, sithence9 note in the loss that may
happen it concerns you something to know it.
Count.
You have discharged this honestly: keep it
to yourself. Many likelihoods informed 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 farther anon.
[Exit Steward.
Enter Helena.
Count.
Even so it was with me, when I was young:
If ever 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 impress'd in youth:
By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults; or then we thought them none. 11Q0403
Her eye is sick on't: I observe her now.
Hel.
What is your pleasure, madam?
Count.
You know, Helen,
I am a mother to you.
Hel.
Mine honourable mistress.
-- 223 --
Count.
Nay, a mother.
Why not a mother? When I said, a mother,
Methought you saw a serpent: what's in mother,
That you start at it? I say, I am your mother,
And put you in the catalogue of those
That were enwombed mine. 'Tis often seen,
Adoption strives with nature; and choice breeds
A native slip to us from foreign seeds:
You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan,
Yet I express to you a mother's care.—
God's mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood,
To say, I am thy mother? What's the matter,
That this distemper'd messenger of wet,
The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye?—
Why, that you are my daughter1 note?
Hel.
That I am not.
Count.
I say, I am your mother.
Hel.
Pardon, madam;
The count Rousillon cannot be my brother:
I am from humble, he from honour'd name;
No note upon my parents, his all noble:
My master, my dear lord he is; and I
His servant live, and will his vassal die.
He must not be my brother.
Count.
Nor I your mother?
Hel.
You are my mother, madam: would you were
(So that my lord, your son, were not my brother)
Indeed, my mother!—or were you both our mothers,
I care no more for, than I do for heaven,
So I were not his sister. Can't no other,
But, I your daughter, he must be my brother2 note
?
-- 224 --
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
The mystery of your loneliness3 note, 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, th' one to the other; and thine eyes
See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours,
That in their kind they speak it: only sin,
And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,
That truth should be suspected. Speak, is't so?
If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue;
If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,
As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,
To tell me truly.
Hel.
Good madam, pardon me.
Count.
Do you love my son?
Hel.
Your pardon, noble mistress.
Count.
Love you my son?
Hel.
Do not you love him, madam?
Count.
Go not about: my love hath in't a bond,
Whereof the world takes note. Come, come, disclose
The state of your affection, for your passions
Have to the full appeach'd.
Hel.
Then, I confess,
Here on my knee, before high heaven and you,
That before you, and next unto high heaven,
I love your son.—
My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love:
-- 225 --
Be not offended, for it hurts not him,
That he is lov'd of me. I follow him not
By any token of presumptuous suit;
Nor would I have him, till I do deserve him,
Yet never know how that desert should be.
I know I love in vain, strive against hope;
Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve4 note,
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 encounter with my love,
For loving where you do: but, if yourself,
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,
Did ever, in so true a flame of liking,
Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself and love, O! then, give pity
To her, whose state is such, that cannot choose
But lend and give where she is sure to lose;
That seeks not to find that her search implies,
But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies.
Count.
Had you not lately an intent, speak truly,
To go to Paris?
Hel.
Madam, I had.
Count.
Wherefore? tell true.
Hel.
I will tell truth; by grace itself, I swear.
You know, my father left me some prescriptions
Of rare and prov'd effects, such as his reading
And manifest experience had collected 11Q0404
For general sovereignty; and that he will'd me
-- 226 --
In heedfull'st reservation to bestow them,
As notes, whose faculties inclusive were
More than they were in note5 note. Amongst the rest,
There is a remedy approv'd, set down
To cure the desperate languishings6 note whereof
The king is render'd lost.
Count.
This was your motive
For Paris, was it? speak.
Hel.
My lord, your son, made me to think of this;
Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king,
Had, from the conversation of my thoughts,
Haply been absent then.
Count.
But think you, Helen,
If you should tender your supposed aid,
He would receive it? He and his physicians
Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him,
They, that they cannot help. How shall they credit
A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,
Embowell'd of their doctrine, have left off
The danger to itself?
Hel.
There's something in't7 note,
More than my father's skill, which was the greatest
Of his profession, that his good receipt
Shall, for my legacy, be sanctified
By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your honour
But give me leave to try success, I'd venture
The well-lost life of mine on his grace's cure,
By such a day, and hour.
Count.
Dost thou believe't?
Hel.
Ay, madam, knowingly.
-- 227 --
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.
Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this,
What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss.
[Exeunt.
J. Payne Collier [1842–1844], The works of William Shakespeare. The text formed from an entirely new collation of the old editions: with the various readings, notes, a life of the poet, and a history of the Early English stage. By J. Payne Collier, Esq. F.S.A. In eight volumes (Whittaker & Co. [etc.], London) [word count] [S10101].
