Act I

Act I. Scene I. Rousillon. The Count's palace.

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

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.

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.

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What hope is there of his majesty's amendment?

He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; under whose

practises he hath persecuted time with hope, and

finds no other advantage in the process but only the

losing of hope by time.

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, and death

should have play for lack of work. Would, for the

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king's sake, he were living! I think it would be

the death of the king's disease.

How called you the man you speak of, madam?

He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was

his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon.

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.

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

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A fistula, my lord.

I heard not of it before.

I would it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman

the daughter of Gerard de Narbon?

His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my

overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that

her education promises; her dispositions she

inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where

an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there

commendations go with pity; they are virtues and

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traitors too; in her they are the better for their

simpleness; she derives her honesty and achieves her goodness.

Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.

'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 have it.

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

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Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead,

excessive grief the enemy to the living.

If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess

makes it soon mortal.

Madam, I desire your holy wishes.

How understand we that?

Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy father

In manners, as in shape! thy blood and virtue

Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness

Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few,

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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 cheque'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.

He cannot want the best

That shall attend his love.

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Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram.

[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.

Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the credit of

your father.

O, 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

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Carries no favour in't but Bertram's.

I am undone: there is no living, none,

If Bertram be away. 'Twere 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.

The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:

The hind that would be mated by the lion

Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though plague,

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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 reliques. Who comes here?

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 fixed evils sit so fit in him,

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That they take place, when virtue's steely bones

Look bleak i' the cold wind: withal, full oft we see

Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.

Save you, fair queen!

And you, monarch!

No.

And no.

Are you meditating on virginity?

Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you: let me

ask you a question. Man is enemy to virginity; how

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may we barricado it against him?

Keep him out.

But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant,

in the defence yet is weak: unfold to us some

warlike resistance.

There is none: man, sitting down before you, will

undermine you and blow you up.

Bless our poor virginity from underminers and

blowers up! Is there no military policy, how

virgins might blow up men?

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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!

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I will stand for 't a little, though therefore I die a virgin.

There's little can be said in 't; 'tis against the

rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity,

is to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible

disobedience. 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.

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Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of

self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the

canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but loose

by't: out with 't! within ten year it will make

itself ten, which is a goodly increase; and the

principal itself not much the worse: away with 't!

How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?

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

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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 drily; marry,

'tis a withered pear; it was formerly better;

marry, yet 'tis a withered pear: will you anything with it?

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Not my virginity yet:

There shall your master have a thousand loves,

A mother and a mistress and a friend,

A phoenix, 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,

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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--

What one, i' faith?

That I wish well. 'Tis pity--

What's pity?

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,

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And show what we alone must think, which never

Return us thanks.

Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.

Little Helen, farewell; if I can remember thee, I

will think of thee at court.

Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.

Under Mars, I.

I especially think, under Mars.

Why under Mars?

The wars have so kept you under that you must needs

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be born under Mars.

When he was predominant.

When he was retrograde, I think, rather.

Why think you so?

You go so much backward when you fight.

That's for advantage.

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.

I am so full of businesses, I cannot answer thee

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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.

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,

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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.

Impossible be strange attempts to those

That weigh their pains in sense and do suppose

What hath been cannot be: who ever strove

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So 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.

Act I. Scene II. Paris. The King's palace.

The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears;

Have fought with equal fortune and continue

A braving war.

So 'tis reported, sir.

Nay, 'tis most credible; we here received 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

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To have us make denial.

His love and wisdom,

Approved so to your majesty, may plead

For amplest credence.

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.

It well may serve

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A nursery to our gentry, who are sick

For breathing and exploit.

What's he comes here?

It is the Count Rousillon, my good lord,

Young Bertram.

Youth, thou bear'st thy father's face;

Frank nature, rather curious than in haste,

Hath well composed thee. Thy father's moral parts

Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.

My thanks and duty are your majesty's.

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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

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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 awaked 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 used as creatures of another place

And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks,

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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.

His good remembrance, sir,

Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb;

So in approof lives not his epitaph

As in your royal speech.

Would I were with him! He would always say--

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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 garments; whose constancies

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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.

You are loved, sir:

They that least lend it you shall lack you first.

I fill a place, I know't. How long is't, count,

Since the physician at your father's died?

He was much famed.

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Some six months since, my lord.

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.

Thank your majesty.

Act I. Scene III. Rousillon. The Count's palace.

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

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.

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

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you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability

enough to make such knaveries yours.

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

Well, sir.

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 world, Isbel

the woman and I will do as we may.

Wilt thou needs be a beggar?

I do beg your good will in this case.

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In what case?

In Isbel's case and mine own. Service is no

heritage: and I think I shall never have the

blessing of God till I have issue o' my body; for

they say barnes are blessings.

Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.

My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on

by the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives.

Is this all your worship's reason?

Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons such as they

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are.

May the world know them?

I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and

all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry

that I may repent.

Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.

I am out o' friends, madam; and I hope to have

friends for my wife's sake.

Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

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

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knaves come to do that for me which I am aweary of.

He that ears my land spares my team and gives me

leave to in 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

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Papist, howsome'er their hearts are severed in

religion, their heads are both one; they may jowl

horns together, like any deer i' the herd.

Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave?

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

way:

For I the ballad will repeat,

Which men full true shall find;

Your marriage comes by destiny,

Your cuckoo sings by kind.

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Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you more anon.

May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to

you: of her I am to speak.

Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her;

Helen, I mean.

Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,

Why the Grecians sacked Troy?

Fond done, done fond,

Was this King Priam's joy?

With that she sighed as she stood,

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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.

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

One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying

o' the song: would God would serve the world so all

the year! we'ld find no fault with the tithe-woman,

if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth a'! An we

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might have a good woman born but one every blazing

star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery

well: a man may draw his heart out, ere a' pluck

one.

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

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. I am

going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither.

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Well, now.

I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.

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.

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

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thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any

stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son:

Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put

such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no

god, that would not extend his might, only where

qualities were level; Dian no queen of virgins, that

would suffer her poor knight 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

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held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal;

sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns

you something to know it.

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 further anon.

Even so it was with me when I was young:

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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.

Her eye is sick on't: I observe her now.

What is your pleasure, madam?

You know, Helen,

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I am a mother to you.

Mine honourable mistress.

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:

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You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan,

Yet I express to you a mother's care:

God's mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood

To say I am thy mother? What's the matter,

That this distemper'd messenger of wet,

The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye?

Why? that you are my daughter?

That I am not.

I say, I am your mother.

Pardon, madam;

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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.

Nor I your mother?

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,

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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 brother?

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 loneliness, and find

Your salt tears' head: now to all sense 'tis gross

You love my son; invention is ashamed,

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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 th' other; and thine eyes

See it so grossly shown in thy behaviors

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 clew;

If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,

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As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,

Tell me truly.

Good madam, pardon me!

Do you love my son?

Your pardon, noble mistress!

Love you my son?

Do not you love him, madam?

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

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Have to the full appeach'd.

Then, I confess,

Here on my knee, before high heaven and you,

That before you, and next unto high heaven,

I love your son.

My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love:

Be not offended; for it hurts not him

That he is loved of me: I follow him not

By any token of presumptuous suit;

Nor would I have him till I do deserve him;

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Yet never know how that desert should 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 encounter with my love

For loving where you do: but if yourself,

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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!

Had you not lately an intent,--speak truly,--

To go to Paris?

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Madam, I had.

Wherefore? tell true.

I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.

You know my father left me some prescriptions

Of rare and proved effects, such as his reading

And manifest experience had collected

For general sovereignty; 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,

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There is a remedy, approved, set down,

To cure the desperate languishings whereof

The king is render'd lost.

This was your motive

For Paris, was it? speak.

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.

But think you, Helen,

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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?

There's something in't,

More than my father's skill, which was the greatest

Of his profession, that his good receipt

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Shall for my legacy be sanctified

By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your honour

But give me leave to try success, I'ld venture

The well-lost life of mine on his grace's cure

By such a day and hour.

Dost thou believe't?

Ay, madam, knowingly.

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

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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.

Act II

Act II. Scene I. Paris. The King's palace.

Farewell, young lords; these warlike principles

Do not throw from you: and you, my lords, farewell:

Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain, all

The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis received,

And is enough for both.

'Tis our hope, sir,

After well enter'd soldiers, to return

And find your grace in health.

No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart

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Will not confess he owes the malady

That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords;

Whether I live or die, be you the sons

Of worthy Frenchmen: 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, farewell.

Health, at your bidding, serve your majesty!

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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.

Our hearts receive your warnings.

Farewell. Come hither to me.

O, my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us!

'Tis not his fault, the spark.

O, 'tis brave wars!

Most admirable: I have seen those wars.

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I am commanded here, and kept a coil with

'Too young' and 'the next year' and ''tis too early.'

An thy mind stand to't, boy, steal away bravely.

I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock,

Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry,

Till honour be bought up and no sword worn

But one to dance with! By heaven, I'll steal away.

There's honour in the theft.

Commit it, count.

I am your accessary; and so, farewell.

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I grow to you, and our parting is a tortured body.

Farewell, captain.

Sweet Monsieur Parolles!

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

entrenched it: say to him, I live; and observe his

reports for me.

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We shall, noble captain.

Mars dote on you for his novices! what will ye do?

Stay: the king.

[To Bertram] Use a more spacious ceremony to the

noble lords; you have restrained yourself within the

list of too cold an adieu: be more expressive to

them: for they wear themselves in the cap of the

time, there do muster true gait, eat, speak, and

move under the influence of the most received star;

and though the devil lead the measure, such are to

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be followed: after them, and take a more dilated farewell.

And I will do so.

Worthy fellows; and like to prove most sinewy sword-men.

[Kneeling] Pardon, my lord, for me and for my tidings.

I'll fee thee to stand up.

Then here's a man stands, that has brought his pardon.

I would you had kneel'd, my lord, to ask me mercy,

And that at my bidding you could so stand up.

I would I had; so I had broke thy pate,

And ask'd thee mercy for't.

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Good faith, across: but, my good lord 'tis thus;

Will you be cured of your infirmity?

No.

O, will you eat no grapes, my royal fox?

Yes, but you will my noble grapes, 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 spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch,

Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay,

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To give great Charlemain a pen in's hand,

And write to her a love-line.

What 'her' is this?

Why, Doctor She: my lord, there's one arrived,

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, her years, profession,

Wisdom and constancy, hath amazed me more

Than I dare blame my weakness: will you see her

90

For that is her demand, and know her business?

That done, laugh well at me.

Now, good Lafeu,

Bring in the admiration; that we with thee

May spend our wonder too, or take off thine

By wondering how thou took'st it.

Nay, I'll fit you,

And not be all day neither.

Thus he his special nothing ever prologues.

Nay, come your ways.

100

This haste hath wings indeed.

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 am Cressid's uncle,

That dare leave two together; fare you well.

Now, fair one, does your business follow us?

Ay, my good lord.

Gerard de Narbon was my father;

In what he did profess, well found.

110

I knew him.

The rather will I spare my praises towards him:

Knowing him is enough. On's bed of death

Many receipts he gave me: chiefly one.

Which, as the dearest issue of his practise,

And of his old experience the oily 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

120

Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power,

I come to tender it and my appliance

With all bound humbleness.

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 inaidible estate; I say we must not

So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope,

130

To prostitute our past-cure malady

To empirics, or to dissever so

Our great self and our credit, to esteem

A senseless help when help past sense we deem.

My duty then shall pay me for my pains:

I will no more enforce mine office on you.

Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts

A modest one, to bear me back again.

I cannot give thee less, to be call'd grateful:

Thou thought'st to help me; and such thanks I give

140

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.

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

From simple sources, and great seas have dried

150

When miracles have by the greatest been denied.

Oft expectation fails and most oft there

Where most it promises, and oft it hits

Where hope is coldest and despair most fits.

I must not hear thee; fare thee well, kind maid;

Thy pains not used must by thyself be paid:

Proffers not took reap thanks for their reward.

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;

160

But most it is presumption in us when

The help of heaven we count the act of men.

Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent;

Of heaven, not me, make an experiment.

I am not an impostor that proclaim

Myself 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.

Are thou so confident? within what space

Hopest thou my cure?

170

The great'st 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.

Upon thy certainty and confidence

180

What darest thou venture?

Tax of impudence,

A strumpet's boldness, a divulged shame

Traduced by odious ballads: my maiden's name

Sear'd otherwise; nay, worse--if worse--extended

With vilest torture let my life be ended.

Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak

His powerful sound within an organ weak:

And what impossibility would slay

In common sense, sense saves another way.

190

Thy life is dear; for all that life can rate

Worth name of life in thee hath estimate,

Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, all

That happiness and prime can happy call:

Thou this to hazard needs must intimate

Skill infinite or monstrous desperate.

Sweet practiser, thy physic I will try,

That ministers thine own death if I die.

If I break time, or flinch in property

Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die,

200

And well deserved: not helping, death's my fee;

But, if I help, what do you promise me?

Make thy demand.

But will you make it even?

Ay, by my sceptre and my hopes of heaven.

Then shalt thou give me with thy kingly hand

What husband in thy power I will command:

Exempted be from me the arrogance

To choose from forth the royal blood of France,

My low and humble name to propagate

210

With any branch or image of thy state;

But such a one, thy vassal, whom I know

Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow.

Here is my hand; the premises observed,

Thy will by my performance shall be served:

So make the choice of thy own time, for I,

Thy resolved patient, on thee still rely.

More should I question thee, and more I must,

Though more to know could not be more to trust,

From whence thou camest, how tended on: but rest

220

Unquestion'd welcome and undoubted blest.

Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed

As high as word, my deed shall match thy meed.

Act II. Scene II. Rousillon. The Count's palace.

Come on, sir; I shall now put you to the height of

your breeding.

I will show myself highly fed and lowly taught: I

know my business is but to the court.

To the court! why, what place make you special,

when you put off that with such contempt? But to the court!

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,

10

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.

Marry, that's a bountiful answer that fits all

questions.

It is like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks,

the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn

buttock, or any buttock.

Will your answer serve fit to all questions?

20

As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney,

as your French crown for your taffeta punk, as Tib's

rush for Tom's forefinger, 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 queen

to a wrangling knave, as the nun's lip to the

friar's mouth, nay, as the pudding to his skin.

Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness for all

questions?

From below your duke to beneath your constable, it

30

will fit any question.

It must be an answer of most monstrous size that

must fit all demands.

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.

To be young again, if we could: I will be a fool in

question, hoping to be the wiser by your answer. I

pray you, sir, are you a courtier?

40

O Lord, sir! There's a simple putting off. More,

more, a hundred of them.

Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves you.

O Lord, sir! Thick, thick, spare not me.

I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely meat.

O Lord, sir! Nay, put me to't, I warrant you.

You were lately whipped, sir, as I think.

O Lord, sir! spare not me.

Do you cry, 'O Lord, sir!' at your whipping, and

'spare not me?' Indeed your 'O Lord, sir!' is very

50

sequent to your whipping: you would answer very well

to a whipping, if you were but bound to't.

I ne'er had worse luck in my life in my 'O Lord,

sir!' I see things may serve long, but not serve ever.

I play the noble housewife with the time

To entertain't so merrily with a fool.

O Lord, sir! why, there't serves well again.

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:

60

This is not much.

Not much commendation to them.

Not much employment for you: you understand me?

Most fruitfully: I am there before my legs.

Haste you again.

Act II. Scene III. Paris. The King's palace.

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, ensconcing ourselves

into seeming knowledge, when we should submit

ourselves to an unknown fear.

Why, 'tis the rarest argument of wonder that hath

shot out in our latter times.

And so 'tis.

10

To be relinquish'd of the artists,--

So I say.

Both of Galen and Paracelsus.

So I say.

Of all the learned and authentic fellows,--

Right; so I say.

That gave him out incurable,--

Why, there 'tis; so say I too.

Not to be helped,--

Right; as 'twere, a man assured of a--

20

Uncertain life, and sure death.

Just, you say well; so would I have said.

I may truly say, it is a novelty to the world.

It is, indeed: if you will have it in showing, you

shall read it in--what do you call there?

A showing of a heavenly effect in an earthly actor.

That's it; I would have said the very same.

Why, your dolphin is not lustier: 'fore me,

I speak in respect--

Nay, 'tis strange, 'tis very strange, that is the

30

brief and the tedious of it; and he's of a most

facinerious spirit that will not acknowledge it to be the--

Very hand of heaven.

Ay, so I say.

In a most weak--

and debile minister, great power, great

transcendence: which should, indeed, give us a

further use to be made than alone the recovery of

the king, as to be--

generally thankful.

40

I would have said it; you say well. Here comes the king.

Lustig, as the Dutchman says: I'll like a maid the

better, whilst I have a tooth in my head: why, he's

able to lead her a coranto.

Mort du vinaigre! is not this Helen?

'Fore God, I think so.

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

50

The confirmation of my promised gift,

Which but attends thy naming.

Fair maid, send forth thine eye: this youthful parcel

Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing,

O'er whom both sovereign power and father's voice

I have to use: thy frank election make;

Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake.

To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress

Fall, when Love please! marry, to each, but one!

I'ld give bay Curtal and his furniture,

60

My mouth no more were broken than these boys',

And writ as little beard.

Peruse them well:

Not one of those but had a noble father.

Gentlemen,

Heaven hath through me restored the king to health.

We understand it, and thank heaven for you.

I am a simple maid, and therein wealthiest,

That I protest I simply am a maid.

Please it your majesty, I have done already:

70

The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me,

'We blush that thou shouldst choose; but, be refused,

Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever;

We'll ne'er come there again.'

Make choice; and, see,

Who shuns thy love shuns all his love in me.

Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly,

And to imperial Love, that god most high,

Do my sighs stream. Sir, will you hear my suit?

And grant it.

80

Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

I had rather be in this choice than throw ames-ace

for my life.

The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes,

Before I speak, too threateningly replies:

Love make your fortunes twenty times above

Her that so wishes and her humble love!

No better, if you please.

My wish receive,

Which great Love grant! and so, I take my leave.

90

Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine,

I'd have them whipped; or I would send them to the

Turk, to make eunuchs of.

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!

These boys are boys of ice, they'll none have her:

sure, they are bastards to the English; the French

ne'er got 'em.

100

You are too young, too happy, and too good,

To make yourself a son out of my blood.

Fair one, I think not so.

There's one grape yet; I am sure thy father drunk

wine: but if thou be'st not an ass, I am a youth

of fourteen; I have known thee already.

[To Bertram] I dare not say I take you; but I give

Me and my service, ever whilst I live,

Into your guiding power. This is the man.

Why, then, young Bertram, take her; she's thy wife.

110

My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your highness,

In such a business give me leave to use

The help of mine own eyes.

Know'st thou not, Bertram,

What she has done for me?

Yes, my good lord;

But never hope to know why I should marry her.

Thou know'st she has raised me from my sickly bed.

But follows it, my lord, to bring me down

Must answer for your raising? I know her well:

120

She had her breeding at my father's charge.

A poor physician's daughter my wife! Disdain

Rather corrupt me ever!

'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 dislikest,

A poor physician's daughter, thou dislikest

130

Of virtue for the name: but do not so:

From lowest place when virtuous things proceed,

The place is dignified by the doer's deed:

Where great additions swell's, and virtue none,

It is a dropsied honour. Good alone

Is good without a name. Vileness is so:

The property by what it is should go,

Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair;

In these to nature she's immediate heir,

And these breed honour: that is honour's scorn,

140

Which challenges itself as honour's born

And is not like the sire: honours thrive,

When rather from our acts we them derive

Than our foregoers: the mere word's a slave

Debosh'd on every tomb, on every grave

A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb

Where dust and damn'd oblivion is the tomb

Of honour'd bones indeed. What should be said?

If thou canst like this creature as a maid,

I can create the rest: virtue and she

150

Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me.

I cannot love her, nor will strive to do't.

Thou wrong'st thyself, if thou shouldst strive to choose.

That you are well restored, my lord, I'm glad:

Let the rest go.

My honour's at the stake; which to defeat,

I must produce my power. Here, take her hand,

Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift;

That dost in vile misprision shackle up

My love and her desert; that canst not dream,

160

We, poising 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. Cheque thy contempt:

Obey our will, which travails in thy good:

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

170

Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate

Loosing upon thee, in the name of justice,

Without all terms of pity. Speak; thine answer.

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 it, I find that she, which late

Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now

The praised of the king; who, so ennobled,

Is as 'twere born so.

180

Take her by the hand,

And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise

A counterpoise, if not to thy estate

A balance more replete.

I take her hand.

Good fortune and the favour of the king

Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony

Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief,

And be perform'd to-night: the solemn feast

Shall more attend upon the coming space,

190

Expecting absent friends. As thou lovest her,

Thy love's to me religious; else, does err.

[Advancing] Do you hear, monsieur? a word with you.

Your pleasure, sir?

Your lord and master did well to make his

recantation.

Recantation! My lord! my master!

Ay; is it not a language I speak?

A most harsh one, and not to be understood without

bloody succeeding. My master!

200

Are you companion to the Count Rousillon?

To any count, to all counts, to what is man.

To what is count's man: count's master is of

another style.

You are too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are too old.

I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to which

title age cannot bring thee.

What I dare too well do, I dare not do.

I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty

wise fellow; thou didst make tolerable vent of thy

210

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't scarce worth.

Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee,--

Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest thou

hasten thy trial; which if--Lord have mercy on thee

for a hen! So, my good window of lattice, fare thee

220

well: thy casement I need not open, for I look

through thee. Give me thy hand.

My lord, you give me most egregious indignity.

Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy of it.

I have not, my lord, deserved it.

Yes, good faith, every dram of it; and I will not

bate thee a scruple.

Well, I shall be wiser.

Even as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at

a smack o' the contrary. If ever thou be'st bound

230

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.

My lord, you do me most insupportable vexation.

I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, and my poor

doing eternal: for doing I am past: as I will by

thee, in what motion age will give me leave.

Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace off

me; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord! Well, I must

240

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 of--I'll beat him, an if I could but meet him again.

Sirrah, your lord and master's married; there's news

for you: you have a new mistress.

I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship to make

some reservation of your wrongs: he is my good

lord: whom I serve above is my master.

250

Who? God?

Ay, sir.

The devil it is that's thy master. Why dost thou

garter up thy arms o' this fashion? dost make hose of

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'ld 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.

260

This is hard and undeserved measure, my lord.

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 saucy with lords

and honourable personages than the commission of your

birth and virtue gives you heraldry. You are not

worth another word, else I'ld call you knave. I leave you.

Good, very good; it is so then: good, very good;

let it be concealed awhile.

Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!

270

What's the matter, sweet-heart?

Although before the solemn priest I have sworn,

I will not bed her.

What, what, sweet-heart?

O my Parolles, they have married me!

I'll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.

France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits

The tread of a man's foot: to the wars!

There's letters from my mother: what the import is,

I know not yet.

280

Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my boy, to the wars!

He wears his honour in a box unseen,

That hugs his kicky-wicky 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 the war!

It shall be so: I'll send her to my house,

Acquaint my mother with my hate to her,

290

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.

Will this capriccio hold in thee? art sure?

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.

Why, these balls bound; there's noise in it. 'Tis hard:

300

A young man married is a man that's marr'd:

Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go:

The king has done you wrong: but, hush, 'tis so.

Act II. Scene IV. Paris. The King's palace.

My mother greets me kindly; is she well?

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', the

world; but yet she is not well.

If she be very well, what does she ail, that she's

not very well?

Truly, she's very well indeed, but for two things.

What two things?

10

One, that she's not in heaven, whither God send her

quickly! the other that she's in earth, from whence

God send her quickly!

Bless you, my fortunate lady!

I hope, sir, I have your good will to have mine own

good fortunes.

You had my prayers to lead them on; and to keep them

on, have them still. O, my knave, how does my old lady?

So that you had her wrinkles and I her money,

I would she did as you say.

20

Why, I say nothing.

Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a man's

tongue shakes 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.

Away! thou'rt a knave.

You should have said, sir, before a knave thou'rt a

knave; that's, before me thou'rt a knave: this had

been truth, sir.

30

Go to, thou art a witty fool; I have found thee.

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 increase of laughter.

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;

40

But puts it off to 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

And pleasure drown the brim.

What's his will else?

That you will take your instant leave o' the king

And make this haste as your own good proceeding,

Strengthen'd with what apology you think

May make it probable need.

50

What more commands he?

That, having this obtain'd, you presently

Attend his further pleasure.

In every thing I wait upon his will.

I shall report it so.

I pray you.

Come, sirrah.

Act II. Scene V. Paris. The King's palace.

But I hope your lordship thinks not him a soldier.

Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof.

You have it from his own deliverance.

And by other warranted testimony.

Then my dial goes not true: I took this lark for a bunting.

I do assure you, my lord, he is very great in

knowledge and accordingly valiant.

I have then sinned against his experience and

transgressed against his valour; and my state that

10

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.

[To Bertram] These things shall be done, sir.

Pray you, sir, who's his tailor?

Sir?

O, I know him well, I, sir; he, sir, 's a good

workman, a very good tailor.

[Aside to Parolles] Is she gone to the king?

She is.

20

Will she away to-night?

As you'll have her.

I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure,

Given order for our horses; and to-night,

When I should take possession of the bride,

End ere I do begin.

A good traveller is something at the latter end of a

dinner; but one that lies three thirds and uses a

known truth to pass a thousand nothings with, should

be once heard and thrice beaten. God save you, captain.

30

Is there any unkindness between my lord and you, monsieur?

I know not how I have deserved to run into my lord's

displeasure.

You have made shift to run into 't, boots and spurs

and all, like him that leaped into the custard; and

out of it you'll run again, rather than suffer

question for your residence.

It may be you have mistaken him, my lord.

And shall do so ever, though I took him at 's

prayers. Fare you well, my lord; and believe this

40

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. Farewell, monsieur:

I have spoken better of you than you have or will to

deserve at my hand; but we must do good against evil.

An idle lord. I swear.

I think so.

Why, do you not know him?

Yes, I do know him well, and common speech

50

Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.

I have, sir, as I was commanded from you,

Spoke with the king and have procured his leave

For present parting; only he desires

Some private speech with you.

I shall obey his will.

You must not marvel, Helen, at my course,

Which holds not colour with the time, nor does

The ministration and required office

On my particular. Prepared I was not

60

For such a business; therefore am I found

So much unsettled: this drives me to entreat you

That presently you take our way for home;

And rather muse than ask why I entreat you,

For my respects are better than they seem

And my appointments have in them a need

Greater than shows itself at the first view

To you that know them not. This to my mother:

'Twill be two days ere I shall see you, so

I leave you to your wisdom.

70

Sir, I can nothing say,

But that I am your most obedient servant.

Come, come, no more of that.

And ever shall

With true observance seek to eke out that

Wherein toward me my homely stars have fail'd

To equal my great fortune.

Let that go:

My haste is very great: farewell; hie home.

Pray, sir, your pardon.

80

Well, what would you say?

I am not worthy of the wealth I owe,

Nor dare I say 'tis mine, and yet it is;

But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal

What law does vouch mine own.

What would you have?

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.

90

I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse.

I shall not break your bidding, good my lord.

Where are my other men, monsieur? Farewell.

Go thou toward home; where I will never come

Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum.

Away, and for our flight.

Bravely, coragio!

Act III

Act III. Scene I. Florence. The Duke's palace.

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.

Holy seems the quarrel

Upon your grace's part; black and fearful

On the opposer.

Therefore we marvel much our cousin France

Would in so just a business shut his bosom

10

Against our borrowing prayers.

Good my lord,

The reasons of our state I cannot yield,

But like a common and an outward man,

That the great figure of a council frames

By self-unable motion: therefore dare not

Say what I think of it, since I have found

Myself in my incertain grounds to fail

As often as I guess'd.

Be it his pleasure.

20

But I am sure the younger of our nature,

That surfeit on their ease, will day by day

Come here for physic.

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.

Act III. Scene II. Rousillon. The Count's palace.

It hath happened all as I would have had it, save

that he comes not along with her.

By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very

melancholy man.

By what observance, I pray you?

Why, he will look upon his boot and sing; mend the

ruff and sing; ask questions and sing; pick his

teeth and sing. I know a man that had this trick of

melancholy sold a goodly manor for a song.

10

Let me see what he writes, and when he means to come.

I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court: our

old ling and our Isbels o' the country are nothing

like your old ling and your Isbels o' the court:

the brains of my Cupid's knocked out, and I begin to

love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.

What have we here?

E'en that you have there.

[Reads] I have sent you a daughter-in-law: she hath

recovered the king, and undone me. I have wedded

20

her, 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 misprising of a maid too virtuous

30

For the contempt of empire.

O madam, yonder is heavy news within between two

soldiers and my young lady!

What is the matter?

Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some

comfort; your son will not be killed so soon as I

thought he would.

Why should he be killed?

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

40

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.

Save you, good madam.

Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.

Do not say so.

Think upon patience. Pray you, gentlemen,

I have 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, I pray you?

50

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.

Look on his letter, madam; here's my passport.

When thou canst get the ring upon my finger which

never shall come off, and show 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.

60

Brought you this letter, gentlemen?

Ay, madam;

And for the contents' sake are sorry for our pain.

I prithee, lady, have a better cheer;

If thou engrossest all the griefs are 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?

Ay, madam.

And to be a soldier?

70

Such is his noble purpose; and believe 't,

The duke will lay upon him all the honour

That good convenience claims.

Return you thither?

Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed.

[Reads] Till I have no wife I have nothing in France.

'Tis bitter.

Find you that there?

Ay, madam.

'Tis but the boldness of his hand, haply, which his

80

heart was not consenting to.

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?

A servant only, and a gentleman

Which I have sometime known.

Parolles, was it not?

Ay, my good lady, he.

90

A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.

My son corrupts a well-derived nature

With his inducement.

Indeed, good lady,

The fellow has a deal of that too much,

Which holds him much to have.

You're welcome, gentlemen.

I will entreat you, when you see my son,

To tell him that his sword can never win

The honour that he loses: more I'll entreat you

100

Written to bear along.

We serve you, madam,

In that and all your worthiest affairs.

Not so, but as we change our courtesies.

Will you draw near!

'Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.'

Nothing in France, until he has no wife!

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

110

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 smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,

That ride upon the violent speed of fire,

Fly with false aim; move the still-peering air,

That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord.

Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;

Whoever charges on his forward breast,

120

I am the caitiff that do hold him to't;

And, though I kill him not, I am the cause

His death was so effected: better 'twere

I met the ravin 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:

130

Shall I stay here to do't? no, no, although

The air of paradise did fan the house

And angels officed 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.

Act III. Scene III. Florence. Before the Duke's palace.

The general of our horse thou art; and we,

Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence

Upon thy promising fortune.

Sir, it is

A charge too heavy for my strength, but yet

We'll strive to bear it for your worthy sake

To the extreme edge of hazard.

Then go thou forth;

And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm,

10

As thy auspicious mistress!

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.

Act III. Scene IV. Rousillon. The Count's palace.

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.

[Reads]

I am Saint Jaques' pilgrim, thither gone:

Ambitious love hath so in me offended,

That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon,

With sainted vow my faults to have amended.

Write, write, that from the bloody course of war

10

My dearest master, your dear son, may hie:

Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far

His name with zealous fervor sanctify:

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 dogs 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!

20

Rinaldo, 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.

Pardon me, madam:

If I had given you this at over-night,

She might have been o'erta'en; and yet she writes,

Pursuit would be but vain.

What angel shall

Bless this unworthy husband? he cannot thrive,

30

Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear

And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath

Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rinaldo,

To this unworthy husband of his wife;

Let every word weigh heavy of her worth

That he does weigh too light: my greatest grief.

Though little he do feel it, set down sharply.

Dispatch the most convenient messenger:

When haply he shall hear that she is gone,

He will return; and hope I may that she,

40

Hearing so much, will speed her foot again,

Led hither by pure love: which of them both

Is dearest to me. I have 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.

Act III. Scene V. Florence. Without the walls. A tucket afar off.

Nay, come; for if they do approach the city, we

shall lose all the sight.

They say the French count has done most honourable service.

It is reported that he has taken 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.

Come, let's return again, and suffice ourselves with

10

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.

I have told my neighbour how you have been solicited

by a gentleman his companion.

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

lust, are not the things they go under: many a maid

20

hath been seduced by them; and the misery is,

example, that so terrible shows 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,

though there were no further danger known but the

modesty which is so lost.

You shall not need to fear me.

I hope so.

30

Look, here comes a pilgrim: I know she will lie at

my house; thither they send one another: I'll

question her. God save you, pilgrim! whither are you bound?

To Saint Jaques le Grand.

Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?

At the Saint Francis here beside the port.

Is this the way?

Ay, marry, is't.

Hark you! they come this way.

If you will tarry, holy pilgrim,

40

But till the troops come by,

I will conduct you where you shall be lodged;

The rather, for I think I know your hostess

As ample as myself.

Is it yourself?

If you shall please so, pilgrim.

I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure.

You came, I think, from France?

I did so.

Here you shall see a countryman of yours

50

That has done worthy service.

His name, I pray you.

The Count Rousillon: know you such a one?

But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him:

His face I know not.

Whatsome'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?

Ay, surely, mere the truth: I know his lady.

60

There is a gentleman that serves the count

Reports but coarsely of her.

What's his name?

Monsieur Parolles.

O, I believe with him,

In argument of praise, or to the worth

Of the great count himself, she is too mean

To have her name repeated: all her deserving

Is a reserved honesty, and that

I have not heard examined.

70

Alas, poor lady!

'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife

Of a detesting lord.

I warrant, good creature, wheresoe'er she is,

Her heart weighs sadly: this young maid might do her

A shrewd turn, if she pleased.

How do you mean?

May be the amorous count solicits her

In the unlawful purpose.

He does indeed;

80

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.

The gods forbid else!

So, now they come:

That is Antonio, the duke's eldest son;

That, Escalus.

Which is the Frenchman?

He;

90

That with the plume: 'tis a most gallant fellow.

I would he loved his wife: if he were honester

He were much goodlier: is't not a handsome gentleman?

I like him well.

'Tis pity he is not honest: yond's that same knave

That leads him to these places: were I his lady,

I would Poison that vile rascal.

Which is he?

That jack-an-apes with scarfs: why is he melancholy?

Perchance he's hurt i' the battle.

100

Lose our drum! well.

He's shrewdly vexed at something: look, he has spied us.

Marry, hang you!

And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier!

The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I will bring you

Where you shall host: of enjoin'd penitents

There's four or five, to great Saint Jaques bound,

Already at my house.

I humbly thank you:

Please it this matron and this gentle maid

110

To eat with us to-night, the charge and thanking

Shall be for me; and, to requite you further,

I will bestow some precepts of this virgin

Worthy the note.

We'll take your offer kindly.

Act III. Scene VI. Camp before Florence.

Nay, good my lord, put him to't; let him have his

way.

If your lordship find him not a hilding, hold me no

more in your respect.

On my life, my lord, a bubble.

Do you think I am so far deceived in him?

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

10

endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the owner

of no one good quality worthy your lordship's

entertainment.

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.

I would I knew in what particular action to try him.

None better than to let him fetch off his drum,

which you hear him so confidently undertake to do.

I, with a troop of Florentines, will suddenly

20

surprise him; such I will have, whom I am sure he

knows not from the enemy: we will bind and hoodwink

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

30

trust my judgment in any thing.

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 ore will be

melted, if you give him not John Drum's

entertainment, your inclining cannot be removed.

Here he comes.

[Aside to Bertram] O, for the love of laughter,

hinder not the honour of his design: let him fetch

40

off his drum in any hand.

How now, monsieur! this drum sticks sorely in your

disposition.

A pox on't, let it go; 'tis but a drum.

'But a drum'! is't 'but a drum'? A drum so lost!

There was excellent command,--to charge in with our

horse upon our own wings, and to rend our own soldiers!

That was not to be blamed in the command of the

service: it was a disaster of war that Caesar

himself could not have prevented, if he had been

50

there to command.

Well, we cannot greatly condemn our success: some

dishonour we had in the loss of that drum; but it is

not to be recovered.

It might have been recovered.

It might; but it is not now.

It is to be recovered: 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.'

60

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 enterprise 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.

By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it.

70

But you must not now slumber in it.

I'll about it this evening: and I 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.

May I be bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it?

I know not what the success will be, my lord; but

the attempt I vow.

I know thou'rt valiant; and, to the possibility of

thy soldiership, will subscribe for thee. Farewell.

80

I love not many words.

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 and dares better be

damned than to do't?

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.

90

Why, do you think he will make no deed at all of

this that so seriously he does address himself unto?

None in the world; but return with an invention and

clap upon you two or three probable lies: but we

have almost embossed him; you shall see his fall

to-night; for indeed he is not for your lordship's respect.

We'll make you some sport with the fox ere we case

him. He was first smoked 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

100

very night.

I must go look my twigs: he shall be caught.

Your brother he shall go along with me.

As't please your lordship: I'll leave you.

Now will I lead you to the house, and show you

The lass I spoke of.

But you say she's honest.

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' the wind,

110

Tokens and letters which she did re-send;

And this is all I have done. She's a fair creature:

Will you go see her?

With all my heart, my lord.

Act III. Scene VII. Florence. The Widow's house.

If you misdoubt me that I am not she,

I know not how I shall assure you further,

But I shall lose the grounds I work upon.

Though my estate be fallen, I was well born,

Nothing acquainted with these businesses;

And would not put my reputation now

In any staining act.

Nor would I wish you.

First, give me trust, the count he is my husband,

10

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.

I should believe you:

For you have show'd me that which well approves

You're great in fortune.

Take this purse of gold,

And let me buy your friendly help thus far,

Which I will over-pay and pay again

20

When I have found it. The count he wooes your daughter,

Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty,

Resolved to carry her: let her in fine 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 county wears,

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,

30

To buy his will, it would not seem too dear,

Howe'er repented after.

Now I see

The bottom of your purpose.

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 chastely absent: after this,

To marry her, I'll add three thousand crowns

40

To what is passed already.

I have yielded:

Instruct my daughter how she shall persever,

That time and place with this deceit so lawful

May prove coherent. Every night he comes

With musics of all sorts and songs composed

To her unworthiness: it nothing steads us

To chide him from our eaves; for he persists

As if his life lay on't.

Why then to-night

50

Let us assay our plot; which, if it speed,

Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed

And lawful meaning in a lawful act,

Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact:

But let's about it.

Act IV

Act IV. Scene I. Without the Florentine camp.

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

understand him, unless some one among us whom we

must produce for an interpreter.

Good captain, let me be the interpreter.

Art not acquainted with him? knows he not thy voice?

No, sir, I warrant you.

10

But what linsey-woolsey hast thou to speak to us again?

E'en such as you speak to me.

He must think us some band of strangers i' the

adversary's 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: choughs' language,

gabble enough, and good enough. As for you,

interpreter, you must seem very politic. But couch,

20

ho! here he comes, to beguile two hours in a sleep,

and then to return and swear the lies he forges.

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 smoke me; and disgraces

have of late knocked too often at my door. I find

my tongue is too foolhardy; but my heart hath the

fear of Mars before it and of his creatures, not

daring the reports of my tongue.

30

This is the first truth that e'er thine own tongue

was guilty of.

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

ones I dare not give. Wherefore, what's the

instance? Tongue, I must put you into a

40

butter-woman's mouth and buy myself another of

Bajazet's mule, if you prattle me into these perils.

Is it possible he should know what he is, and be

that he is?

I would the cutting of my garments would serve the

turn, or the breaking of my Spanish sword.

We cannot afford you so.

Or the baring of my beard; and to say it was in

stratagem.

'Twould not do.

50

Or to drown my clothes, and say I was stripped.

Hardly serve.

Though I swore I leaped from the window of the citadel.

How deep?

Thirty fathom.

Three great oaths would scarce make that be believed.

I would I had any drum of the enemy's: I would swear

I recovered it.

You shall hear one anon.

A drum now of the enemy's,--

60

Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo.

Cargo, cargo, cargo, villiando par corbo, cargo.

O, ransom, ransom! do not hide mine eyes.

Boskos thromuldo boskos.

I know you are the Muskos' regiment:

And I shall lose my life for want of language;

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.

Boskos vauvado: I understand thee, and can speak

70

thy tongue. Kerely bonto, sir, betake thee to thy

faith, for seventeen poniards are at thy bosom.

O!

O, pray, pray, pray! Manka revania dulche.

Oscorbidulchos volivorco.

The general is content to spare thee yet;

And, hoodwink'd as thou art, will lead thee on

To gather from thee: haply thou mayst inform

Something to save thy life.

O, let me live!

80

And all the secrets of our camp I'll show,

Their force, their purposes; nay, I'll speak that

Which you will wonder at.

But wilt thou faithfully?

If I do not, damn me.

Acordo linta.

Come on; thou art granted space.

Go, tell the Count Rousillon, and my brother,

We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him muffled

Till we do hear from them.

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Captain, I will.

A' will betray us all unto ourselves:

Inform on that.

So I will, sir.

Till then I'll keep him dark and safely lock'd.

Act IV. Scene II. Florence. The Widow's house.

They told me that your name was Fontibell.

No, my good lord, Diana.

Titled goddess;

And worth it, with addition! But, fair soul,

In your fine frame hath love no quality?

If 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 stem;

10

And now you should be as your mother was

When your sweet self was got.

She then was honest.

So should you be.

No:

My mother did but duty; such, my lord,

As you owe to your wife.

No more o' that;

I prithee, do not strive against my vows:

I was compell'd to her; but I love thee

20

By love's own sweet constraint, and will for ever

Do thee all rights of service.

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.

How have I sworn!

'Tis not the many oaths that makes the truth,

But the plain single vow that is vow'd true.

What is not holy, that we swear not by,

30

But take the High'st to witness: then, pray you, tell me,

If I should swear by God's great attributes,

I loved 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.

Change it, change it;

Be not so holy-cruel: love is holy;

40

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,

Who then recover: say thou art mine, and ever

My love as it begins shall so persever.

I see that men make ropes in such a scarre

That we'll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.

I'll lend it thee, my dear; but have no power

To give it from me.

Will you not, my lord?

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It is an honour 'longing to our house,

Bequeathed down from many ancestors;

Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world

In me to lose.

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' the world

In me to lose: thus your own proper wisdom

Brings in the champion Honour on my part,

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Against your vain assault.

Here, take my ring:

My house, mine honour, yea, my life, be thine,

And I'll be bid by thee.

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

70

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, though there my hope be done.

A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.

For which live long to thank both heaven and me!

You may so in the end.

My mother told me just how he would woo,

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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 lie with him

When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid,

Marry that will, I live and die a maid:

Only in this disguise I think't no sin

To cozen him that would unjustly win.

Act IV. Scene III. The Florentine camp.

You have not given him his mother's letter?

I have delivered it an hour since: there is

something in't that stings his nature; for on the

reading it he changed almost into another man.

He has much worthy blame laid upon him for shaking

off so good a wife and so sweet a lady.

Especially he hath incurred the everlasting

displeasure of the king, who had even tuned his

bounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you a

10

thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you.

When you have spoken it, 'tis dead, and I am the

grave of it.

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 hath

given her his monumental ring, and thinks himself

made in the unchaste composition.

Now, God delay our rebellion! as we are ourselves,

what things are we!

20

Merely our own traitors. And as in the common course

of all treasons, we still see them reveal

themselves, till they attain to their abhorred ends,

so he that in this action contrives against his own

nobility, in his proper stream o'erflows himself.

Is it not meant damnable in us, to be trumpeters of

our unlawful intents? We shall not then have his

company to-night?

Not till after midnight; for he is dieted to his hour.

That approaches apace; I would gladly have him see

30

his company anatomized, that he might take a measure

of his own judgments, wherein so curiously he had

set this counterfeit.

We will not meddle with him till he come; for his

presence must be the whip of the other.

In the mean time, what hear you of these wars?

I hear there is an overture of peace.

Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded.

What will Count Rousillon do then? will he travel

higher, or return again into France?

40

I perceive, by this demand, you are not altogether

of his council.

Let it be forbid, sir; so should I be a great deal

of his act.

Sir, his wife some two months since fled from his

house: her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques

le Grand; which holy undertaking with most austere

sanctimony she accomplished; 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

50

now she sings in heaven.

How is this justified?

The stronger part of it by her own letters, which

makes her story true, even to the point of her

death: her death itself, which could not be her

office to say is come, was faithfully confirmed by

the rector of the place.

Hath the count all this intelligence?

Ay, and the particular confirmations, point from

point, so to the full arming of the verity.

60

I am heartily sorry that he'll be glad of this.

How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our losses!

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 encountered

with a shame as ample.

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and

ill together: our virtues would be proud, if our

faults whipped them not; and our crimes would

despair, if they were not cherished by our virtues.

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How now! where's your master?

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.

They shall be no more than needful there, if they

were more than they can commend.

They cannot be too sweet for the king's tartness.

Here's his lordship now.

How now, my lord! is't not after midnight?

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I have to-night dispatched 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, mourned 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.

If the business be of any difficulty, and this

morning your departure hence, it requires haste of

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your lordship.

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,

bring forth this counterfeit module, he has deceived

me, like a double-meaning prophesier.

Bring him forth: has sat i' the stocks all night,

poor gallant knave.

No matter: his heels have deserved it, in usurping

his spurs so long. How does he carry himself?

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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 confessed 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' the

stocks: and what think you he hath confessed?

Nothing of me, has a'?

His confession is taken, and it shall be read to his

face: if your lordship be in't, as I believe you

110

are, you must have the patience to hear it.

A plague upon him! muffled! he can say nothing of

me: hush, hush!

Hoodman comes! Portotartarosa

He calls for the tortures: what will you say

without 'em?

I will confess what I know without constraint: if

ye pinch me like a pasty, I can say no more.

Bosko chimurcho.

Boblibindo chicurmurco.

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You are a merciful general. Our general bids you

answer to what I shall ask you out of a note.

And truly, as I hope to live.

[Reads] 'First demand of him how many horse the

duke is strong.' What say you to that?

Five or six thousand; but very weak and

unserviceable: the troops are all scattered, and

the commanders very poor rogues, upon my reputation

and credit and as I hope to live.

Shall I set down your answer so?

130

Do: I'll take the sacrament on't, how and which way you will.

All's one to him. What a past-saving slave is this!

You're deceived, my lord: this is Monsieur

Parolles, the gallant militarist,--that was his own

phrase,--that had the whole theoric of war in the

knot of his scarf, and the practise in the chape of

his dagger.

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.

140

Well, that's set down.

Five or six thousand horse, I said,-- I will say

true,--or thereabouts, set down, for I'll speak truth.

He's very near the truth in this.

But I con him no thanks for't, in the nature he

delivers it.

Poor rogues, I pray you, say.

Well, that's set down.

I humbly thank you, sir: a truth's a truth, the

rogues are marvellous poor.

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[Reads] 'Demand of him, of what strength they are

a-foot.' What say you to that?

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

160

poll; half of the which dare not shake snow from off

their cassocks, lest they shake themselves to pieces.

What shall be done to him?

Nothing, but let him have thanks. Demand of him my

condition, and what credit I have with the duke.

Well, that's set down.

'You shall demand of him, whether one Captain Dumain

be i' the camp, a Frenchman; what his reputation is

with the duke; what his valour, honesty, and

expertness in wars; or whether he thinks it were not

170

possible, with well-weighing sums of gold, to

corrupt him to revolt.' What say you to this? what

do you know of it?

I beseech you, let me answer to the particular of

the inter'gatories: demand them singly.

Do you know this Captain Dumain?

I know him: a' was a botcher's 'prentice in Paris,

from whence he was whipped for getting the shrieve's

fool with child,--a dumb innocent, that could not

say him nay.

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Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though I know

his brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls.

Well, is this captain in the duke of Florence's camp?

Upon my knowledge, he is, and lousy.

Nay look not so upon me; we shall hear of your

lordship anon.

What is his reputation with the duke?

The duke knows him for no other but a poor officer

of mine; and writ to me this other day to turn him

out o' the band: I think I have his letter in my pocket.

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Marry, we'll search.

In good sadness, I do not know; either it is there,

or it is upon a file with the duke's other letters

in my tent.

Here 'tis; here's a paper: shall I read it to you?

I do not know if it be it or no.

Our interpreter does it well.

Excellently.

[Reads] 'Dian, the count's a fool, and full of gold,'--

That is not the duke's letter, sir; that is an

200

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.

Nay, I'll read it first, by your favour.

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.

Damnable both-sides rogue!

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[Reads] '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;

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 vowed to thee in thine ear,

Parolles.'

220

He shall be whipped through the army with this rhyme

in's forehead.

This is your devoted friend, sir, the manifold

linguist and the armipotent soldier.

I could endure any thing before but a cat, and now

he's a cat to me.

I perceive, sir, by the general's looks, we shall be

fain to hang you.

My life, sir, in any case: not that I am afraid to

die; but that, my offences being many, I would

230

repent out the remainder of nature: let me live,

sir, in a dungeon, i' the stocks, or any where, so I may live.

We'll see what may be done, so you confess freely;

therefore, once more to this Captain Dumain: you

have answered to his reputation with the duke and to

his valour: what is his honesty?

He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister: for

rapes and ravishments he parallels Nessus: he

professes not keeping of oaths; in breaking 'em he

is stronger than Hercules: he will lie, sir, with

240

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-clothes 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.

I begin to love him for this.

For this description of thine honesty? A pox upon

250

him for me, he's more and more a cat.

What say you to his expertness in war?

Faith, sir, he has 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

called 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.

He hath out-villained villany so far, that the

260

rarity redeems him.

A pox on him, he's a cat still.

His qualities being at this poor price, I need not

to ask you if gold will corrupt him to revolt.

Sir, for a quart d'ecu he will sell the fee-simple

of his salvation, the inheritance of it; and cut the

entail from all remainders, and a perpetual

succession for it perpetually.

What's his brother, the other Captain Dumain?

Why does be ask him of me?

270

What's he?

E'en a crow o' the 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 outruns any lackey; marry, in coming

on he has the cramp.

If your life be saved, will you undertake to betray

the Florentine?

Ay, and the captain of his horse, Count Rousillon.

280

I'll whisper with the general, and know his pleasure.

[Aside] 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 I run into this danger. Yet who

would have suspected an ambush where I was taken?

There is no remedy, sir, but you must die: the

general says, you that have so traitorously

discovered the secrets of your army and made such

pestiferous reports of men very nobly held, can

290

serve the world for no honest use; therefore you

must die. Come, headsman, off with his head.

O Lord, sir, let me live, or let me see my death!

That shall you, and take your leave of all your friends.

So, look about you: know you any here?

Good morrow, noble captain.

God bless you, Captain Parolles.

God save you, noble captain.

Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafeu?

I am for France.

300

Good captain, will you give me a copy of the sonnet

you writ to Diana in behalf of the Count Rousillon?

an I were not a very coward, I'ld compel it of you:

but fare you well.

You are undone, captain, all but your scarf; that

has a knot on't yet

Who cannot be crushed with a plot?

If you could find out a country where but women were

that had received so much shame, you might begin an

impudent nation. Fare ye well, sir; I am for France

310

too: we shall speak of you there.

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,

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 foolery thrive!

320

There's place and means for every man alive.

I'll after them.

Act IV. Scene IV. Florence. The Widow's house.

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

10

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.

Gentle madam,

You never had a servant to whose trust

Your business was more welcome.

Nor you, mistress,

Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour

20

To recompense your love: doubt not but heaven

Hath brought me up to be your daughter's dower,

As it hath fated her to be my motive

And helper to a husband. But, O strange men!

That can such sweet use make of what they hate,

When saucy trusting of the cozen'd thoughts

Defiles the pitchy night: so lust doth play

With what it loathes for that which is away.

But more of this hereafter. You, Diana,

Under my poor instructions yet must suffer

30

Something in my behalf.

Let death and honesty

Go with your impositions, I am yours

Upon your will to suffer.

Yet, I pray you:

But with the word the time will bring on summer,

When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns,

And be as sweet as sharp. We must away;

Our wagon is prepared, and time revives us:

All's well that ends well; still the fine's the crown;

40

Whate'er the course, the end is the renown.

Act IV. Scene V. Rousillon. The Count's palace.

No, no, no, your son was misled with a snipt-taffeta

fellow there, whose villanous saffron would have

made all the unbaked and doughy youth of a nation in

his colour: your daughter-in-law had been alive at

this hour, and your son here at home, more advanced

by the king than by that red-tailed humble-bee I speak of.

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

10

flesh, and cost me the dearest groans of a mother, I

could not have owed her a more rooted love.

'Twas a good lady, 'twas a good lady: we may pick a

thousand salads ere we light on such another herb.

Indeed, sir, she was the sweet marjoram of the

salad, or rather, the herb of grace.

They are not herbs, you knave; they are nose-herbs.

I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I have not much

skill in grass.

Whether dost thou profess thyself, a knave or a fool?

20

A fool, sir, at a woman's service, and a knave at a man's.

Your distinction?

I would cozen the man of his wife and do his service.

So you were a knave at his service, indeed.

And I would give his wife my bauble, sir, to do her service.

I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knave and fool.

At your service.

No, no, no.

Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serve as

great a prince as you are.

30

Who's that? a Frenchman?

Faith, sir, a' has an English name; but his fisnomy

is more hotter in France than there.

What prince is that?

The black prince, sir; alias, the prince of

darkness; alias, the devil.

Hold thee, there's my purse: I give thee not this

to suggest thee from thy master thou talkest of;

serve him still.

I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a

40

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 flowery way that

leads to the broad gate and the great fire.

Go thy ways, I begin to be aweary of thee; and I

tell thee so before, because I would not fall out

50

with thee. Go thy ways: let my horses be well

looked to, without any tricks.

If I put any tricks upon 'em, sir, they shall be

jades' tricks; which are their own right by the law of nature.

A shrewd knave and an unhappy.

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 sauciness; and,

indeed, he has no pace, but runs where he will.

I like him well; 'tis not amiss. And I was about to

60

tell you, since I heard of the good lady's death and

that my lord your son was upon his return home, I

moved 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 promised me to do

it: and, to stop up the displeasure he hath

conceived against your son, there is no fitter

matter. How does your ladyship like it?

With very much content, my lord; and I wish it

70

happily effected.

His highness comes post from Marseilles, of as able

body as when he numbered thirty: he will be here

to-morrow, or I am deceived by him that in such

intelligence hath seldom failed.

It rejoices me, that I hope 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.

Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might

80

safely be admitted.

You need but plead your honourable privilege.

Lady, of that I have made a bold charter; but I

thank my God it holds yet.

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.

A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good livery

90

of honour; so belike is that.

But it is your carbonadoed face.

Let us go see your son, I pray you: I long to talk

with the young noble soldier.

Faith there's a dozen of 'em, with delicate fine

hats and most courteous feathers, which bow the head

and nod at every man.

Act V

Act V. Scene I. Marseilles. A street.

But this exceeding posting day and night

Must wear your spirits low; we cannot help it:

But since you have 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;

This man may help me to his majesty's ear,

If he would spend his power. God save you, sir.

And you.

10

Sir, I have seen you in the court of France.

I have been sometimes there.

I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen

From the report that goes upon your goodness;

An 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.

What's your will?

That it will please you

20

To give this poor petition to the king,

And aid me with that store of power you have

To come into his presence.

The king's not here.

Not here, sir!

Not, indeed:

He hence removed last night and with more haste

Than is his use.

Lord, how we lose our pains!

All'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL yet,

30

Though time seem so adverse and means unfit.

I do beseech you, whither is he gone?

Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon;

Whither I am going.

I do beseech you, sir,

Since you are like to see the king before me,

Commend the 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

40

Our means will make us means.

This I'll do for you.

And you shall find yourself to be well thank'd,

Whate'er falls more. We must to horse again.

Go, go, provide.

Act V. Scene II. Rousillon. Before the Count's palace.

Good Monsieur Lavache, give my Lord Lafeu this

letter: I have ere now, sir, been better known to

you, when I have held familiarity with fresher

clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in fortune's

mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong

displeasure.

Truly, fortune's displeasure is but sluttish, if it

smell so strongly as thou speakest of: I will

henceforth eat no fish of fortune's buttering.

10

Prithee, allow the wind.

Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir; I spake

but by a metaphor.

Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my

nose; or against any man's metaphor. Prithee, get

thee further.

Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper.

Foh! prithee, stand away: a paper from fortune's

close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look, here he

comes himself.

20

Here is a purr of fortune's, sir, or of fortune's

cat,--but not a musk-cat,--that has fallen 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. I do pity his

distress in my similes of comfort and leave him to

your lordship.

My lord, I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly

scratched.

30

And what would you have me to do? 'Tis too late to

pare her nails now. Wherein have you played 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.

I beseech your honour to hear me one single word.

You beg a single penny more: come, you shall ha't;

save your word.

40

My name, my good lord, is Parolles.

You beg more than 'word,' then. Cox my passion!

give me your hand. How does your drum?

O my good lord, you were the first that found me!

Was I, in sooth? and I was the first that lost thee.

It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some grace,

for you did bring me out.

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.

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The king's coming; I know by his trumpets. Sirrah,

inquire further after me; I had talk of you last

night: though you are a fool and a knave, you shall

eat; go to, follow.

I praise God for you.

Act V. Scene III. Rousillon. The Count's palace.

We lost a jewel of her; and our esteem

Was made much poorer by it: but your son,

As mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know

Her estimation home.

'Tis past, my liege;

And I beseech your majesty to make it

Natural rebellion, done i' the blaze of youth;

When oil and fire, too strong for reason's force,

O'erbears it and burns on.

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My honour'd lady,

I have forgiven and forgotten all;

Though my revenges were high bent upon him,

And watch'd the time to shoot.

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

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Of richest eyes, whose words all ears took captive,

Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn'd to serve

Humbly call'd mistress.

Praising what is lost

Makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him hither;

We are reconciled, 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

The incensing relics of it: let him approach,

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A stranger, no offender; and inform him

So 'tis our will he should.

I shall, my liege.

What says he to your daughter? have you spoke?

All that he is hath reference to your highness.

Then shall we have a match. I have letters sent me

That set him high in fame.

He looks well on't.

I am not a day of season,

For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail

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In me at once: but to the brightest beams

Distracted clouds give way; so stand thou forth;

The time is fair again.

My high-repented blames,

Dear sovereign, pardon to me.

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

The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time

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Steals ere we can effect them. You remember

The daughter of this lord?

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 infixing,

Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me,

Which warp'd the line of every other favour;

Scorn'd a fair colour, or express'd it stolen;

Extended or contracted all proportions

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To a most hideous object: thence it came

That she whom all men praised and whom myself,

Since I have lost, have loved, was in mine eye

The dust that did offend it.

Well excused:

That thou didst 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 sour offence,

Crying, 'That's good that's gone.' Our rash faults

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Make 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

Our own love waking cries to see what's done,

While shame full late 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.

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Which better than the first, O dear heaven, bless!

Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cesse!

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 e'er I took her at court,

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I saw upon her finger.

Hers it was not.

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 bade 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?

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My gracious sovereign,

Howe'er it pleases you to take it so,

The ring was never hers.

Son, on my life,

I have seen her wear it; and she reckon'd it

At her life's rate.

I am sure I saw her wear it.

You are deceived, my lord; she never saw it:

In Florence was it from a casement thrown me,

Wrapp'd in a paper, which contain'd the name

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Of her that threw it: noble she was, and thought

I stood engaged: but when I had subscribed

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 ceased

In heavy satisfaction and would never

Receive the ring again.

Plutus himself,

That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine,

Hath not in nature's mystery more science

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Than I have in this ring: 'twas mine, 'twas Helen's,

Whoever gave it you. 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.

She never saw it.

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Thou speak'st it falsely, as I love mine honour;

And makest conjectural 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.

My fore-past proofs, howe'er the matter fall,

Shall tax my fears of little vanity,

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Having vainly fear'd too little. Away with him!

We'll sift this matter further.

If you shall prove

This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy

Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence,

Where yet she never was.

I am wrapp'd in dismal thinkings.

Gracious sovereign,

Whether I have been to blame or no, I know not:

Here's a petition from a Florentine,

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Who hath for 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.

[Reads] Upon his many protestations to marry me

when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he won

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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 his country for justice: grant it me, O

king! in you it best lies; otherwise a seducer

flourishes, and a poor maid is undone.

Diana CAPILET.

I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll for

this: I'll none of him.

The heavens have thought well on thee Lafeu,

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To bring forth this discovery. Seek these suitors:

Go speedily and bring again the count.

I am afeard the life of Helen, lady,

Was foully snatch'd.

Now, justice on the doers!

I wonder, sir, sith wives are monsters to you,

And that you fly them as you swear them lordship,

Yet you desire to marry.

What woman's that?

I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine,

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Derived from the ancient Capilet:

My suit, as I do understand, you know,

And therefore know how far I may be pitied.

I am her mother, sir, whose age and honour

Both suffer under this complaint we bring,

And both shall cease, without your remedy.

Come hither, count; do you know these women?

My lord, I neither can nor will deny

But that I know them: do they charge me further?

Why do you look so strange upon your wife?

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She's none of mine, my lord.

If you shall marry,

You give away this hand, and that is mine;

You give away heaven'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.

Your reputation comes too short for my daughter; you

are no husband for her.

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My lord, this is a fond and desperate 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.

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.

Good my lord,

Ask him upon his oath, if he does think

He had not my virginity.

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What say'st thou to her?

She's impudent, my lord,

And was a common gamester to the camp.

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' the camp,

If I be one.

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He blushes, and 'tis it:

Of six preceding ancestors, that gem,

Conferr'd by testament to the sequent issue,

Hath it been owed and worn. This is his wife;

That ring's a thousand proofs.

Methought you said

You saw one here in court could witness it.

I did, my lord, but loath am to produce

So bad an instrument: his name's Parolles.

I saw the man to-day, if man he be.

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Find him, and bring him hither.

What of him?

He's quoted for a most perfidious slave,

With all the spots o' the world tax'd and debosh'd;

Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth.

Am I or that or this for what he'll utter,

That will speak any thing?

She hath that ring of yours.

I think she has: certain it is I liked her,

And boarded her i' the wanton way of youth:

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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 infinite cunning, with her modern grace,

Subdued me to her rate: she got the ring;

And I had that which any inferior might

At market-price have bought.

I must be patient:

You, that have turn'd off a first so noble wife,

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May justly diet 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.

I have it not.

What ring was yours, I pray you?

Sir, much like

The same upon your finger.

Know you this ring? this ring was his of late.

And this was it I gave him, being abed.

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The story then goes false, you threw it him

Out of a casement.

I have spoke the truth.

My lord, I do confess the ring was hers.

You boggle shrewdly, every feather stars you.

Is this the man you speak of?

Ay, my lord.

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,

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By him and by this woman here what know you?

So please your majesty, my master hath been an

honourable gentleman: tricks he hath had in him,

which gentlemen have.

Come, come, to the purpose: did he love this woman?

Faith, sir, he did love her; but how?

How, I pray you?

He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a woman.

How is that?

He loved her, sir, and loved her not.

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As thou art a knave, and no knave. What an

equivocal companion is this!

I am a poor man, and at your majesty's command.

He's a good drum, my lord, but a naughty orator.

Do you know he promised me marriage?

Faith, I know more than I'll speak.

But wilt thou not speak all thou knowest?

Yes, so please your majesty. I did go between them,

as I said; but more than that, he loved her: for

indeed he was mad for her, and talked of Satan and

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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 which would

derive me ill will to speak of; therefore I will not

speak what I know.

Thou hast spoken all already, unless thou canst say

they are married: but thou art too fine in thy

evidence; therefore stand aside.

This ring, you say, was yours?

300

Ay, my good lord.

Where did you buy it? or who gave it you?

It was not given me, nor I did not buy it.

Who lent it you?

It was not lent me neither.

Where did you find it, then?

I found it not.

If it were yours by none of all these ways,

How could you give it him?

I never gave it him.

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This woman's an easy glove, my lord; she goes off

and on at pleasure.

This ring was mine; I gave it his first wife.

It might be yours or hers, for aught I know.

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.

I'll never tell you.

Take her away.

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I'll put in bail, my liege.

I think thee now some common customer.

By Jove, if ever I knew man, 'twas you.

Wherefore hast thou accused him all this while?

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 am either maid, or else this old man's wife.

She does abuse our ears: to prison with her.

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Good mother, fetch my bail. Stay, royal sir:

The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for,

And he shall surety me. But for this lord,

Who hath abused me, as he knows himself,

Though yet he never harm'd me, here I quit him:

He knows himself my bed he hath defiled;

And at that time he got his wife with child:

Dead though she be, she feels her young one kick:

So there's my riddle: one that's dead is quick:

And now behold the meaning.

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Is there no exorcist

Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes?

Is't real that I see?

No, my good lord;

'Tis but the shadow of a wife you see,

The name and not the thing.

Both, both. O, pardon!

O my good lord, when I was like this maid,

I found you wondrous kind. There is your ring;

And, look you, here's your letter; this it says:

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'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?

If she, my liege, can make me know this clearly,

I'll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly.

If it appear not plain and prove untrue,

Deadly divorce step between me and you!

O my dear mother, do I see you living?

Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon:

Good Tom Drum, lend me a handkercher: so,

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I thank thee: wait on me home, I'll make sport with thee:

Let thy courtesies alone, they are scurvy ones.

Let us from point to point this story know,

To make the even truth in pleasure flow.

If thou be'st yet a fresh uncropped flower,

Choose thou thy husband, and I'll pay thy dower;

For I can guess that by thy honest aid

Thou keep'st a wife herself, thyself a maid.

Of that and all the progress, more or less,

Resolvedly more leisure shall express:

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All yet seems well; and if it end so meet,

The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.

EPILOGUE

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.