William Shakespeare, All’s Well That Ends Well (1602-03)


William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

This is a part of a collection of works by William Shakespeare.

Source

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, ed. with a glossary by W.J. Craig M.A. (London: Oxford University Press, 1916).

See the complete volume in HTML and facs. PDF.

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
ACT I.
ACT II.
ACT III.
ACT IV.
ACT V.
EPILOGUE.

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

King of France.
Duke of Florence.
Bertram,	Count of Rousillon.
Lafeu,	an old Lord.
Parolles,	a follower of Bertram.
Steward to the Countess of Rousillon.
Lavache,	a Clown in her household.
A Page.
Countess of Rousillon,	Mother to Bertram.
Helena,	a Gentlewoman protected by the Countess.
An Old Widow of Florence.
Diana,	Daughter to the Widow.
Violenta, }	Neighbours and Friends to the Widow.
Mariana, }	Neighbours and Friends to the Widow.
Lords, Officers, Soldiers, &c., French and Florentine.

Contend for empire in thee; and thy goodness

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

Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy

Rather in power than use, and keep thy friend 76

Under thy own life’s key: be check’d for silence,

But never tax’d for speech. What heaven more will

That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck down,

Fall on thy head! Farewell, my lord; 80

’Tis an unseason’d courtier; good my lord,

Advise him.

Laf.

He cannot want the best

That shall attend his love.

Count.

Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram.

[Exit.

Ber.

[To Helena.] The best wishes that can be forged in your thoughts be servants to you! Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her. 88

Laf.

Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the credit of your father.

[Exeunt Bertram and Lafeu.

Hel.

O! were that all. I think not on my father;

And these great tears grace his remembrance more 92

Than those I shed for him. What was he like?

I have forgot him: my imagination

Carries no favour in’t but Bertram’s.

I am undone: there is no living, none, 96

If Bertram be away. It were all one

That I should love a bright particular star

And think to wed it, he is so above me:

In his bright radiance and collateral light 100

Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.

The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:

The hind that would be mated by the lion

Must die for love. ’Twas pretty, though a plague,

To see him every hour; to sit and draw 105

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: 108

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, 112

Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;

Yet these fix’d evils sit so fit in him,

That they take place, when virtue’s steely bones

Not my virginity yet.

There shall your master have a thousand loves,

A mother, and a mistress, and a friend,

A phœnix, captain, and an enemy, 184

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, 188

His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world

Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms,

That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he—

I know not what he shall. God send him well!

The court’s a learning-place, and he is one— 193

Par.

What one, i’ faith?

Hel.

That I wish well. ’Tis pity—

Par.

What’s pity? 196

Hel.

That wishing well had not a body in’t,

Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born,

Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,

Might with effects of them follow our friends, 200

And show what we alone must think, which never

Returns us thanks.

Enter a Page.

Page.

Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.

Hel.

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie

Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky 236

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 241

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 245

To show her merit, that did miss her love?

The king’s disease,—my project may deceive me,

But my intents are fix’d and will not leave me.

[Exit.

Scene II.— Paris. A Room in the King’s Palace.

Flourish of Cornets. Enter the King of France, with letters; Lords and Others attending.

King.

The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears;

Have fought with equal fortune, and continue

A braving war.

First Lord.

So ’tis reported, sir.

King.

Nay, ’tis most credible: we here receive it 4

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 8

To have us make denial.

First Lord.

His love and wisdom,

Approv’d so to your majesty, may plead

For amplest credence.

King.

He hath arm’d our answer,

And Florence is denied before he comes: 12

Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see

The Tuscan service, freely have they leave

To stand on either part.

Sec. Lord.

It well may serve

A nursery to our gentry, who are sick 16

For breathing and exploit.

King.

What’s he comes here?

Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles.

First Lord.

It is the Count Rousillon, my good lord,

Young Betram.

King.

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

Frank nature, rather curious than in haste, 20

Hath well compos’d thee. Thy father’s moral parts

Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.

Ber.

My thanks and duty are your majesty’s.

King.

I would I had that corporal soundness now, 24

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; 28

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 32

To-day in our young lords; but they may jest

Till their own scorn return to them unnoted

Ere they can hide their levity in honour.

So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness 36

Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,

His equal had awak’d them; and his honour,

Clock to itself, knew the true minute when

Exception bid him speak, and at this time 40

His tongue obey’d his hand: who were below him

He us’d as creatures of another place,

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

Making them proud of his humility, 44

In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man

Might be a copy to these younger times,

Which, follow’d well, would demonstrate them now

But goers backward.

Ber.

His good remembrance, sir, 48

Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb;

So in approof lives not his epitaph

As in your royal speech.

King.

Would I were with him! He would always say,— 52

Methinks I hear him now: his plausive words

He scatter’d not in ears, but grafted them,

To grow there and to bear. ‘Let me not live,’—

Thus his good melancholy oft began, 56

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 60

All but new things disdain; whose judgments are

Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies

Expire before their fashions.’ This he wish’d:

I, after him, do after him wish too, 64

Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home,

I quickly were dissolved from my hive,

To give some labourers room.

Sec. Lord.

You are lov’d, sir;

They that least lend it you shall lack you first. 68

King.

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

Since the physician at your father’s died?

He was much fam’d.

Ber.

Some six months since, my lord.

King.

If he were living, I would try him yet:

Lend me an arm: the rest have worn me out 73

With several applications: nature and sickness

Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count;

My son’s no dearer.

Ber.

For I the ballad will repeat,

Which men full true shall find;

Your marriage comes by destiny,

Your cuckoo sings by kind. 68

Enter Helena.

Even so it was with me when I was young: 136

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, 140

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. 144

Hel.

What is your pleasure, madam?

Count.

You know, Helen,

I am a mother to you.

Hel.

Mine honourable mistress.

Count.

Nay, a mother:

Why not a mother? When I said, ‘a mother,’

Methought you saw a serpent: what’s in ‘mother’ 149

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 152

Adoption strives with nature, and choice breeds

A native slip to us from foreign seeds;

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

Yet I express to you a mother’s care. 156

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? 160

Why? that you are my daughter?

Hel.

That I am not.

Count.

I say, I am your mother.

Hel.

Pardon, madam;

The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:

I am from humble, he from honour’d name; 164

No note upon my parents, his all noble:

My master, my dear lord he is; and I

His servant live, and will his vassal die.

He must not be my brother.

Count.

Nor I your mother? 168

Hel.

You are my mother, madam: would you were,—

So that my lord your son were not my brother,—

Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers,

I care no more for than I do for heaven, 172

So I were not his sister. Can’t no other,

But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?

Count.

Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law:

God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother 176

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 asham’d, 181

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 184

Confess it, th’ one to th’ other; and thine eyes

See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours

That in their kind they speak it: only sin

And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue, 188

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,

As heaven shall work in me for thine avail, 192

Go not about; my love hath in’t a bond 196

Whereof the world takes note: come, come, disclose

The state of your affection, for your passions

Have to the full appeach’d.

Hel.

Then, I confess,

Here on my knee, before high heaven and you 200

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 204

That he is lov’d of me: I follow him not

By any token of presumptuous suit;

Nor would I have him till I do deserve him;

Yet never know how that desert should be. 208

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, 212

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 216

For loving where you do: but, if yourself,

Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,

Did ever in so true a flame of liking

Wish chastely and love dearly, that your Dian

Was both herself and Love; O! then, give pity

To her, whose state is such that cannot choose

But lend and give where she is sure to lose;

That seeks not to find that her search implies,

But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies. 225

Count.

Had you not lately an intent, speak truly,

To go to Paris?

Hel.

Madam, I had.

Count.

Wherefore? tell true.

Hel.

I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.

You know my father left me some prescriptions

Of rare and prov’d effects, such as his reading

And manifest experience had collected

For general sovereignty; and that he will’d me

In heedfull’st reservation to bestow them, 233

As notes whose faculties inclusive were

More than they were in note. Amongst the rest,

There is a remedy, approv’d, set down 236

To cure the desperate languishings whereof

The king is render’d lost.

Count.

This was your motive

For Paris, was it? speak.

Hel.

My lord your son made me to think of this; 240

Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king,

Had from the conversation of my thoughts

Haply been absent then.

Count.

But think you, Helen,

If you should tender your supposed aid, 244

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, 248

Embowell’d of their doctrine, have left off

The danger to itself?

Hel.

There’s something in’t,

More than my father’s skill, which was the great’st

Of his profession, that his good receipt 252

Shall for my legacy be sanctified

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

But give me leave to try success, I’d venture

The well-lost life of mine on his Grace’s cure, 256

By such a day, and hour.

Count.

Dost thou believe’t?

Hel.

Ay, madam, knowingly.

Count.

Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love,

Means, and attendants, and my loving greetings 260

To those of mine in court. I’ll stay at home

And pray God’s blessing into thy attempt.

Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this,

What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss. 264

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.— Paris. A Room in the King’s Palace.

Flourish. Enter the King, with divers young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war; Bertram, Parolles, and Attendants.

King.

Farewell, young lords: these war-like 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 receiv’d, 4

And is enough for both.

First Lord.

’Tis our hope, sir,

After well enter’d soldiers, to return

And find your Grace in health.

King.

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

Will not confess he owes the malady 9

That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords;

Whether I live or die, be you the sons

Of worthy Frenchmen: let higher Italy— 12

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. 17

Sec. Lord.

Health, at your bidding, serve your majesty!

King.

Those girls of Italy, take heed of them:

They say, our French lack language to deny 20

If they demand: beware of being captives,

Before you serve.

Both Lords.

Our hearts receive your warnings.

King.

Farewell. Come hither to me.

[Exit attended.

First Lord.

O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us! 24

Par.

’Tis not his fault, the spark.

Sec. Lord.

O! ’tis brave wars.

Par.

Most admirable: I have seen those wars.

Ber.

I am commanded here, and kept a coil with

‘Too young,’ and ‘the next year,’ and ‘’tis too early.’ 28

Par.

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

Ber.

I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock,

And I will do so. 60

Par.

Worthy fellows; and like to prove most sinewy swordmen.

[Exeunt Bertram and Parolles.

Enter Lafeu.

Laf.

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

King.

I’ll fee thee to stand up. 64

Laf.

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.

King.

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

And ask’d thee mercy for’t. 69

Laf.

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

Will you be cur’d of your infirmity?

King.

No. 72

Laf.

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, 76

Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary

With spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch

Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay,

To give great Charlemain a pen in’s hand 80

And write to her a love-line.

King.

What ‘her’ is this?

Laf.

Why, Doctor She. My lord, there’s one arriv’d

If you will see her: now, by my faith and honour,

If seriously I may convey my thoughts 84

In this my light deliverance, I have spoke

With one, that in her sex, her years, profession,

Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz’d me more

Than I dare blame my weakness. Will you see her, 88

For that is her demand, and know her business?

That done, laugh well at me.

King.

Now, good Lafeu,

Bring in the admiration, that we with thee

Now, fair one, does your business follow us?

Hel.

Ay, my good lord.

Gerard de Narbon was my father; 104

In what he did profess well found.

King.

I knew him.

Hel.

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, 108

Which, as the dearest issue of his practice,

And of his old experience the only darling,

He bade me store up as a triple eye,

Safer than mine own two, more dear. I have so;

And, hearing your high majesty is touch’d 113

With that malignant cause wherein the honour

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

I come to tender it and my appliance, 116

With all bound humbleness.

King.

We thank you, maiden;

But may not be so credulous of cure,

When our most learned doctors leave us, and

The congregated college have concluded 120

That labouring art can never ransom nature

From her inaidable estate; I say we must not

So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope,

To prostitute our past-cure malady 124

To empirics, or to dissever so

Our great self and our credit, to esteem

A senseless help when help past sense we deem.

Hel.

My duty then, shall pay me for my pains:

I will no more enforce mine office on you; 129

Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts

A modest one, to bear me back again.

King.

I cannot give thee less, to be call’d grateful. 132

Thou thought’st to help me, and such thanks I give

As one near death to those that wish him live;

But what at full I know, thou know’st no part,

I knowing all my peril, thou no art. 136

Hel.

What I can do can do no hurt to try,

Since you set up your rest ’gainst remedy.

He that of greatest works is finisher

Oft does them by the weakest minister: 140

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

When miracles have by the greatest been denied.

Oft expectation fails, and most oft there 145

Where most it promises; and oft it hits

Where hope is coldest and despair most fits.

King.

I must not hear thee: fare thee well, kind maid. 148

Thy pains, not us’d, must by thyself be paid:

Proffers not took reap thanks for their reward.

Hel.

Inspired merit so by breath is barr’d.

It is not so with Him that all things knows, 152

As ’tis with us that square our guess by shows;

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; 156

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, 160

My art is not past power nor you past cure.

King.

Art thou so confident? Within what space

Hop’st thou my cure?

Hel.

The great’st grace lending grace,

Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring 164

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 168

Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass,

What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly,

Health shall live free, and sickness freely die.

King.

Upon thy certainty and confidence

What dar’st thou venture?

Hel.

Tax of impudence, 173

A strumpet’s boldness, a divulged shame,

Traduc’d by odious ballads: my maiden’s name

Sear’d otherwise; nay worse—if worse—extended 176

With vilest torture let my life be ended.

King.

Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak,

His powerful sound within an organ weak;

And what impossibility would slay 180

In common sense, sense saves another way.

Thy life is dear; for all that life can rate

Worth name of life in thee hath estimate;

Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, virtue, all 184

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, 188

That ministers thine own death if I die.

Hel.

If I break time, or flinch in property

Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die,

And well deserv’d. Not helping, death’s my fee; 192

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

King.

Make thy demand.

Hel.

But will you make it even?

King.

Ay, by my sceptre, and my hopes of heaven.

Hel.

Then shalt thou give me with thy kingly hand 196

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 200

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.

King.

Here is my hand; the premises observ’d, 204

Thy will by my performance shall be serv’d:

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

Thy resolv’d patient, on thee still rely.

More should I question thee, and more I must,

Though more to know could not be more to trust, 209

From whence thou cam’st, how tended on; but rest

Unquestion’d welcome and undoubted blest.

I play the noble housewife with the time,

To entertain’t so merrily with a fool.

Clo.

O Lord, sir! why, there’t serves well again. 68

Count.

An end, sir: to your business. Give Helen this,

And urge her to a present answer back:

Commend me to my kinsmen and my son.

This is not much. 72

Clo.

Not much commendation to them.

Count.

Not much employment for you: you understand me?

Clo.

Most fruitfully: I am there before my legs.

Count.

Enter King, Helena, and Attendants.

Laf.

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. 49

Par.

Mort du vinaigre! Is not this Helen?

Laf.

’Fore God, I think so.

King.

Go, call before me all the lords in court.

[Exit an Attendant.

Sit, my preserver, by thy patient’s side: 53

And with this healthful hand, whose banish’d sense

Thou hast repeal’d, a second time receive

The confirmation of my promised gift, 56

Which but attends thy naming.

Enter several Lords.

Fair maid, send forth thine eye: this youthful parcel

Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing,

O’er whom both sov’reign power and father’s voice 60

I have to use: thy frank election make;

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

Hel.

To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress

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

Laf.

I’d give bay Curtal, and his furniture, 65

My mouth no more were broken than these boys’

And writ as little beard.

King.

Peruse them well:

Not one of those but had a noble father. 68

Hel.

Gentlemen,

Heaven hath through me restor’d the king to health.

All.

We understand it, and thank heaven for you.

Hel.

I am a simple maid; and therein wealthiest 72

That I protest I simply am a maid.

Please it your majesty, I have done already:

The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me,

‘We blush, that thou shouldst choose; but, be refus’d, 76

Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever;

We’ll ne’er come there again.’

King.

Make choice; and see,

Who shuns thy love, shuns all his love in me.

Hel.

Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly, 80

And to imperial Love, that god most high,

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

First Lord.

Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed!

Laf.

These boys are boys of ice, they’ll none have her: sure, they are bastards to the English; the French ne’er got ’em. 101

Hel.

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

To make yourself a son out of my blood.

Fourth Lord.

Fair one, I think not so. 104

Laf.

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. 108

Hel.

’Tis only title thou disdain’st in her, the which 124

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 128

All that is virtuous, save what thou dislik’st,

A poor physician’s daughter, thou dislik’st

Of virtue for the name; but do not so:

From lowest place when virtuous things proceed, 132

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: 136

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

Which challenges itself as honour’s born, 141

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 145

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, 149

I can create the rest: virtue and she

Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me.

Ber.

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

King.

Thou wrong’st thyself if thou shouldst strive to choose. 153

Hel.

That you are well restor’d, my lord, I’m glad:

Let the rest go.

King.

My honour’s at the stake, which to defeat 156

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; thou canst not dream

We, poising us in her defective scale, 161

Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know,

It is in us to plant thine honour where

We please to have it grow. Check thy contempt:

Obey our will, which travails in thy good: 165

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 169

Into the staggers and the careless lapse

Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate

Loosing upon thee, in the name of justice, 172

Without all terms of pity. Speak; thine answer.

Ber.

Pardon, my gracious lord; for I submit

My fancy to your eyes. When I consider

What great creation and what dole of honour 176

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.

King.

Take her by the hand, 180

And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise

A counterpoise, if not to thy estate

A balance more replete.

Ber.

I take her hand.

King.

Good fortune and the favour of the king 184

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, 188

Par.

Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace off me; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord! Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of authority. I’ll beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with any convenience, an he were double and double a lord. I’ll have no more pity of his age than I would have of—I’ll beat him, an if I could but meet him again! 255

Par.

Good, very good; it is so then: good, very good. Let it be concealed awhile.

Re-enter Bertram.

Ber.

Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!

Par.

What is the matter, sweet heart? 285

Ber.

Although before the solemn priest I have sworn,

I will not bed her.

Par.

What, what, sweet heart? 288

Ber.

O my Parolles, they have married me!

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

Par.

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

The tread of a man’s foot. To the wars! 292

Ber.

There’s letters from my mother: what the import is

I know not yet.

Par.

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

He wears his honour in a box, unseen, 296

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! 300

France is a stable; we that dwell in’t jades;

Therefore, to the war!

Ber.

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

Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, 304

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 308

To the dark house and the detested wife.

Par.

Will this capriccio hold in thee? art sure?

Ber.

Go with me to my chamber, and advise me.

I’ll send her straight away: to-morrow 312

I’ll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.

Par.

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

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

A good knave, i’ faith, and well fed. 40

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, 44

But puts it off to a compell’d restraint;

Ber.

I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure,

Given orders for our horses; and to-night, 28

When I should take possession of the bride,

And shall do so ever, though I took him at his prayers. Fare you well, my lord; and believe this of me, there can be no kernel in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes. Trust him not in matter of heavy consequence; I have kept of them tame, and know their natures. 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.

[Exit.

Par.

An idle lord, I swear.

Ber.

I think not so. 56

Par.

Why, do you not know him?

Ber.

Yes, I do know him well; and common speech

Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.

Enter Helena.

Hel.

I have, sir, as I was commanded from you, 60

Spoke with the king, and have procur’d his leave

For present parting; only, he desires

Some private speech with you.

Ber.

I shall obey his will.

You must not marvel, Helen, at my course, 64

Which holds not colour with the time, nor does

The ministration and required office

On my particular: prepar’d I was not

For such a business; therefore am I found 68

So much unsettled. This drives me to entreat you

That presently you take your way for home;

And rather muse than ask why I entreat you;

For my respects are better than they seem, 72

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.

[Giving a letter.

’Twill be two days ere I shall see you, so 76

[Exit Helena.

Go thou toward home; where I will never come

Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum.

Away! and for our flight.

Par.

Bravely, coragio! 98

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Scene I.— Florence. A Room in the Duke’s Palace.

Flourish. Enter the Duke, attended; two French Lords, and Soldiers.

Duke.

So that from point to point now have you heard

The fundamental reasons of this war,

Whose great decision hath much blood let forth,

And more thirsts after.

First Lord.

Holy seems the quarrel 4

Upon your Grace’s part; black and fearful

On the opposer.

Duke.

Therefore we marvel much our cousin France

Would in so just a business shut his bosom 8

Against our borrowing prayers.

First Lord.

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 12

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.

Duke.

Be it his pleasure. 16

Sec. Lord.

But I am sure the younger of our nature,

That surfeit on their ease, will day by day

Come here for physic.

Duke.

Welcome shall they be,

And all the honours that can fly from us 20

Shall on them settle. You know your places well;

What have we here? 19

Clo.

E’en that you have there.

[Exit.

Count.

I have sent you a daughter-in-law: she hath recovered the king, and undone me. I have wedded her, not bedded her; and sworn to make the ‘not’ eternal. You shall hear I am ran 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, 28

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 32

Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.

Sec. Gen.

Do not say so. 49

Count.

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, 52

Can woman me unto ’t: where is my son, I pray you?

Sec. Gen.

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, 56

Thither we bend again.

Hel.

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. 64

Count.

Brought you this letter, gentlemen?

First Gen.

Ay, madam;

And for the contents’ sake are sorry for our pains.

Count.

I prithee, lady, have a better cheer;

If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, 68

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?

Sec. Gen.

Ay, madam.

Count.

And to be a soldier? 72

Sec. Gen.

Such is his noble purpose; and, believe’t,

The duke will lay upon him all the honour

That good convenience claims.

Count.

Return you thither?

First Gen.

Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed. 76

Hel.

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

’Tis bitter.

Count.

Find you that there?

Hel.

Ay, madam.

First Gen.

’Tis but the boldness of his hand, haply, which his heart was not consenting to. 80

Count.

Nothing in France until he have no wife!

There’s nothing here that is too good for him

But only she; and she deserves a lord

That twenty such rude boys might tend upon, 84

And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?

First Gen.

A servant only, and a gentleman

Which I have some time known.

Count.

Parolles, was it not?

First Gen.

Ay, my good lady, he. 88

Count.

A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.

My son corrupts a well-derived nature

With his inducement.

First Gen.

Indeed, good lady,

The fellow has a deal of that too much, 92

Which holds him much to have.

Count.

Y’are welcome, gentlemen.

I will entreat you, when you see my son,

To tell him that his sword can never win 96

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

Written to bear along.

Sec. Gen.

We serve you, madam,

In that and all your worthiest affairs.

Count.

Not so, but as we change our courtesies.

Will you draw near? 101

[Exeunt Countess and Gentlemen.

Hel.

‘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 105

That chase thee from thy country, and expose

Those tender limbs of thine to the event

Of the non-sparing war? and is it I 108

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, 112

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

That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord!

Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;

Whoever charges on his forward breast, 116

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 120

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, 124

As oft it loses all: I will be gone;

My being here it is that holds thee hence:

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

The air of paradise did fan the house, 128

And angels offic’d all: I will be gone,

That pitiful rumour may report my flight,

To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day!

For with the dark, poor thief, I’ll steal away. 132

[Exit.

Scene III.— Florence. Before the Duke’s Palace.

Flourish. Enter Duke, Bertram, Parolles, Soldiers. Drum and Trumpets.

Duke.

The general of our horse thou art; and we,

Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence

Upon thy promising fortune.

Ber.

Sir, it is

A charge too heavy for my strength, but yet 4

We’ll strive to bear it for your worthy sake

To the extreme edge of hazard.

Duke.

Then go thou forth,

And fortune play upon thy prosp’rous helm

As thy auspicious mistress!

Ber.

This very day, 8

Great Mars, I put myself into thy file:

Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove

A lover of thy drum, hater of love.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.— Rousillon. A Room in the Countess’s Palace.

Enter Countess and Steward.

Count.

Alas! and would you take the letter of her?

Might you not know she would do as she has done,

By sending me a letter? Read it again.

Stew.

I am Saint Jaques’ pilgrim, thither gone: 4

Ambitious love hath so in me offended

That bare-foot plod I the cold ground upon

With sainted vow my faults to have amended.

Write, write, that from the bloody course of war,

My dearest master, your dear son, may hie:

Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far

His name with zealous fervour sanctify:

His taken labours bid him me forgive; 12

I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth

From courtly friends, with camping foes to live,

Where death and danger dog the heels of worth:

He is too good and fair for Death and me; 16

Whom I myself embrace, to set him free.

Count.

Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!

Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much,

As letting her pass so: had I spoke with her, 20

I could have well diverted her intents,

Which thus she hath prevented.

Stew.

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.

Count.

What angel shall 25

Bless this unworthy husband? he cannot thrive,

Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear,

And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath

Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rinaldo, 29

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. 33

Dispatch the most convenient messenger:

When haply he shall hear that she is gone,

He will return; and hope I may that she, 36

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. 40

You shall not need to fear me.

Wid.

I hope so. Look, here comes a pilgrim:

I know she will lie at my house; thither they send one another. I’ll question her. 33

Enter Helena in the dress of a Pilgrim.

God save you, pilgrim! whither are you bound?

Hel.

To Saint Jaques le Grand.

Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?

Wid.

At the Saint Francis, here beside the port. 37

Hel.

Is this the way?

Wid.

Ay, marry, is’t. Hark you!

[A marck afar off.

They come this way. If you will tarry, holy pilgrim,

But till the troops come by, 40

I will conduct you where you shall be lodg’d:

The rather, for I think I know your hostess

Here you shall see a countryman of yours

That has done worthy service.

Hel.

Hel.

O! I believe with him,

In argument of praise, or to the worth

Of the great count himself, she is too mean 60

To have her name repeated: all her deserving

Is a reserved honesty, and that

I have not heard examin’d.

Dia.

Alas, poor lady!

’Tis a hard bondage to become the wife 64

Of a detesting lord.

Wid.

Ay, right; good creature, wheresoe’er she is,

Her heart weighs sadly. This young maid might do her

A shrewd turn if she pleas’d.

Hel.

How do you mean? 68

May be the amorous count solicits her

In the unlawful purpose.

Wid.

He does, indeed;

And brokes with all that can in such a suit

Corrupt the tender honour of a maid: 72

But she is arm’d for him and keeps her guard

In honestest defence.

Mar.

The gods forbid else!

Enter, with drum and colours, a party of the Florentine army, Bertram and Parolles.

Wid.

So, now they come.

That is Antonio, the duke’s eldest son; 76

That, Escalus.

Hel.

Which is the Frenchman?

Dia.

He;

He’s shrewdly vexed at something.

Look, he has spied us.

Wid.

Marry, hang you!

Mar.

And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier!

[Exeunt Bertram, Parolles, Officers, and Soldiers.

Wid.

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.

Hel.

I humbly thank you. 96

Please it this matron and this gentle maid

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

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

I will bestow some precepts of this virgin 100

Worthy the note.

Both.

First Lord.

I love not many words.

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

[Exit.

Ber.

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

The lass I spoke of.

Sec. Lord.

But you say she’s honest. 120

Ber.

That’s all the fault. I spoke with her but once,

And found her wondrous cold; but I sent to her,

By this same coxcomb that we have i’ the wind,

Tokens and letters which she did re-send; 124

And this is all I have done. She’s a fair creature;

Will you go see her?

Sec. Lord.

With all my heart, my lord.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.— Florence. A Room in the Widow’s House.

Enter Helena and Widow.

Hel.

If you misdoubt me that I am not she,

I know not how I shall assure you further,

But I shall lose the grounds I work upon.

Wid.

Though my estate be fall’n, I was well born, 4

Nothing acquainted with these businesses;

And would not put my reputation now

In any staining act.

Hel.

Nor would I wish you.

First, give me trust, the county is my husband,

And what to your sworn counsel I have spoken

Is so from word to word; and then you cannot,

By the good aid that I of you shall borrow,

Err in bestowing it.

Wid.

I should believe you: 12

For you have show’d me that which well approves

You’re great in fortune.

Hel.

Take this purse of gold,

And let me buy your friendly help thus far,

Which I will over-pay and pay again 16

When I have found it. The county woos your daughter,

Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty,

Resolv’d to carry her: let her in fine consent,

As we’ll direct her how ’tis best to bear it. 20

Now, his important blood will nought deny

That she’ll demand: a ring the county wears,

That down ward hath succeeded in his house

From son to son, some four or five descents 24

Since the first father wore it: this ring he holds

In most rich choice; yet, in his idle fire,

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

Howe’er repented after.

Wid.

Now I see 28

The bottom of your purpose.

Hel.

You see it lawful then. It is no more,

But that your daughter, ere she seems as won,

Desires this ring, appoints him an encounter, 32

In fine, delivers me to fill the time,

Herself most chastely absent. After this,

To marry her, I’ll add three thousand crowns

To what is past already.

Wid.

I have yielded. 36

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 compos’d 40

To her unworthiness: it nothing steads us

To chide him from our eaves, for he persists

As if his life lay on’t.

Hel.

Why then to-night

Let us assay our plot; which, if it speed, 44

Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed,

And lawful meaning in a lawful act,

Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact. 47

But let’s about it.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

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, 76

Italian, or French, let him speak to me:

I will discover that which shall undo

The Florentine.

First Sold.

Boskos vauvado:

I understand thee, and can speak thy tongue:

Kerelybonto: Sir, 81

Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards

Are at thy bosom.

Par.

First Sold.

[Exit, with Parolles guarded. A short alarum within.

First Lord.

Go, tell the Count Rousillon, and my brother,

We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him muffled

Till we do hear from them.

Sec. Sold.

Captain, I will. 96

First Lord.

A’ will betray us all unto ourselves:

Inform on that.

Sec. Sold.

So I will, sir.

First Lord.

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

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Florence. A Room in the Widow’s House.

Enter Bertram and Diana.

Ber.

They told me that your name was Fontibell.

Dia.

No, my good lord, Diana.

Ber.

Titled goddess;

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

In your fine frame hath love no quality? 4

If the quick fire of youth light not your mind,

You are no maiden, but a monument:

When you are dead, you should be such a one

As you are now, for you are cold and stern; 8

And now you should be as your mother was

When your sweet self was got.

Dia.

She then was honest.

Ber.

So should you be.

Dia.

No:

My mother did but duty; such, my lord, 12

As you owe to your wife.

Ber.

No more o’ that!

I prithee do not strive against my vows.

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

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

Do thee all rights of service.

Dia.

Ay, so you serve us 17

Till we serve you; but when you have our roses,

You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves

And mock us with our bareness.

Ber.

How have I sworn! 20

Dia.

’Tis not the many oaths that make the truth,

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

What is not holy, that we swear not by,

But take the Highest to witness: then, pray you, tell me, 24

If I should swear by God’s great attributes

I lov’d you dearly, would you believe my oaths,

When I did love you ill? this has no holding,

To swear by him whom I protest to love, 28

That I will work against him: therefore your oaths

Are words and poor conditions, but unseal’d;

At least in my opinion.

Ber.

Change it, change it.

Be not so holy-cruel: love is holy; 32

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. 37

Dia.

I see that men make ropes in such a scarr

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

Ber.

I’ll lend it thee, my dear; but have no power 40

To give it from me.

Dia.

Will you not, my lord?

Ber.

It is an honour ’longing to our house,

Bequeathed down from many ancestors,

Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world 44

In me to lose.

Dia.

Mine honour’s such a ring:

My chastity’s the jewel of our house,

Bequeathed down from many ancestors,

Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world 48

In me to lose. Thus your own proper wisdom

Brings in the champion honour on my part

Against your vain assault.

Ber.

Here, take my ring:

My house, mine honour, yea, my life, be thine, 52

And I’ll be bid by thee.

Dia.

When midnight comes, knock at my chamber-window:

I’ll order take my mother shall not hear.

Now will I charge you in the band of truth, 56

When you have conquer’d my yet maiden bed,

Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me.

My reasons are most strong; and you shall know them

When back again this ring shall be deliver’d: 60

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. 65

Ber.

A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.

[Exit.

Dia.

For which live long to thank both heaven and me!

You may so in the end. 68

My mother told me just how he would woo

As if she sat in ’s heart; she says all men

Have the like oaths: he had sworn to marry me

When his wife’s dead; therefore I’ll lie with him

When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid, 73

Marry that will, I live and die a maid:

First Sold.

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, 256

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,

God save you, noble captain.

Sec. Lord.

Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafeu? I am for France. 357

First Lord.

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’d compel it of you; but fare you well.

[Exeunt Bertram and Lords.

First Sold.

You are undone, captain; all but your scarf; that has a knot on’t yet.

Par.

Who cannot be crushed with a plot? 364

First Sold.

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 too: we shall speak of you there.

[Exit.

Par.

Yet am I thankful: if my heart were great

’Twould burst at this. Captain I’ll be no more;

But I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft 372

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. 376

Rust, sword! cool, blushes! and Parolles, live

Safest in shame! being fool’d, by foolery thrive!

There’s place and means for every man alive.

I’ll after them.

[Exit.

Scene IV.— Florence. A Room in the Widow’s House.

Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana.

Hel.

That you may well perceive I have not wrong’d you,

One of the greatest in the Christian world

Shall be my surety; ’fore whose throne ’tis needful,

Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel. 4

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 8

His Grace is at Marseilles; to which place

We have convenient convoy. You must know,

I am supposed dead: the army breaking,

My husband hies him home; where, heaven aiding, 12

And by the leave of my good lord the king,

We’ll be before our welcome.

Wid.

Gentle madam,

You never had a servant to whose trust

Your business was more welcome.

Hel.

Nor you, mistress, 16

Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour

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 20

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 24

With what it loathes for that which is away.

But more of this hereafter. You, Diana,

Under my poor instructions yet must suffer

Something in my behalf.

Dia.

Let death and honesty

Go with your impositions, I am yours 29

Upon your will to suffer.

Hel.

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; 33

Our waggon is prepar’d, and time revives us:

Go thy ways, I begin to be aweary of thee; and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy ways: let my horses be well looked to, without any tricks. 63

Clo.

If I put any tricks upon ’em, sir, they shall be jade’s tricks, which are their own right by the law of nature.

Clo.

O madam! yonder’s my lord your son with a patch of velvet on’s face: whether there be a scar under it 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. 105

Laf.

A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good livery of honour; so belike is that.

Clo.

But it is your carbonadoed face. 108

Laf.

Let us go see your son, I pray you: I long to talk with the young noble soldier.

Clo.

Faith, there’s a dozen of ’em, with delicate fine hats and most courteous feathers, which bow the head and nod at every man.

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

Scene I.— Marseilles. A Street.

Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana, with two Attendants.

Hel.

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, 4

Be bold you do so grow in my requital

As nothing can unroot you. In happy time;

Enter a gentle Astringer.

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

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

Gent.

Wid.

Lord, how we lose our pains! 24

Hel.

All’s well that ends well yet,

Though time seems so adverse and means unfit.

I do beseech you, whither is he gone?

Gent.

Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon; 28

Whither I am going.

Hel.

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 32

But rather make you thank your pains for it.

I will come after you with what good speed

Our means will make us means.

Gent.

This I’ll do for you.

Hel.

And you shall find yourself to be well thank’d, 36

Whate’er falls more. We must to horse again:

Go, go, provide.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.— Rousillon. The inner Court of the Countess’s Palace.

Enter Clown and Parolles.

Par.

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. 6

Clo.

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. Prithee, allow the wind.

Par.

Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir: I spake but by a metaphor. 12

Clo.

Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose; or against any man’s metaphor. Prithee, get thee further.

Par.

Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper. 16

Clo.

Foh! prithee, stand away: a paper from Fortune’s close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look, here he comes himself.

Enter Lafeu.

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.

Scene III.— The Same. A Room in the Countess’s Palace.

Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafeu, Lords, Gentlemen, Guards, &c.

King.

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.

Count.

’Tis past, my liege; 4

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.

King.

My honour’d lady, 8

I have forgiven and forgotten all,

Though my revenges were high bent upon him,

And watch’d the time to shoot.

Laf.

This I must say,—

But first I beg my pardon,—the young lord 12

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 16

Of richest eyes, whose words all ears took captive,

Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn’d to serve

Humbly call’d mistress.

King.

Praising what is lost

Makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him hither; 20

We are reconcil’d, and the first view shall kill

All repetition. Let him not ask our pardon:

The nature of his great offence is dead,

And deeper than oblivion we do bury 24

The incensing relics of it: let him approach,

A stranger, no offender; and inform him

So ’tis our will he should.

Gent.

I shall, my liege.

I am not a day of season, 32

For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail

In me at once; but to the brightest beams

Distracted clouds give way: so stand thou forth;

The time is fair again.

Ber.

My high-repented blames, 36

Dear sovereign, pardon to me.

King.

All is whole;

Not one word more of the consumed time.

Let’s take the instant by the forward top,

For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees 40

The inaudible and noiseless foot of time

Steals ere we can effect them. You remember

The daughter of this lord?

Ber.

Admiringly, my liege: 44

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; 49

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

Extended or contracted all proportions

To a most hideous object: thence it came 52

That she, whom all men prais’d, and whom myself,

Since I have lost, have lov’d, was in mine eye

The dust that did offend it.

King.

Well excus’d:

That thou didst love her, strikes some scores away 56

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 rasher faults 60

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: 64

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

While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon.

Be this sweet Helen’s knell, and now forget her.

Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin: 68

The main consents are had; and here we’ll stay

To see our widower’s second marriage-day.

Count.

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

Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cesse! 72

Laf.

Come on, my son, in whom my house’s name

Must be digested, give a favour from you

To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter,

That she may quickly come.

[Bertram gives a ring. By my old beard, 76

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 leave at court,

I saw upon her finger.

Ber.

Hers it was not. 80

King.

Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine eye,

While I was speaking, oft was fasten’d to’t.—

This ring was mine; and, when I gave it Helen,

I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood 84

Necessitied to help, that by this token

I would relieve her. Had you that craft to reave her

Of what should stead her most?

Ber.

My gracious sovereign,

Howe’er it pleases you to take it so, 88

The ring was never hers.

Count.

Son, on my life,

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

At her life’s rate.

Laf.

I am sure I saw her wear it.

Ber.

You are deceiv’d, my lord, she never saw it: 92

In Florence was it from a casement thrown me,

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

Of her that threw it. Noble she was, and thought

I stood engag’d: but when I had subscrib’d 96

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 ceas’d,

In heavy satisfaction, and would never 100

Receive the ring again.

King.

Plutus himself,

That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine,

Hath not in nature’s mystery more science

Than I have in this ring: ’twas mine, ’twas Helen’s, 104

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, 108

That she would never put it from her finger

Unless she gave it to yourself in bed,

Where you have never come, or sent it us

Upon her great disaster.

Ber.

She never saw it. 112

King.

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

And mak’st 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;— 116

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. 120

[Guards seize Bertram.

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

Shall tax my fears of little vanity,

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

We’ll sift this matter further.

Ber.

If you shall prove 124

This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy

Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence,

Where yet she never was.

[Exit guarded.

King.

I am wrapp’d in dismal thinkings.

Enter the gentle Astringer.

Gent.

Gracious sovereign, 128

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

Here’s a petition from a Florentine,

Who hath, for four or five removes come short

To tender it herself. I undertook it, 132

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, 136

In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern

Your highness with herself.

King.

Upon his many protestations to marry me when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Now is the Count Rousillon a widower: his vows are forfeited to me, and my honour’s paid to him. He stole from Florence, taking no leave, and I follow him to his country for justice. Grant it me, O king! in you it best lies; otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poor maid is undone. 147

Diana Capilet.

Laf.

I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll for this: I’ll none of him.

King.

The heavens have thought well on thee, Lafeu,

To bring forth this discovery. Seek these suitors: 152

Go speedily and bring again the count.

[Exeunt the gentle Astringer, and some Attendants.

I am afeard the life of Helen, lady,

Was foully snatch’d.

Count.

Now, justice on the doers!

Re-enter Bertram, guarded.

King.

I wonder, sir, sith wives are monsters to you, 156

And that you fly them as you swear them lordship,

Yet you desire to marry.

Re-enter the gentle Astringer, with Widow and Diana.

What woman’s that?

Dia.

I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine,

Derived from the ancient Capilet: 160

My suit, as I do understand, you know,

And therefore know how far I may be pitied.

Wid.

I am her mother, sir, whose age and honour

Both suffer under this complaint we bring, 164

And both shall cease, without your remedy.

King.

Come hither, county; do you know these women?

Ber.

My lord, I neither can nor will deny

But that I know them: do they charge me further? 168

Dia.

Why do you look so strange upon your wife?

Ber.

She’s none of mine, my lord.

Dia.

If you shall marry,

You give away this hand, and that is mine;

You give away heaven’s vows, and those are mine; 172

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. 176

Laf.

[To Bertram.] Your reputation comes too short for my daughter: you are no husband for her.

Ber.

My lord, this is a fond and desperate creature, 180

Whom sometime I have laugh’d with: let your highness

Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour

Than for to think that I would sink it here.

King.

Sir, for my thoughts, you have them ill to friend, 184

Till your deeds gain them: fairer prove your honour,

Than in my thought it lies.

Dia.

Good my lord,

Ask him upon his oath, if he does think

He had not my virginity. 188

King.

What sayst thou to her?

Ber.

She’s impudent, my lord;

And was a common gamester to the camp.

Dia.

He does me wrong, my lord; if I were so,

He might have bought me at a common price:

Do not believe him. O! behold this ring, 193

Whose high respect and rich validity

Did lack a parallel; yet for all that

He gave it to a commoner o’ the camp, 196

If I be one.

Count.

He blushes, and ’tis it:

Of six preceding ancestors, that gem

Conferr’d by testament to the sequent issue,

Hath it been ow’d and worn. This is his wife:

That ring’s a thousand proofs.

King.

Methought you said 201

You saw one here in court could witness it.

Dia.

I did, my lord, but loath am to produce

So bad an instrument: his name’s Parolles. 204

Laf.

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

King.

Find him, and bring him hither.

[Exit an Attendant.

Ber.

What of him?

He’s quoted for a most perfidious slave,

With all the spots of the world tax’d and debosh’d, 208

Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth.

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

That will speak anything?

King.

She hath that ring of yours.

Ber.

I think she has: certain it is I lik’d her,

And boarded her i’ the wanton way of youth. 213

She knew her distance and did angle for me,

Madding my eagerness with her restraint,

As all impediments in fancy’s course 216

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 220

At market-price have bought.

Dia.

I must be patient;

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

May justly diet me. I pray you yet,—

Since you lack virtue I will lose a husband,— 224

Send for your ring; I will return it home,

And give me mine again.

Ber.

I have it not.

Which, on your just proceeding I’ll keep off,—

King.

If it were yours by none of all these ways, 280

How could you give it him?

Dia.

I never gave it him.

Laf.

This woman’s an easy glove, my lord: she goes off and on at pleasure.

King.

This ring was mine: I gave it his first wife. 284

Dia.

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

King.

Take her away; I do not like her now.

To prison with her; and away with him.

Unless thou tell’st me where thou hadst this ring

I’ll swear I am a maid, and he knows not. 296

Great king, I am no strumpet, by my life;

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

[Pointing to Lafeu.

King.

She does abuse our ears: to prison with her!

Dia.

Good mother, fetch my bail. [Exit Widow.] Stay, royal sir; 300

The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for,

And he shall surety me. But for this lord,

Who hath abus’d me, as he knows himself,

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

He knows himself my bed he hath defil’d, 305

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.

Re-enter Widow, with Helena.

King.

Is there no exorcist 309

Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes?

Is’t real that I see?

Hel.

No, my good lord;

’Tis but the shadow of a wife you see; 312

The name and not the thing.

Ber.

Both, both. O! pardon.

Hel.

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:

When from my finger you can get this ring, 317

And are by me with child, &c. This is done:

Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?

Ber.

If she, my liege, can make me know this clearly, 320

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

Hel.

If it appear not plain, and prove untrue,

Deadly divorce step between me and you!

O! my dear mother; do I see you living? 324

Laf.

Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon. [To Parolles.] Good Tom Drum, lend me a handkercher: so, I thank thee. Wait on me home, I’ll make sport with thee: let thy curtsies alone, they are scurvy ones. 329

King.

Let us from point to point this story know,

To make the even truth in pleasure flow.

[To Diana.] If thou be’st yet a fresh uncropped flower, 332

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

For I can guess that by thy honest aid

Thou keptst a wife herself, thyself a maid.

Of that, and all the progress, more and less, 336

Resolvedly more leisure shall express:

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

The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by the King.

The king’s a beggar, now the play is done:

All is well ended if this suit be won

That you express content; which we will pay,

With strife to please you, day exceeding day: 4

Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts;

Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts.

[Exeunt.