Chapter 2
Part 2
O thou my lovely boy who in thy power, Dost hold Time’s fickle glass his fickle hour: Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’st, Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow’st. If Nature (sovereign mistress over wrack) As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back, She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill. Yet fear her O thou minion of her pleasure, She may detain, but not still keep her treasure! Her audit (though delayed) answered must be, And her quietus is to render thee.
127
In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were it bore not beauty’s name: But now is black beauty’s successive heir, And beauty slandered with a bastard shame, For since each hand hath put on nature’s power, Fairing the foul with art’s false borrowed face, Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower, But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace. Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven black, Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem At such who not born fair no beauty lack, Slandering creation with a false esteem, Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe, That every tongue says beauty should look so.
128
How oft when thou, my music, music play’st, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap, To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap, At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand. To be so tickled they would change their state And situation with those dancing chips, O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, Making dead wood more blest than living lips, Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
129
Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action, and till action, lust Is perjured, murd’rous, bloody full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated as a swallowed bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad. Mad in pursuit and in possession so, Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme, A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe; Before a joy proposed behind a dream. All this the world well knows yet none knows well, To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
130
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun, Coral is far more red, than her lips red, If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun: If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head: I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks, And in some perfumes is there more delight, Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know, That music hath a far more pleasing sound: I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress when she walks treads on the ground. And yet by heaven I think my love as rare, As any she belied with false compare.
131
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. Yet in good faith some say that thee behold, Thy face hath not the power to make love groan; To say they err, I dare not be so bold, Although I swear it to my self alone. And to be sure that is not false I swear, A thousand groans but thinking on thy face, One on another’s neck do witness bear Thy black is fairest in my judgement’s place. In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds, And thence this slander as I think proceeds.
132
Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star that ushers in the even Doth half that glory to the sober west As those two mourning eyes become thy face: O let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part. Then will I swear beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack.
133
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me; Is’t not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet’st friend must be? Me from my self thy cruel eye hath taken, And my next self thou harder hast engrossed, Of him, my self, and thee I am forsaken, A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed: Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward, But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail, Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard, Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol. And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee, Perforce am thine and all that is in me.
134
So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I’ll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still: But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, For thou art covetous, and he is kind, He learned but surety-like to write for me, Under that bond that him as fist doth bind. The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, Thou usurer that put’st forth all to use, And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake, So him I lose through my unkind abuse. Him have I lost, thou hast both him and me, He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.
135
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will, And Will to boot, and Will in overplus, More than enough am I that vex thee still, To thy sweet will making addition thus. Wilt thou whose will is large and spacious, Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? Shall will in others seem right gracious, And in my will no fair acceptance shine? The sea all water, yet receives rain still, And in abundance addeth to his store, So thou being rich in will add to thy will One will of mine to make thy large will more. Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill, Think all but one, and me in that one Will.
136
If thy soul check thee that I come so near, Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will, And will thy soul knows is admitted there, Thus far for love, my love-suit sweet fulfil. Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love, Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one, In things of great receipt with case we prove, Among a number one is reckoned none. Then in the number let me pass untold, Though in thy store’s account I one must be, For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold, That nothing me, a something sweet to thee. Make but my name thy love, and love that still, And then thou lov’st me for my name is Will.
137
Thou blind fool Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, That they behold and see not what they see? They know what beauty is, see where it lies, Yet what the best is, take the worst to be. If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks, Be anchored in the bay where all men ride, Why of eyes’ falsehood hast thou forged hooks, Whereto the judgement of my heart is tied? Why should my heart think that a several plot, Which my heart knows the wide world’s common place? Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not To put fair truth upon so foul a face? In things right true my heart and eyes have erred, And to this false plague are they now transferred.
138
When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe, her though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth, Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue; On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed. But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? O love’s best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love loves not to have years told. Therefore I lie with her, and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flattered be.
139
O call not me to justify the wrong, That thy unkindness lays upon my heart, Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue, Use power with power, and slay me not by art, Tell me thou lov’st elsewhere; but in my sight, Dear heart forbear to glance thine eye aside, What need’st thou wound with cunning when thy might Is more than my o’erpressed defence can bide? Let me excuse thee, ah my love well knows, Her pretty looks have been mine enemies, And therefore from my face she turns my foes, That they elsewhere might dart their injuries: Yet do not so, but since I am near slain, Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.
140
Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain. If I might teach thee wit better it were, Though not to love, yet love to tell me so, As testy sick men when their deaths be near, No news but health from their physicians know. For if I should despair I should grow mad, And in my madness might speak ill of thee, Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be. That I may not be so, nor thou belied, Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.
141
In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note, But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise, Who in despite of view is pleased to dote. Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted, Nor tender feeling to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To any sensual feast with thee alone: But my five wits, nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man, Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be: Only my plague thus far I count my gain, That she that makes me sin, awards me pain.
142
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving, O but with mine, compare thou thine own state, And thou shalt find it merits not reproving, Or if it do, not from those lips of thine, That have profaned their scarlet ornaments, And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine, Robbed others’ beds’ revenues of their rents. Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov’st those, Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee, Root pity in thy heart that when it grows, Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, By self-example mayst thou be denied.
143
Lo as a careful huswife runs to catch, One of her feathered creatures broke away, Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch In pursuit of the thing she would have stay: Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent, To follow that which flies before her face: Not prizing her poor infant’s discontent; So run’st thou after that which flies from thee, Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind, But if thou catch thy hope turn back to me: And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind. So will I pray that thou mayst have thy Will, If thou turn back and my loud crying still.
144
Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, Which, like two spirits, do suggest me still: The better angel is a man right fair, The worser spirit a woman coloured ill. To win me soon to hell my female evil Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her foul pride. And whether that my angel be turned fiend Suspect I may, yet not directly tell; But being both from me both to each friend, I guess one angel in another’s hell. Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out.
145
Those lips that Love’s own hand did make, Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’, To me that languished for her sake: But when she saw my woeful state, Straight in her heart did mercy come, Chiding that tongue that ever sweet, Was used in giving gentle doom: And taught it thus anew to greet: ‘I hate’ she altered with an end, That followed it as gentle day, Doth follow night who like a fiend From heaven to hell is flown away. ‘I hate’, from hate away she threw, And saved my life saying ‘not you’.
146
Poor soul the centre of my sinful earth, My sinful earth these rebel powers array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms inheritors of this excess Eat up thy charge? is this thy body’s end? Then soul live thou upon thy servant’s loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more, So shall thou feed on death, that feeds on men, And death once dead, there’s no more dying then.
147
My love is as a fever longing still, For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please: My reason the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept Hath left me, and I desperate now approve, Desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care, And frantic-mad with evermore unrest, My thoughts and my discourse as mad men’s are, At random from the truth vainly expressed. For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
148
O me! what eyes hath love put in my head, Which have no correspondence with true sight, Or if they have, where is my judgement fled, That censures falsely what they see aright? If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, What means the world to say it is not so? If it be not, then love doth well denote, Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s: no, How can it? O how can love’s eye be true, That is so vexed with watching and with tears? No marvel then though I mistake my view, The sun it self sees not, till heaven clears. O cunning love, with tears thou keep’st me blind, Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.
149
Canst thou O cruel, say I love thee not, When I against my self with thee partake? Do I not think on thee when I forgot Am of my self, all-tyrant, for thy sake? Who hateth thee that I do call my friend, On whom frown’st thou that I do fawn upon, Nay if thou lour’st on me do I not spend Revenge upon my self with present moan? What merit do I in my self respect, That is so proud thy service to despise, When all my best doth worship thy defect, Commanded by the motion of thine eyes? But love hate on for now I know thy mind, Those that can see thou lov’st, and I am blind.
150
O from what power hast thou this powerful might, With insufficiency my heart to sway, To make me give the lie to my true sight, And swear that brightness doth not grace the day? Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill, That in the very refuse of thy deeds, There is such strength and warrantise of skill, That in my mind thy worst all best exceeds? Who taught thee how to make me love thee more, The more I hear and see just cause of hate? O though I love what others do abhor, With others thou shouldst not abhor my state. If thy unworthiness raised love in me, More worthy I to be beloved of thee.
151
Love is too young to know what conscience is, Yet who knows not conscience is born of love? Then gentle cheater urge not my amiss, Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove. For thou betraying me, I do betray My nobler part to my gross body’s treason, My soul doth tell my body that he may, Triumph in love, flesh stays no farther reason, But rising at thy name doth point out thee, As his triumphant prize, proud of this pride, He is contented thy poor drudge to be, To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. No want of conscience hold it that I call, Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall.
152
In loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn, But thou art twice forsworn to me love swearing, In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn, In vowing new hate after new love bearing: But why of two oaths’ breach do I accuse thee, When I break twenty? I am perjured most, For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee: And all my honest faith in thee is lost. For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness: Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy, And to enlighten thee gave eyes to blindness, Or made them swear against the thing they see. For I have sworn thee fair: more perjured I, To swear against the truth so foul a lie.
153
Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep, A maid of Dian’s this advantage found, And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep In a cold valley-fountain of that ground: Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love, A dateless lively heat still to endure, And grew a seething bath which yet men prove, Against strange maladies a sovereign cure: But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired, The boy for trial needs would touch my breast, I sick withal the help of bath desired, And thither hied a sad distempered guest. But found no cure, the bath for my help lies, Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress’ eyes.
154
The little Love-god lying once asleep, Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand, Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keep, Came tripping by, but in her maiden hand, The fairest votary took up that fire, Which many legions of true hearts had warmed, And so the general of hot desire, Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarmed. This brand she quenched in a cool well by, Which from Love’s fire took heat perpetual, Growing a bath and healthful remedy, For men diseased; but I, my mistress’ thrall, Came there for cure and this by that I prove, Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love.
THE END
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
Contents
ACT I Scene I. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace. Scene II. Paris. A room in the King’s palace. Scene III. Rossillon. A Room in the Palace.
ACT II Scene I. Paris. A room in the King’s palace. Scene II. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace. Scene III. Paris. The King’s palace. Scene IV. Paris. The King’s palace. Scene V. Another room in the same.
ACT III Scene I. Florence. A room in the Duke’s palace. Scene II. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace. Scene III. Florence. Before the Duke’s palace. Scene IV. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace. Scene V. Without the walls of Florence. Scene VI. Camp before Florence. Scene VII. Florence. A room in the Widow’s house.
ACT IV Scene I. Without the Florentine camp. Scene II. Florence. A room in the Widow’s house. Scene III. The Florentine camp. Scene IV. Florence. A room in the Widow’s house. Scene V. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.
ACT V Scene I. Marseilles. A street. Scene II. Rossillon. The inner court of the Countess’s palace. Scene III. The same. A room in the Countess’s palace.
Dramatis Personæ
KING OF FRANCE. THE DUKE OF FLORENCE. BERTRAM, Count of Rossillon. LAFEW, an old Lord. PAROLLES, a follower of Bertram. Several young French Lords, that serve with Bertram in the Florentine War. RYNALDO, servant to the Countess of Rossillon. Clown, servant to the Countess of Rossillon. A Page, servant to the Countess of Rossillon. COUNTESS OF ROSSILLON, mother to Bertram. HELENA, a Gentlewoman protected by the Countess. An old WIDOW of Florence. DIANA, daughter to the Widow. VIOLENTA, neighbour and friend to the Widow. MARIANA, neighbour and friend to the Widow.
Lords attending on the KING; Officers; Soldiers, &c., French and Florentine.
SCENE: Partly in France, and partly in Tuscany.
ACT I
SCENE I. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.
Enter Bertram, the Countess of Rossillon, Helena, and Lafew, all in black.
COUNTESS. In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.
BERTRAM. 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.
LAFEW. 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.
COUNTESS. What hope is there of his majesty’s amendment?
LAFEW. He hath abandon’d his physicians, madam; under whose practices he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other advantage in the process but only the losing of hope by time.
COUNTESS. 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 stretch’d so far, would have made nature immortal, and death should have play for lack of work. Would for the king’s sake he were living! I think it would be the death of the king’s disease.
LAFEW. How called you the man you speak of, madam?
COUNTESS. He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon.
LAFEW. He was excellent indeed, madam; the king very lately spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly; he was skilful enough to have liv’d still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality.
BERTRAM. What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of?
LAFEW. A fistula, my lord.
BERTRAM. I heard not of it before.
LAFEW. I would it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon?
COUNTESS. 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 traitors too. In her they are the better for their simpleness; she derives her honesty, and achieves her goodness.
LAFEW. Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.
COUNTESS. ’Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father never approaches her heart but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena; go to, no more, lest it be rather thought you affect a sorrow than to have.
HELENA. I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too.
LAFEW. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead; excessive grief the enemy to the living.
COUNTESS. If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal.
BERTRAM. Madam, I desire your holy wishes.
LAFEW. How understand we that?
COUNTESS. Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy father In manners, as in shape! Thy blood and virtue Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none. Be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life’s key. Be check’d for silence, But never tax’d for speech. What heaven more will, That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down, Fall on thy head! Farewell. My lord, ’Tis an unseason’d courtier; good my lord, Advise him.
LAFEW. He cannot want the best That shall attend his love.
COUNTESS. Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram.
[_Exit Countess._]
BERTRAM. The best wishes that can be forg’d in your thoughts be servants to you! [_To Helena._] Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her.
LAFEW. Farewell, pretty lady, you must hold the credit of your father.
[_Exeunt Bertram and Lafew._]
HELENA. 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 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. Th’ambition in my love thus plagues itself: The hind that would be mated by the lion Must die for love. ’Twas pretty, though a plague, To see him every hour; to sit and draw His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls, In our heart’s 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 relics. Who comes here?
Enter Parolles.
One that goes with him: I love him for his sake, And yet I know him a notorious liar, Think him a great way fool, solely a coward; Yet these fix’d evils sit so fit in him That they take place when virtue’s steely bones Looks bleak i’ th’ cold wind: withal, full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
PAROLLES. Save you, fair queen!
HELENA. And you, monarch!
PAROLLES. No.
HELENA. And no.
PAROLLES. Are you meditating on virginity?
HELENA. Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you; let me ask you a question. Man is enemy to virginity; how may we barricado it against him?
PAROLLES. Keep him out.
HELENA. But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant, in the defence, yet is weak. Unfold to us some warlike resistance.
PAROLLES. There is none. Man setting down before you will undermine you and blow you up.
HELENA. Bless our poor virginity from underminers and blowers-up! Is there no military policy how virgins might blow up men?
PAROLLES. 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 it!
HELENA. I will stand for’t a little, though therefore I die a virgin.
PAROLLES. 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. 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 lose by’t. Out with’t! Within the year it will make itself two, which is a goodly increase, and the principal itself not much the worse. Away with it!
HELENA. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?
PAROLLES. Let me see. Marry, ill, to like him that ne’er it likes. ’Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less worth. Off with’t while ’tis vendible; answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion, richly suited, but unsuitable, just like the brooch and the toothpick, 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 wither’d pears; it looks ill, it eats drily; marry, ’tis a wither’d pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet ’tis a wither’d pear. Will you anything with it?
HELENA. 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 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.
PAROLLES. What one, i’ faith?
HELENA. That I wish well. ’Tis pity—
PAROLLES. What’s pity?
HELENA. That wishing well had not a body in’t Which might be felt, that we, the poorer born, Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends, And show what we alone must think, which never Returns us thanks.
Enter a Page.
PAGE. Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.
[_Exit Page._]
PAROLLES. Little Helen, farewell. If I can remember thee, I will think of thee at court.
HELENA. Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.
PAROLLES. Under Mars, I.
HELENA. I especially think, under Mars.
PAROLLES. Why under Mars?
HELENA. The wars hath so kept you under, that you must needs be born under Mars.
PAROLLES. When he was predominant.
HELENA. When he was retrograde, I think rather.
PAROLLES. Why think you so?
HELENA. You go so much backward when you fight.
PAROLLES. That’s for advantage.
HELENA. 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.
PAROLLES. I am so full of business I cannot answer thee acutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the which my instruction shall serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier’s counsel, and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away. Farewell. When thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember thy friends. Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee. So, farewell.
[_Exit._]
HELENA. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. What power is it which mounts my love so high, That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye? The mightiest space in fortune nature brings To join like likes, and kiss like native things. Impossible be strange attempts to those That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose What hath been cannot be. Who ever strove To show her merit that did miss her love? The king’s disease,—my project may deceive me, But my intents are fix’d, and will not leave me.
[_Exit._]
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 th’ 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, A certainty, vouch’d from our cousin Austria, With caution, that the Florentine will move us For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend Prejudicates the business, and would seem To have us make denial.
FIRST LORD. His love and wisdom, Approv’d so to your majesty, may plead For amplest credence.
KING. He hath arm’d our answer, And Florence is denied before he comes: Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see The Tuscan service, freely have they leave To stand on either part.
SECOND LORD. It well may serve A nursery to our gentry, who are sick For breathing and exploit.
KING. What’s he comes here?
Enter Bertram, Lafew and Parolles.
FIRST LORD. It is the Count Rossillon, my good lord, Young Bertram.
KING. Youth, thou bear’st thy father’s face; Frank nature, rather curious than in haste, Hath well compos’d thee. Thy father’s moral parts Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.
BERTRAM. My thanks and duty are your majesty’s.
KING. I would I had that corporal soundness now, As when thy father and myself in friendship First tried our soldiership. He did look far Into the service of the time, and was Discipled of the bravest. He lasted long, But on us both did haggish age steal on, And wore us out of act. It much repairs me To talk of your good father; in his youth He had the wit which I can well observe Today in our young lords; but they may jest Till their own scorn return to them unnoted Ere they can hide their levity in honour So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were, His equal had awak’d them, and his honour, Clock to itself, knew the true minute when Exception bid him speak, and at this time His tongue obey’d his hand. Who were below him He us’d as creatures of another place, And bow’d his eminent top to their low ranks, Making them proud of his humility, In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man Might be a copy to these younger times; Which, followed well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward.
BERTRAM. 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.
KING. Would I were with him! He would always say,— Methinks I hear him now; his plausive words He scatter’d not in ears, but grafted them To grow there and to bear,—“Let me not live,” This his good melancholy oft began On the catastrophe and heel of pastime, When it was out,—“Let me not live” quoth he, “After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses All but new things disdain; whose judgments are Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies Expire before their fashions.” This he wish’d. I, after him, do after him wish too, Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home, I quickly were dissolved from my hive To give some labourers room.
SECOND LORD. You’re lov’d, sir; They that least lend it you shall lack you first.
KING. I fill a place, I know’t. How long is’t, Count, Since the physician at your father’s died? He was much fam’d.
BERTRAM. Some six months since, my lord.
KING. If he were living, I would try him yet;— Lend me an arm;—the rest have worn me out With several applications; nature and sickness Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, Count; My son’s no dearer.
BERTRAM. Thank your majesty.
[_Exeunt. Flourish._]
SCENE III. Rossillon. A Room in the Palace.
Enter Countess, Steward and Clown.
COUNTESS. I will now hear. What say you of this gentlewoman?
STEWARD. 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.
COUNTESS. What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah. The complaints I have heard of you I do not all believe; ’tis my slowness that I do not; for I know you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours.
CLOWN. ’Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.
COUNTESS. Well, sir.
CLOWN. 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.
COUNTESS. Wilt thou needs be a beggar?
CLOWN. I do beg your good will in this case.
COUNTESS. In what case?
CLOWN. In Isbel’s case and mine own. Service is no heritage, and I think I shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue of my body; for they say barnes are blessings.
COUNTESS. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.
CLOWN. My poor body, madam, requires it; I am driven on by the flesh, and he must needs go that the devil drives.
COUNTESS. Is this all your worship’s reason?
CLOWN. Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are.
COUNTESS. May the world know them?
CLOWN. I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and indeed I do marry that I may repent.
COUNTESS. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.
CLOWN. I am out of friends, madam, and I hope to have friends for my wife’s sake.
COUNTESS. Such friends are thine enemies, knave.
CLOWN. Y’are shallow, madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me which I am a-weary of. He that ears my land spares my team, and gives me leave to 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 papist, howsome’er their hearts are sever’d in religion, their heads are both one; they may jowl horns together like any deer i’ the herd.
COUNTESS. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth’d and calumnious knave?
CLOWN. 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._
COUNTESS. Get you gone, sir; I’ll talk with you more anon.
STEWARD. May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you; of her I am to speak.
COUNTESS. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; Helen I mean.
CLOWN. [_Sings._] _ 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, 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._
COUNTESS. What, one good in ten? You corrupt the song, sirrah.
CLOWN. One good woman in ten, madam, which is a purifying o’ the song. Would God would serve the world so all the year! We’d find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth ’a! And we might have a good woman born but or every blazing star, or at an earthquake, ’twould mend the lottery well; a man may draw his heart out ere he pluck one.
COUNTESS. You’ll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you!
CLOWN. 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.
[_Exit._]
COUNTESS. Well, now.
STEWARD. I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.
COUNTESS. Faith I do. Her father bequeath’d 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.
STEWARD. Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wish’d me; alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touch’d not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son. Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no god, that would not extend his might only where qualities were level; Diana no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surpris’d, without rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. This she deliver’d in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e’er I heard virgin exclaim in, which I held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it.
COUNTESS. You have discharg’d this honestly; keep it to yourself; many likelihoods inform’d me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you leave me; stall this in your bosom; and I thank you for your honest care. I will speak with you further anon.
[_Exit Steward._]
Enter Helena.
Even so it was with me when I was young; If ever we are nature’s, these are ours; this thorn Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong; Our blood to us, this to our blood is born; It is the show and seal of nature’s truth, Where love’s strong passion is impress’d in youth. By our remembrances of days foregone, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none. Her eye is sick on’t; I observe her now.
HELENA. What is your pleasure, madam?
COUNTESS. You know, Helen, I am a mother to you.
HELENA. Mine honourable mistress.
COUNTESS. Nay, a mother. Why not a mother? When I said a mother, Methought you saw a serpent. What’s in mother, That you start at it? I say I am your mother, And put you in the catalogue of those That were enwombed mine. ’Tis often seen Adoption strives with nature, and choice breeds A native slip to us from foreign seeds. You ne’er oppress’d me with a mother’s groan, Yet I express to you a mother’s care. God’s mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood To say I am thy mother? What’s the matter, That this distempered messenger of wet, The many-colour’d Iris, rounds thine eye? —Why, that you are my daughter?
HELENA. That I am not.
COUNTESS. I say, I am your mother.
HELENA. Pardon, madam; The Count Rossillon cannot be my brother. I am from humble, he from honoured 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.
COUNTESS. Nor I your mother?
HELENA. You are my mother, madam; would you were— So that my lord your son were not my brother,— Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers, I care no more for than I do for heaven, So I were not his sister. Can’t no other, But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?
COUNTESS. 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 asham’d, Against the proclamation of thy passion To say thou dost not. Therefore tell me true; But tell me then, ’tis so; for, look, thy cheeks Confess it, t’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, 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, To tell me truly.
HELENA. Good madam, pardon me.
COUNTESS. Do you love my son?
HELENA. Your pardon, noble mistress.
COUNTESS. Love you my son?
HELENA. Do not you love him, madam?
COUNTESS. Go not about; my love hath in’t a bond Whereof the world takes note. Come, come, disclose The state of your affection, for your passions Have to the full appeach’d.
HELENA. 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 lov’d of me; I follow him not By any token of presumptuous suit, Nor would I have him till I do deserve him; Yet never know how that desert should be. I know I love in vain, strive against hope; Yet in this captious and inteemable 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, 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!
COUNTESS. Had you not lately an intent,—speak truly,— To go to Paris?
HELENA. Madam, I had.
COUNTESS. Wherefore? tell true.
HELENA. 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, As notes whose faculties inclusive were More than they were in note. Amongst the rest There is a remedy, approv’d, set down, To cure the desperate languishings whereof The king is render’d lost.
COUNTESS. This was your motive For Paris, was it? Speak.
HELENA. 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.
COUNTESS. But think you, Helen, If you should tender your supposed aid, He would receive it? He and his physicians Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him; They, that they cannot help. How shall they credit A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools, Embowell’d of their doctrine, have let off The danger to itself?
HELENA. There’s something in’t More than my father’s skill, which was the great’st Of his profession, that his good receipt Shall for my legacy be sanctified By th’ luckiest stars in heaven; and would your honour But give me leave to try success, I’d venture The well-lost life of mine on his grace’s cure. By such a day, an hour.
COUNTESS. Dost thou believe’t?
HELENA. Ay, madam, knowingly.
COUNTESS. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love, Means and attendants, and my loving greetings To those of mine in court. I’ll stay at home, And pray God’s blessing into thy attempt. Be gone tomorrow; and be sure of this, What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.
[_Exeunt._]
ACT II.
SCENE I. Paris. A room in the King’s palace.
Flourish. Enter the King with young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war; Bertram, Parolles and Attendants.
KING. 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 receiv’d, And is enough for both.
FIRST LORD. ’Tis our hope, sir, After well-ent’red 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 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.
SECOND LORD. Health, at your bidding serve your majesty!
KING. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them; They say our French lack language to deny If they demand; beware of being captives Before you serve.
BOTH. Our hearts receive your warnings.
KING. Farewell.—Come hither to me.
[_The King retires to a couch._]
FIRST LORD. O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us!
PAROLLES. ’Tis not his fault; the spark.
SECOND LORD. O, ’tis brave wars!
PAROLLES. Most admirable! I have seen those wars.
BERTRAM. I am commanded here, and kept a coil with, “Too young”, and “the next year” and “’tis too early”.
PAROLLES. An thy mind stand to’t, boy, steal away bravely.
BERTRAM. 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.
FIRST LORD. There’s honour in the theft.
PAROLLES. Commit it, count.
SECOND LORD. I am your accessary; and so farewell.
BERTRAM. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortur’d body.
FIRST LORD. Farewell, captain.
SECOND LORD. Sweet Monsieur Parolles!
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 entrench’d it. Say to him I live; and observe his reports for me.
FIRST LORD. We shall, noble captain.
PAROLLES. Mars dote on you for his novices!
[_Exeunt Lords._]
What will ye do?
BERTRAM. Stay the king.
PAROLLES. Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have restrain’d yourself within the list of too cold an adieu. Be more expressive to them; for they wear themselves in the cap of the time; there do muster true gait; eat, speak, and move, under the influence of the most receiv’d star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed. After them, and take a more dilated farewell.
BERTRAM. And I will do so.
PAROLLES. Worthy fellows, and like to prove most sinewy sword-men.
[_Exeunt Bertram and Parolles._]
Enter Lafew.
LAFEW. Pardon, my lord [_kneeling_], for me and for my tidings.
KING. I’ll fee thee to stand up.
LAFEW. 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.
LAFEW. Good faith, across; But, my good lord, ’tis thus: will you be cur’d Of your infirmity?
KING. No.
LAFEW. O, will you eat No grapes, my royal fox? Yes, but you will My noble grapes, and if my royal fox Could reach them. I have seen a medicine That’s able to breathe life into a stone, Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary With sprightly fire and motion; whose simple touch Is powerful to araise King Pippen, nay, To give great Charlemain a pen in’s hand And write to her a love-line.
KING. What ‘her’ is this?
LAFEW. Why, doctor ‘she’! My lord, there’s one arriv’d, If you will see her. Now, by my faith and honour, If seriously I may convey my thoughts In this my light deliverance, I have spoke With one that in her sex, her years, profession, Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz’d me more Than I dare blame my weakness. Will you see her, For that is her demand, and know her business? That done, laugh well at me.
KING. Now, good Lafew, Bring in the admiration; that we with thee May spend our wonder too, or take off thine By wond’ring how thou took’st it.
LAFEW. Nay, I’ll fit you, And not be all day neither.
[_Exit Lafew._]
KING. Thus he his special nothing ever prologues.
Enter Lafew with Helena.
LAFEW. Nay, come your ways.
KING. This haste hath wings indeed.
LAFEW. 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.
[_Exit._]
KING. Now, fair one, does your business follow us?
HELENA. Ay, my good lord. Gerard de Narbon was my father, In what he did profess, well found.
KING. I knew him.
HELENA. The rather will I spare my praises towards him. Knowing him is enough. On his bed of death Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one, 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 With that malignant cause, wherein the honour Of my dear father’s gift stands chief in power, I come to tender it, and my appliance, With all bound humbleness.
KING. We thank you, maiden, But may not be so credulous of cure, When our most learned doctors leave us, and The congregated college have concluded That labouring art can never ransom nature From her inaidable estate. I say we must not So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope, 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.
HELENA. 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.
KING. I cannot give thee less, to be call’d grateful. Thou thought’st to help me; and such thanks I give As one near death to those that wish him live. But what at full I know, thou know’st no part; I knowing all my peril, thou no art.
HELENA. 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 When miracles have by the great’st 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.
KING. I must not hear thee. Fare thee well, kind maid. Thy pains, not us’d, must by thyself be paid; Proffers, not took, reap thanks for their reward.
HELENA. Inspired merit so by breath is barr’d. It is not so with Him that all things knows As ’tis with us that square our guess by shows; But most it is presumption in us when The help of 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.
KING. Art thou so confident? Within what space Hop’st thou my cure?
HELENA. The greatest grace lending grace. Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring, Ere twice in murk and occidental damp Moist Hesperus hath quench’d her sleepy lamp; Or four and twenty times the pilot’s glass Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass; What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly, Health shall live free, and sickness freely die.
KING. Upon thy certainty and confidence What dar’st thou venture?
HELENA. Tax of impudence, A strumpet’s boldness, a divulged shame, Traduc’d by odious ballads; my maiden’s name Sear’d otherwise; nay worse of worst extended 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 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, 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.
HELENA. If I break time, or flinch in property Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die, And well deserv’d. Not helping, death’s my fee; But if I help, what do you promise me?
KING. Make thy demand.
HELENA. But will you make it even?
KING. Ay, by my sceptre and my hopes of heaven.
HELENA. 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 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, 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: From whence thou cam’st, how tended on; but rest Unquestion’d welcome, and undoubted bless’d. Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed.
[_Flourish. Exeunt._]
SCENE II. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.
Enter Countess and Clown.
COUNTESS. Come on, sir; I shall now put you to the height of your breeding.
CLOWN. I will show myself highly fed and lowly taught. I know my business is but to the court.
COUNTESS. To the court! Why, what place make you special, when you put off that with such contempt? But to the court!
CLOWN. Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he may easily put it off at court: he that cannot make a leg, put off’s cap, kiss his hand, and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the court; but for me, I have an answer will serve all men.
COUNTESS. Marry, that’s a bountiful answer that fits all questions.
CLOWN. It is like a barber’s chair, that fits all buttocks—the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn-buttock, or any buttock.
COUNTESS. Will your answer serve fit to all questions?
CLOWN. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney, as your French crown for your taffety 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 quean to a wrangling knave, as the nun’s lip to the friar’s mouth; nay, as the pudding to his skin.
COUNTESS. Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness for all questions?
CLOWN. From below your duke to beneath your constable, it will fit any question.
COUNTESS. It must be an answer of most monstrous size that must fit all demands.
CLOWN. 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.
COUNTESS. 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?
CLOWN. O Lord, sir! There’s a simple putting off. More, more, a hundred of them.
COUNTESS. Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves you.
CLOWN. O Lord, sir! Thick, thick; spare not me.
COUNTESS. I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely meat.
CLOWN. O Lord, sir! Nay, put me to’t, I warrant you.
COUNTESS. You were lately whipp’d, sir, as I think.
CLOWN. O Lord, sir! Spare not me.
COUNTESS. Do you cry ‘O Lord, sir!’ at your whipping, and ‘spare not me’? Indeed your ‘O Lord, sir!’ is very sequent to your whipping. You would answer very well to a whipping, if you were but bound to’t.
CLOWN. I ne’er had worse luck in my life in my ‘O Lord, sir!’ I see things may serve long, but not serve ever.
COUNTESS. I play the noble housewife with the time, to entertain it so merrily with a fool.
CLOWN. O Lord, sir! Why, there’t serves well again.
COUNTESS. 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.
CLOWN. Not much commendation to them?
COUNTESS. Not much employment for you. You understand me?
CLOWN. Most fruitfully. I am there before my legs.
COUNTESS. Haste you again.
[_Exeunt severally._]
SCENE III. Paris. The King’s palace.
Enter Bertram, Lafew and Parolles.
LAFEW. 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.
PAROLLES. Why, ’tis the rarest argument of wonder that hath shot out in our latter times.
BERTRAM. And so ’tis.
LAFEW. To be relinquish’d of the artists,—
PAROLLES. So I say; both of Galen and Paracelsus.
LAFEW. Of all the learned and authentic fellows,—
PAROLLES. Right; so I say.
LAFEW. That gave him out incurable,—
PAROLLES. Why, there ’tis; so say I too.
LAFEW. Not to be helped.
PAROLLES. Right; as ’twere a man assur’d of a—
LAFEW. Uncertain life and sure death.
PAROLLES. Just; you say well. So would I have said.
LAFEW. I may truly say, it is a novelty to the world.
PAROLLES. It is indeed; if you will have it in showing, you shall read it in what do you call there?
LAFEW. A showing of a heavenly effect in an earthly actor.
PAROLLES. That’s it; I would have said the very same.
LAFEW. Why, your dolphin is not lustier; fore me, I speak in respect—
PAROLLES. Nay, ’tis strange, ’tis very strange; that is the brief and the tedious of it; and he’s of a most facinerious spirit that will not acknowledge it to be the—
LAFEW. Very hand of heaven.
PAROLLES. Ay, so I say.
LAFEW. In a most weak—
PAROLLES. And debile minister, great power, great transcendence, which should indeed give us a further use to be made than alone the recov’ry of the king, as to be—
LAFEW. Generally thankful.
PAROLLES. I would have said it; you say well. Here comes the king.
Enter King, Helena and Attendants.
LAFEW. Lustique, 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.
PAROLLES. _Mor du vinager!_ is not this Helen?
LAFEW. 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, And with this healthful hand, whose banish’d sense Thou has repeal’d, a second time receive The confirmation of my promis’d gift, 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 sovereign power and father’s voice I have to use. Thy frank election make; Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake.
HELENA. To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress Fall, when love please! Marry, to each but one!
LAFEW. I’d give bay curtal and his furniture My mouth no more were broken than these boys’, And writ as little beard.
KING. Peruse them well. Not one of those but had a noble father.
She addresses her to a Lord.
HELENA. Gentlemen, Heaven hath through me restor’d the king to health.
ALL. We understand it, and thank heaven for you.
HELENA. I am a simple maid, and therein wealthiest 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 refused, 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.
HELENA. Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly, And to imperial Love, that god most high, Do my sighs stream. [_To first Lord._] Sir, will you hear my suit?
FIRST LORD. And grant it.
HELENA. Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.
LAFEW. I had rather be in this choice than throw ames-ace for my life.
HELENA. [_To second Lord._] The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes, Before I speak, too threat’ningly replies. Love make your fortunes twenty times above Her that so wishes, and her humble love!
SECOND LORD. No better, if you please.
HELENA. My wish receive, Which great Love grant; and so I take my leave.
LAFEW. Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine I’d have them whipp’d; or I would send them to th’ Turk to make eunuchs of.
HELENA. [_To third Lord._] 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!
LAFEW. These boys are boys of ice, they’ll none have her. Sure, they are bastards to the English; the French ne’er got ’em.
HELENA. [_To fourth Lord._] 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.
LAFEW. There’s one grape yet. I am sure thy father drank wine. But if thou beest not an ass, I am a youth of fourteen; I have known thee already.
HELENA. [_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.
KING. Why, then, young Bertram, take her; she’s thy wife.
BERTRAM. My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your highness, In such a business give me leave to use The help of mine own eyes.
KING. Know’st thou not, Bertram, What she has done for me?
BERTRAM. Yes, my good lord, But never hope to know why I should marry her.
KING. Thou know’st she has rais’d me from my sickly bed.
BERTRAM. But follows it, my lord, to bring me down Must answer for your raising? I know her well; She had her breeding at my father’s charge: A poor physician’s daughter my wife! Disdain Rather corrupt me ever!
KING. ’Tis only title thou disdain’st in her, the which I can build up. Strange is it that our bloods, Of colour, weight, and heat, pour’d all together, Would quite confound distinction, yet stands off In differences so mighty. If she be All that is virtuous, save what thou dislik’st, A poor physician’s daughter,—thou dislik’st— 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 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 fore-goers. The mere word’s a slave, Debauch’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 Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me.
BERTRAM. I cannot love her, nor will strive to do ’t.
KING. Thou wrong’st thyself, if thou shouldst strive to choose.
HELENA. That you are well restor’d, my lord, I am glad. Let the rest go.
KING. 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 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. Check 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 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!
BERTRAM. 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.
KING. 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.
BERTRAM. I take her hand.
KING. 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 tonight. The solemn feast Shall more attend upon the coming space, Expecting absent friends. As thou lov’st her, Thy love’s to me religious; else, does err.
[_Exeunt King, Bertram, Helena, Lords, and Attendants._]
LAFEW. Do you hear, monsieur? A word with you.
PAROLLES. Your pleasure, sir.
LAFEW. Your lord and master did well to make his recantation.
PAROLLES. Recantation! My lord! My master!
LAFEW. Ay. Is it not a language I speak?
PAROLLES. A most harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody succeeding. My master!
LAFEW. Are you companion to the Count Rossillon?
PAROLLES. To any count; to all counts; to what is man.
LAFEW. To what is count’s man: count’s master is of another style.
PAROLLES. You are too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are too old.
LAFEW. I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to which title age cannot bring thee.
PAROLLES. What I dare too well do, I dare not do.
LAFEW. I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty wise fellow; thou didst make tolerable vent of thy travel; it might pass. Yet the scarfs and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from believing thee a vessel of too great a burden. 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 art scarce worth.
PAROLLES. Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee—
LAFEW. 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 well; thy casement I need not open, for I look through thee. Give me thy hand.
PAROLLES. My lord, you give me most egregious indignity.
LAFEW. Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy of it.
PAROLLES. I have not, my lord, deserv’d it.
LAFEW. Yes, good faith, every dram of it; and I will not bate thee a scruple.
PAROLLES. Well, I shall be wiser.
LAFEW. Ev’n as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at a smack o’ th’ contrary. If ever thou beest bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to hold my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default, “He is a man I know.”
PAROLLES. My lord, you do me most insupportable vexation.
LAFEW. 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.
[_Exit._]
PAROLLES. 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, and if I could but meet him again.
Enter Lafew.
LAFEW. Sirrah, your lord and master’s married; there’s news for you; you have a new mistress.
PAROLLES. 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.
LAFEW. Who? God?
PAROLLES. Ay, sir.
LAFEW. The devil it is that’s thy master. Why dost thou garter up thy arms o’ this fashion? Dost make hose of thy sleeves? Do other servants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine honour, if I were but two hours younger, I’d beat thee. Methink’st thou art a general offence, and every man should beat thee. I think thou wast created for men to breathe themselves upon thee.
PAROLLES. This is hard and undeserved measure, my lord.
LAFEW. 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’d call you knave. I leave you.
[_Exit._]
Enter Bertram.
PAROLLES. Good, very good, it is so then. Good, very good; let it be conceal’d awhile.
BERTRAM. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!
PAROLLES. What’s the matter, sweetheart?
BERTRAM. Although before the solemn priest I have sworn, I will not bed her.
PAROLLES. What, what, sweetheart?
BERTRAM. O my Parolles, they have married me! I’ll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.
PAROLLES. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits The tread of a man’s foot: to the wars!
BERTRAM. There’s letters from my mother; what th’ import is I know not yet.
PAROLLES. Ay, that would be known. To th’ wars, my boy, to th’ 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 th’ war!
BERTRAM. It shall be so; I’ll send her to my house, Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, And wherefore I am fled; write to the king That which I durst not speak. His present gift Shall furnish me to those Italian fields Where noble fellows strike. War is no strife To the dark house and the detested wife.
PAROLLES. Will this caprichio hold in thee, art sure?
BERTRAM. Go with me to my chamber and advise me. I’ll send her straight away. Tomorrow I’ll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.
PAROLLES. Why, these balls bound; there’s noise in it. ’Tis hard: A young man married is a man that’s marr’d. Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go. The king has done you wrong; but hush ’tis so.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE IV. Paris. The King’s palace.
Enter Helena and Clown.
HELENA. My mother greets me kindly: is she well?
CLOWN. 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.
HELENA. If she be very well, what does she ail that she’s not very well?
CLOWN. Truly, she’s very well indeed, but for two things.
HELENA. What two things?
CLOWN. 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!
Enter Parolles.
PAROLLES. Bless you, my fortunate lady!
HELENA. I hope, sir, I have your good will to have mine own good fortune.
PAROLLES. You had my prayers to lead them on; and to keep them on, have them still. O, my knave how does my old lady?
CLOWN. So that you had her wrinkles and I her money, I would she did as you say.
PAROLLES. Why, I say nothing.
CLOWN. 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.
PAROLLES. Away! Thou art a knave.
CLOWN. You should have said, sir, before a knave thou art a knave; that is before me thou art a knave. This had been truth, sir.
PAROLLES. Go to, thou art a witty fool; I have found thee.
CLOWN. 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.
PAROLLES. A good knave, i’ faith, and well fed. Madam, my lord will go away tonight; A very serious business calls on him. The great prerogative and right of love, Which, as your due, time claims, he does acknowledge; 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.
HELENA. What’s his will else?
PAROLLES. 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.
HELENA. What more commands he?
PAROLLES. That, having this obtain’d, you presently Attend his further pleasure.
HELENA. In everything I wait upon his will.
PAROLLES. I shall report it so.
HELENA. I pray you. Come, sirrah.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE V. Another room in the same.
Enter Lafew and Bertram.
LAFEW. But I hope your lordship thinks not him a soldier.
BERTRAM. Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof.
LAFEW. You have it from his own deliverance.
BERTRAM. And by other warranted testimony.
LAFEW. Then my dial goes not true; I took this lark for a bunting.
BERTRAM. I do assure you, my lord, he is very great in knowledge, and accordingly valiant.
LAFEW. I have, then, sinned against his experience and transgressed against his valour; and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to repent. Here he comes; I pray you make us friends; I will pursue the amity.
Enter Parolles.
PAROLLES. [_To Bertram._] These things shall be done, sir.
LAFEW. Pray you, sir, who’s his tailor?
PAROLLES. Sir!
LAFEW. O, I know him well, I, sir; he, sir, is a good workman, a very good tailor.
BERTRAM. [_Aside to Parolles._] Is she gone to the king?
PAROLLES. She is.
BERTRAM. Will she away tonight?
PAROLLES. As you’ll have her.
BERTRAM. I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure, Given order for our horses; and tonight, When I should take possession of the bride, End ere I do begin.
LAFEW. 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.
BERTRAM. Is there any unkindness between my lord and you, monsieur?
PAROLLES. I know not how I have deserved to run into my lord’s displeasure.
LAFEW. You have made shift to run into ’t, boots and spurs and all, like him that leapt into the custard; and out of it you’ll run again, rather than suffer question for your residence.
BERTRAM. It may be you have mistaken him, my lord.
LAFEW. 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 kernal 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._]
PAROLLES. An idle lord, I swear.
BERTRAM. I think so.
PAROLLES. Why, do you not know him?
BERTRAM. Yes, I do know him well; and common speech Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.
Enter Helena.
HELENA. I have, sir, as I was commanded from you, Spoke with the king, and have procur’d his leave For present parting; only he desires Some private speech with you.
BERTRAM. 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 For such a business; therefore am I found 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; 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 I leave you to your wisdom.
HELENA. Sir, I can nothing say But that I am your most obedient servant.
BERTRAM. Come, come, no more of that.
HELENA. 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.
BERTRAM. Let that go. My haste is very great. Farewell; hie home.
HELENA. Pray, sir, your pardon.
BERTRAM. Well, what would you say?
HELENA. 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.
BERTRAM. What would you have?
HELENA. 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.
BERTRAM. I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse.
HELENA. I shall not break your bidding, good my lord. Where are my other men, monsieur? Farewell,
[_Exit Helena._]
BERTRAM. Go thou toward home, where I will never come Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum. Away, and for our flight.
PAROLLES. Bravely, coragio!
[_Exeunt._]
ACT III.
SCENE I. Florence. A room in the Duke’s palace.
Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence 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 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 Against our borrowing prayers.
SECOND 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 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.
FIRST 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 Shall on them settle. You know your places well; When better fall, for your avails they fell. Tomorrow to the field.
[_Flourish. Exeunt._]
SCENE II. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.
Enter Countess and Clown.