ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
by William Shakespeare
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._]