{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/ff/aww.htm","path":"sks/ff/aww.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/ff/aww.htm","text":"Actus primus. Scoena Prima.\nEnter yong Bertram Count of Rossillion, his Mother, and Helena,\nLord\nLafew, all in blacke.\nMother. In deliuering my sonne from me, I burie a second\nhusband\nRos. And I in going Madam, weep ore my\nfathers death anew; but I must attend his maiesties\ncommand, to whom I am now in Ward, euermore\nin subiection\nLaf. You shall find of the King a husband Madame,\nyou sir a father. He that so generally is at all times good,\nmust of necessitie hold his vertue to you, whose worthinesse\nwould stirre it vp where it wanted rather then lack\nit where there is such abundance\nMo. What hope is there of his Maiesties amendment?\nLaf. He hath abandon'd his Phisitions Madam, vnder\nwhose practises he hath persecuted time with hope,\nand finds no other aduantage in the processe, but onely\nthe loosing of hope by time\nMo. This yong Gentlewoman had a father, O that\nhad, how sad a passage tis, whose skill was almost as\ngreat as his honestie, had it stretch'd so far, would haue\nmade nature immortall, and death should haue play for\nlacke of worke. Would for the Kings sake hee were liuing,\nI thinke it would be the death of the Kings disease\nLaf. How call'd you the man you speake of Madam?\nMo. He was famous sir in his profession, and it was\nhis great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon\nLaf. He was excellent indeed Madam, the King very\nlatelie spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly: hee\nwas skilfull enough to haue liu'd stil, if knowledge could\nbe set vp against mortallitie\nRos. What is it (my good Lord) the King languishes\nof?\nLaf. A Fistula my Lord\nRos. I heard not of it before\nLaf. I would it were not notorious. Was this Gentlewoman\nthe Daughter of Gerard de Narbon?\nMo. His sole childe my Lord, and bequeathed to my\nouer looking. I haue those hopes of her good, that her\neducation promises her dispositions shee inherits, which\nmakes faire gifts fairer: for where an vncleane mind carries\nvertuous qualities, there commendations go with\npitty, they are vertues and traitors too: in her they are\nthe better for their simplenesse; she deriues her honestie,\nand atcheeues her goodnesse\nLafew. Your commendations Madam get from her\nteares\nMo. 'Tis the best brine a Maiden can season her praise\nin. The remembrance of her father neuer approches her\nheart, but the tirrany of her sorrowes takes all liuelihood\nfrom her cheeke. No more of this Helena, go too, no\nmore least it be rather thought you affect a sorrow, then\nto haue-\nHell. I doe affect a sorrow indeed, but I haue it too\nLaf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead,\nexcessiue greefe the enemie to the liuing\nMo. If the liuing be enemie to the greefe, the excesse\nmakes it soone mortall\nRos. Maddam I desire your holie wishes\nLaf. How vnderstand we that?\nMo. Be thou blest Bertrame, and succeed thy father\nIn manners as in shape: thy blood and vertue\nContend for Empire in thee, and thy goodnesse\nShare with thy birth-right. Loue all, trust a few,\nDoe wrong to none: be able for thine enemie\nRather in power then vse: and keepe thy friend\nVnder thy owne lifes key. Be checkt for silence,\nBut neuer tax'd for speech. What heauen more wil,\nThat thee may furnish, and my prayers plucke downe,\nFall on thy head. Farwell my Lord,\n'Tis an vnseason'd Courtier, good my Lord\nAduise him\nLaf. He cannot want the best\nThat shall attend his loue\nMo. Heauen blesse him: Farwell Bertram\nRo. The best wishes that can be forg'd in your thoghts\nbe seruants to you: be comfortable to my mother, your\nMistris, and make much of her\nLaf. Farewell prettie Lady, you must hold the credit\nof your father\nHell. O were that all, I thinke not on my father,\nAnd these great teares grace his remembrance more\nThen those I shed for him. What was he like?\nI haue forgott him. My imagination\nCarries no fauour in't but Bertrams.\nI am vndone, there is no liuing, none,\nIf Bertram be away. 'Twere all one,\nThat I should loue a bright particuler starre,\nAnd think to wed it, he is so aboue me\nIn his bright radience and colaterall light,\nMust I be comforted, not in his sphere;\nTh' ambition in my loue thus plagues it selfe:\nThe hind that would be mated by the Lion\nMust die for loue. 'Twas prettie, though a plague\nTo see him euerie houre to sit and draw\nHis arched browes, his hawking eie, his curles\nIn our hearts table: heart too capeable\nOf euerie line and tricke of his sweet fauour.\nBut now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancie\nMust sanctifie his Reliques. Who comes heere?\nEnter Parrolles.\nOne that goes with him: I loue him for his sake,\nAnd yet I know him a notorious Liar,\nThinke him a great way foole, solie a coward,\nYet these fixt euils sit so fit in him,\nThat they take place, when Vertues steely bones\nLookes bleake i'th cold wind: withall, full ofte we see\nCold wisedome waighting on superfluous follie\nPar. Saue you faire Queene\nHel. And you Monarch\nPar. No\nHel. And no\nPar. Are you meditating on virginitie?\nHel. I: you haue some staine of souldier in you: Let\nmee aske you a question. Man is enemie to virginitie,\nhow may we barracado it against him?\nPar. Keepe him out\nHel. But he assailes, and our virginitie though valiant,\nin the defence yet is weak: vnfold to vs some war-like\nresistance\nPar. There is none: Man setting downe before you,\nwill vndermine you, and blow you vp\nHel. Blesse our poore Virginity from vnderminers\nand blowers vp. Is there no Military policy how Virgins\nmight blow vp men?\nPar. Virginity beeing blowne downe, Man will\nquicklier be blowne vp: marry in blowing him downe\nagaine, with the breach your selues made, you lose your\nCitty. It is not politicke, in the Common-wealth of\nNature, to preserue virginity. Losse of Virginitie, is\nrationall encrease, and there was neuer Virgin goe, till\nvirginitie was first lost. That you were made of, is mettall\nto make Virgins. Virginitie, by beeing once lost,\nmay be ten times found: by being euer kept, it is euer\nlost: 'tis too cold a companion: Away with't\nHel. I will stand for't a little, though therefore I die\na Virgin\nPar. There's little can bee saide in't, 'tis against the\nrule of Nature. To speake on the part of virginitie, is\nto accuse your Mothers; which is most infallible disobedience.\nHe that hangs himselfe is a Virgin: Virginitie\nmurthers it selfe, and should be buried in highwayes\nout of all sanctified limit, as a desperate Offendresse against\nNature. Virginitie breedes mites, much like a\nCheese, consumes it selfe to the very payring, and so\ndies with feeding his owne stomacke. Besides, Virginitie\nis peeuish, proud, ydle, made of selfe-loue, which\nis the most inhibited sinne in the Cannon. Keepe it not,\nyou cannot choose but loose by't. Out with't: within\nten yeare it will make it selfe two, which is a goodly increase,\nand the principall it selfe not much the worse.\nAway with't\nHel. How might one do sir, to loose it to her owne\nliking?\nPar. Let mee see. Marry ill, to like him that ne're\nit likes. 'Tis a commodity wil lose the glosse with lying:\nThe longer kept, the lesse worth: Off with't while 'tis\nvendible. Answer the time of request, Virginitie like\nan olde Courtier, weares her cap out of fashion, richly\nsuted, but vnsuteable, iust like the brooch & the tooth-pick,\nwhich were not now: your Date is better in your\nPye and your Porredge, then in your cheeke: and your\nvirginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French\nwither'd peares, it lookes ill, it eates drily, marry 'tis a\nwither'd peare: it was formerly better, marry yet 'tis a\nwither'd peare: Will you any thing with it?\nHel. Not my virginity yet:\nThere shall your Master haue a thousand loues,\nA Mother, and a Mistresse, and a friend,\nA Phenix, Captaine, and an enemy,\nA guide, a Goddesse, and a Soueraigne,\nA Counsellor, a Traitoresse, and a Deare:\nHis humble ambition, proud humility:\nHis iarring, concord: and his discord, dulcet:\nHis faith, his sweet disaster: with a world\nOf pretty fond adoptious christendomes\nThat blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he:\nI know not what he shall, God send him well,\nThe Courts a learning place, and he is one\nPar. What one ifaith?\nHel. That I wish well, 'tis pitty\nPar. What's pitty?\nHel. That wishing well had not a body in't,\nWhich might be felt, that we the poorer borne,\nWhose baser starres do shut vs vp in wishes,\nMight with effects of them follow our friends,\nAnd shew what we alone must thinke, which neuer\nReturnes vs thankes.\nEnter Page.\nPag. Monsieur Parrolles,\nMy Lord cals for you\nPar. Little Hellen farewell, if I can remember thee, I\nwill thinke of thee at Court\nHel. Monsieur Parolles, you were borne vnder a\ncharitable starre\nPar. Vnder Mars I\nHel. I especially thinke, vnder Mars\nPar. Why vnder Mars?\nHel. The warres hath so kept you vnder, that you\nmust needes be borne vnder Mars\nPar. When he was predominant\nHel. When he was retrograde I thinke rather\nPar. Why thinke you so?\nHel. You go so much backward when you fight\nPar. That's for aduantage\nHel. So is running away,\nWhen feare proposes the safetie:\nBut the composition that your valour and feare makes\nin you, is a vertue of a good wing, and I like the\nweare well\nParoll. I am so full of businesses, I cannot answere\nthee acutely: I will returne perfect Courtier, in the\nwhich my instruction shall serue to naturalize thee, so\nthou wilt be capeable of a Courtiers councell, and vnderstand\nwhat aduice shall thrust vppon thee, else thou\ndiest in thine vnthankfulnes, and thine ignorance makes\nthee away, farewell: When thou hast leysure, say thy\npraiers: when thou hast none, remember thy Friends:\nGet thee a good husband, and vse him as he vses thee:\nSo farewell\nHel. Our remedies oft in our selues do lye,\nWhich we ascribe to heauen: the fated skye\nGiues vs free scope, onely doth backward pull\nOur slow designes, when we our selues are dull.\nWhat power is it, which mounts my loue so hye,\nThat makes me see, and cannot feede mine eye?\nThe mightiest space in fortune, Nature brings\nTo ioyne like, likes; and kisse like natiue things.\nImpossible be strange attempts to those\nThat weigh their paines in sence, and do suppose\nWhat hath beene, cannot be. Who euer stroue\nTo shew her merit, that did misse her loue?\n(The Kings disease) my proiect may deceiue me,\nBut my intents are fixt, and will not leaue me.\nExit\nFlourish Cornets. Enter the King of France with Letters, and diuers\nAttendants.\nKing. The Florentines and Senoys are by th' eares,\nHaue fought with equall fortune, and continue\nA brauing warre\n1.Lo.G. So tis reported sir\nKing. Nay tis most credible, we heere receiue it,\nA certaintie vouch'd from our Cosin Austria,\nWith caution, that the Florentine will moue vs\nFor speedie ayde: wherein our deerest friend\nPreiudicates the businesse, and would seeme\nTo haue vs make deniall\n1.Lo.G. His loue and wisedome\nApprou'd so to your Maiesty, may pleade\nFor amplest credence\nKing. He hath arm'd our answer,\nAnd Florence is deni'de before he comes:\nYet for our Gentlemen that meane to see\nThe Tuscan seruice, freely haue they leaue\nTo stand on either part\n2.Lo.E. It well may serue\nA nursserie to our Gentrie, who are sicke\nFor breathing, and exploit\nKing. What's he comes heere.\nEnter Bertram, Lafew, and Parolles.\n1.Lor.G. It is the Count Rosignoll my good Lord,\nYong Bertram\nKing. Youth, thou bear'st thy Fathers face,\nFranke Nature rather curious then in hast\nHath well compos'd thee: Thy Fathers morall parts\nMaist thou inherit too: Welcome to Paris\nBer. My thankes and dutie are your Maiesties\nKin. I would I had that corporall soundnesse now,\nAs when thy father, and my selfe, in friendship\nFirst tride our souldiership: he did looke farre\nInto the seruice of the time, and was\nDiscipled of the brauest. He lasted long,\nBut on vs both did haggish Age steale on,\nAnd wore vs out of act: It much repaires me\nTo talke of your good father; in his youth\nHe had the wit, which I can well obserue\nTo day in our yong Lords: but they may iest\nTill their owne scorne returne to them vnnoted\nEre they can hide their leuitie in honour:\nSo like a Courtier, contempt nor bitternesse\nWere in his pride, or sharpnesse; if they were,\nHis equall had awak'd them, and his honour\nClocke to it selfe, knew the true minute when\nException bid him speake: and at this time\nHis tongue obey'd his hand. Who were below him,\nHe vs'd as creatures of another place,\nAnd bow'd his eminent top to their low rankes,\nMaking them proud of his humilitie,\nIn their poore praise he humbled: Such a man\nMight be a copie to these yonger times;\nWhich followed well, would demonstrate them now\nBut goers backward\nBer. His good remembrance sir\nLies richer in your thoughts, then on his tombe:\nSo in approofe liues not his Epitaph,\nAs in your royall speech\nKing. Would I were with him he would alwaies say,\n(Me thinkes I heare him now) his plausiue words\nHe scatter'd not in eares, but grafted them\nTo grow there and to beare: Let me not liue,\nThis his good melancholly oft began\nOn the Catastrophe and heele of pastime\nWhen it was out: Let me not liue (quoth hee)\nAfter my flame lackes oyle, to be the snuffe\nOf yonger spirits, whose apprehensiue senses\nAll but new things disdaine; whose iudgements are\nMeere fathers of their garments: whose constancies\nExpire before their fashions: this he wish'd.\nI after him, do after him wish too:\nSince I nor wax nor honie can bring home,\nI quickly were dissolued from my hiue\nTo giue some Labourers roome\n2.L.E. You'r loued Sir,\nThey that least lend it you, shall lacke you first\nKin. I fill a place I know't: how long ist Count\nSince the Physitian at your fathers died?\nHe was much fam'd\nBer. Some six moneths since my Lord\nKin. If he were liuing, I would try him yet.\nLend me an arme: the rest haue worne me out\nWith seuerall applications: Nature and sicknesse\nDebate it at their leisure. Welcome Count,\nMy sonne's no deerer\nBer. Thanke your Maiesty.\nExit\nFlourish.\nEnter Countesse, Steward, and Clowne.\nCoun. I will now heare, what say you of this gentlewoman\nSte. Maddam the care I haue had to euen your content,\nI wish might be found in the Kalender of my past\nendeuours, for then we wound our Modestie, and make\nfoule the clearnesse of our deseruings, when of our selues\nwe publish them\nCoun. What doe's this knaue heere? Get you gone\nsirra: the complaints I haue heard of you I do not all beleeue,\n'tis my slownesse that I doe not: For I know you\nlacke not folly to commit them, & haue abilitie enough\nto make such knaueries yours\nClo. 'Tis not vnknown to you Madam, I am a poore\nfellow\nCoun. Well sir\nClo. No maddam,\n'Tis not so well that I am poore, though manie\nof the rich are damn'd, but if I may haue your Ladiships\ngood will to goe to the world, Isbell the woman and I\nwill doe as we may\nCoun. Wilt thou needes be a begger?\nClo. I doe beg your good will in this case\nCou. In what case?\nClo. In Isbels case and mine owne: seruice is no heritage,\nand I thinke I shall neuer haue the blessing of God,\ntill I haue issue a my bodie: for they say barnes are blessings\nCou. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marrie?\nClo. My poore bodie Madam requires it, I am driuen\non by the flesh, and hee must needes goe that the diuell\ndriues\nCou. Is this all your worships reason?\nClo. Faith Madam I haue other holie reasons, such as\nthey are\nCou. May the world know them?\nClo. I haue beene Madam a wicked creature, as you\nand all flesh and blood are, and indeede I doe marrie that\nI may repent\nCou. Thy marriage sooner then thy wickednesse\nClo. I am out a friends Madam, and I hope to haue\nfriends for my wiues sake\nCou. Such friends are thine enemies knaue\nClo. Y'are shallow Madam in great friends, for the\nknaues come to doe that for me which I am a wearie of:\nhe that eres my Land, spares my teame, and giues mee\nleaue to Inne the crop: if I be his cuckold hee's my\ndrudge; he that comforts my wife, is the cherisher of\nmy flesh and blood; hee that cherishes my flesh and\nblood, loues my flesh and blood; he that loues my flesh\nand blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife is my\nfriend: if men could be contented to be what they are,\nthere were no feare in marriage, for yong Charbon the\nPuritan, and old Poysam the Papist, how somere their\nhearts are seuer'd in Religion, their heads are both one,\nthey may ioule horns together like any Deare i'th Herd\nCou. Wilt thou euer be a foule mouth'd and calumnious\nknaue?\nClo. A Prophet I Madam, and I speake the truth the\nnext waie, for I the Ballad will repeate, which men full\ntrue shall finde, your marriage comes by destinie, your\nCuckow sings by kinde\nCou. Get you gone sir, Ile talke with you more anon\nStew. May it please you Madam, that hee bid Hellen\ncome to you, of her I am to speake\nCou. Sirra tell my gentlewoman I would speake with\nher, Hellen I meane\nClo. Was this faire face the cause, quoth she,\nWhy the Grecians sacked Troy,\nFond done, done, fond was this King Priams ioy,\nWith that she sighed as she stood,\nbis\nAnd gaue this sentence then, among nine bad if one be\ngood, among nine bad if one be good, there's yet one\ngood in ten\nCou. What, one good in tenne? you corrupt the song\nsirra\nClo. One good woman in ten Madam, which is a purifying\nath' song: would God would serue the world so\nall the yeere, weed finde no fault with the tithe woman\nif I were the Parson, one in ten quoth a? and wee might\nhaue a good woman borne but ore euerie blazing starre,\nor at an earthquake, 'twould mend the Lotterie well, a\nman may draw his heart out ere a plucke one\nCou. Youle begone sir knaue, and doe as I command\nyou?\nClo. That man should be at womans command, and\nyet no hurt done, though honestie be no Puritan, yet\nit will doe no hurt, it will weare the Surplis of humilitie\nouer the blacke-Gowne of a bigge heart: I am going\nforsooth, the businesse is for Helen to come hither.\nEnter.\nCou. Well now\nStew. I know Madam you loue your Gentlewoman\nintirely\nCou. Faith I doe: her Father bequeath'd her to mee,\nand she her selfe without other aduantage, may lawfullie\nmake title to as much loue as shee findes, there is\nmore owing her then is paid, and more shall be paid\nher then sheele demand\nStew. Madam, I was verie late more neere her then\nI thinke shee wisht mee, alone shee was, and did\ncommunicate to her selfe her owne words to her\nowne eares, shee thought, I dare vowe for her, they\ntoucht not anie stranger sence, her matter was, shee\nloued your Sonne; Fortune shee said was no goddesse,\nthat had put such difference betwixt their two\nestates: Loue no god, that would not extend his might\nonelie, where qualities were leuell, Queene of Virgins,\nthat would suffer her poore Knight surpris'd\nwithout rescue in the first assault or ransome afterward:\nThis shee deliuer'd in the most bitter touch of\nsorrow that ere I heard Virgin exclaime in, which I held\nmy dutie speedily to acquaint you withall, sithence in\nthe losse that may happen, it concernes you something\nto know it\nCou. You haue discharg'd this honestlie, keepe it\nto your selfe, manie likelihoods inform'd mee of this\nbefore, which hung so tottring in the ballance, that\nI could neither beleeue nor misdoubt: praie you\nleaue mee, stall this in your bosome, and I thanke\nyou for your honest care: I will speake with you further\nanon.\nExit Steward.\nEnter Hellen.\nOld.Cou. Euen so it was with me when I was yong:\nIf euer we are natures, these are ours, this thorne\nDoth to our Rose of youth rightlie belong\nOur bloud to vs, this to our blood is borne,\nIt is the show, and seale of natures truth,\nWhere loues strong passion is imprest in youth,\nBy our remembrances of daies forgon,\nSuch were our faults, or then we thought them none,\nHer eie is sicke on't, I obserue her now\nHell. What is your pleasure Madam?\nOl.Cou. You know Hellen I am a mother to you\nHell. Mine honorable Mistris\nOl.Cou. Nay a mother, why not a mother? when I\nsed a mother\nMe thought you saw a serpent, what's in mother,\nThat you start at it? I say I am your mother,\nAnd put you in the Catalogue of those\nThat were enwombed mine, 'tis often seene\nAdoption striues with nature, and choise breedes\nA natiue slip to vs from forraine seedes:\nYou nere opprest me with a mothers groane,\nYet I expresse to you a mothers care,\n(Gods mercie maiden) dos it curd thy blood\nTo say I am thy mother? what's the matter,\nThat this distempered messenger of wet?\nThe manie colour'd Iris rounds thine eye? - Why, that you are my\ndaughter?\nHell. That I am not\nOld.Cou. I say I am your Mother\nHell. Pardon Madam.\nThe Count Rosillion cannot be my brother:\nI am from humble, he from honored name:\nNo note vpon my Parents, his all noble,\nMy Master, my deere Lord he is, and I\nHis seruant liue, and will his vassall die:\nHe must not be my brother\nOl.Cou. Nor I your Mother\nHell. You are my mother Madam, would you were\nSo that my Lord your sonne were not my brother,\nIndeede my mother, or were you both our mothers,\nI care no more for, then I doe for heauen,\nSo I were not his sister, cant no other,\nBut I your daughter, he must be my brother\nOld.Cou. Yes Hellen, you might be my daughter in law,\nGod shield you meane it not, daughter and mother\nSo striue vpon your pulse; what pale agen?\nMy feare hath catcht your fondnesse! now I see\nThe mistrie of your louelinesse, and finde\nYour salt teares head, now to all sence 'tis grosse:\nYou loue my sonne, inuention is asham'd\nAgainst the proclamation of thy passion\nTo say thou doost not: therefore tell me true,\nBut tell me then 'tis so, for looke, thy cheekes\nConfesse it 'ton tooth to th' other, and thine eies\nSee it so grosely showne in thy behauiours,\nThat in their kinde they speake it, onely sinne\nAnd hellish obstinacie tye thy tongue\nThat truth should be suspected, speake, ist so?\nIf it be so, you haue wound a goodly clewe:\nIf it be not, forsweare't how ere I charge thee,\nAs heauen shall worke in me for thine auaile\nTo tell me truelie\nHell. Good Madam pardon me\nCou. Do you loue my Sonne?\nHell. Your pardon noble Mistris\nCou. Loue you my Sonne?\nHell. Doe not you loue him Madam?\nCou. Goe not about; my loue hath in't a bond\nWhereof the world takes note: Come, come, disclose:\nThe state of your affection, for your passions\nHaue to the full appeach'd\nHell. Then I confesse\nHere on my knee, before high heauen and you,\nThat before you, and next vnto high heauen, I loue your\nSonne:\nMy friends were poore but honest, so's my loue:\nBe not offended, for it hurts not him\nThat he is lou'd of me; I follow him not\nBy any token of presumptuous suite,\nNor would I haue him, till I doe deserue him,\nYet neuer know how that desert should be:\nI know I loue in vaine, striue against hope:\nYet in this captious, and intemible Siue.\nI still poure in the waters of my loue\nAnd lacke not to loose still; thus Indian like\nReligious in mine error, I adore\nThe Sunne that lookes vpon his worshipper,\nBut knowes of him no more. My deerest Madam,\nLet not your hate incounter with my loue,\nFor louing where you doe; but if your selfe,\nWhose aged honor cites a vertuous youth,\nDid euer, in so true a flame of liking,\nWish chastly, and loue dearely, that your Dian\nWas both her selfe and loue, O then giue pittie\nTo her whose state is such, that cannot choose\nBut lend and giue where she is sure to loose;\nThat seekes not to finde that, her search implies,\nBut riddle like, liues sweetely where she dies\nCou. Had you not lately an intent, speake truely,\nTo goe to Paris?\nHell. Madam I had\nCou. Wherefore? tell true\nHell. I will tell truth, by grace it selfe I sweare:\nYou know my Father left me some prescriptions\nOf rare and prou'd effects, such as his reading\nAnd manifest experience, had collected\nFor generall soueraigntie: and that he wil'd me\nIn heedefull'st reseruation to bestow them,\nAs notes, whose faculties inclusiue were,\nMore then they were in note: Amongst the rest,\nThere is a remedie, approu'd, set downe,\nTo cure the desperate languishings whereof\nThe King is render'd lost\nCou. This was your motiue for Paris, was it, speake?\nHell. My Lord, your sonne, made me to think of this;\nElse Paris, and the medicine, and the King,\nHad from the conuersation of my thoughts,\nHappily beene absent then\nCou. But thinke you Hellen,\nIf you should tender your supposed aide,\nHe would receiue it? He and his Phisitions\nAre of a minde, he, that they cannot helpe him:\nThey, that they cannot helpe, how shall they credit\nA poore vnlearned Virgin, when the Schooles\nEmbowel'd of their doctrine, haue left off\nThe danger to it selfe\nHell. There's something in't\nMore then my Fathers skill, which was the great'st\nOf his profession, that his good receipt,\nShall for my legacie be sanctified\nByth' luckiest stars in heauen, and would your honor\nBut giue me leaue to trie successe, I'de venture\nThe well lost life of mine, on his Graces cure,\nBy such a day, an houre\nCou. Doo'st thou beleeue't?\nHell. I Madam knowingly\nCou. Why Hellen thou shalt haue my leaue and loue,\nMeanes and attendants, and my louing greetings\nTo those of mine in Court, Ile staie at home\nAnd praie Gods blessing into thy attempt:\nBegon to morrow, and be sure of this,\nWhat I can helpe thee to, thou shalt not misse.\nExeunt.\nActus Secundus.\nEnter the King with diuers yong Lords, taking leaue for the\nFlorentine\nwarre: Count, Rosse, and Parrolles. Florish Cornets.\nKing. Farewell yong Lords, these warlike principles\nDoe not throw from you, and you my Lords farewell:\nShare the aduice betwixt you, if both gaine, all\nThe guift doth stretch it selfe as 'tis receiu'd,\nAnd is enough for both\nLord.G. 'Tis our hope sir,\nAfter well entred souldiers, to returne\nAnd finde your grace in health\nKing. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart\nWill not confesse he owes the mallady\nThat doth my life besiege: farwell yong Lords,\nWhether I liue or die, be you the sonnes\nOf worthy French men: let higher Italy\n(Those bated that inherit but the fall\nOf the last Monarchy) see that you come\nNot to wooe honour, but to wed it, when\nThe brauest questant shrinkes: finde what you seeke,\nThat fame may cry you loud: I say farewell\nL.G. Health at your bidding serue your Maiesty\nKing. Those girles of Italy, take heed of them,\nThey say our French, lacke language to deny\nIf they demand: beware of being Captiues\nBefore you serue\nBo. Our hearts receiue your warnings\nKing. Farewell, come hether to me\n1.Lo.G. Oh my sweet Lord y you wil stay behind vs\nParr. 'Tis not his fault the spark\n2.Lo.E. Oh 'tis braue warres\nParr. Most admirable, I haue seene those warres\nRossill. I am commanded here, and kept a coyle with,\nToo young, and the next yeere, and 'tis too early\nParr. And thy minde stand too't boy,\nSteale away brauely\nRossill. I shal stay here the for-horse to a smocke,\nCreeking my shooes on the plaine Masonry,\nTill honour be bought vp, and no sword worne\nBut one to dance with: by heauen, Ile steale away\n1.Lo.G. There's honour in the theft\nParr. Commit it Count\n2.Lo.E. I am your accessary, and so farewell\nRos. I grow to you, & our parting is a tortur'd body\n1.Lo.G. Farewell Captaine\n2.Lo.E. Sweet Mounsier Parolles\nParr. Noble Heroes; my sword and yours are kinne,\ngood sparkes and lustrous, a word good mettals. You\nshall finde in the Regiment of the Spinij, one Captaine\nSpurio his sicatrice, with an Embleme of warre heere on\nhis sinister cheeke; it was this very sword entrench'd it:\nsay to him I liue, and obserue his reports for me\nLo.G. We shall noble Captaine\nParr. Mars doate on you for his nouices, what will\nye doe?\nRoss. Stay the King\nParr. Vse a more spacious ceremonie to the Noble\nLords, you haue restrain'd your selfe within the List of\ntoo cold an adieu: be more expressiue to them; for they\nweare themselues in the cap of the time, there do muster\ntrue gate; eat, speake, and moue vnder the influence of\nthe most receiu'd starre, and though the deuill leade the\nmeasure, such are to be followed: after them, and take a\nmore dilated farewell\nRoss. And I will doe so\nParr. Worthy fellowes, and like to prooue most sinewie\nsword-men.\nExeunt.\nEnter Lafew.\nL.Laf. Pardon my Lord for mee and for my tidings\nKing. Ile see thee to stand vp\nL.Laf. Then heres a man stands that has brought his pardon,\nI would you had kneel'd my Lord to aske me mercy,\nAnd that at my bidding you could so stand vp\nKing. I would I had, so I had broke thy pate\nAnd askt thee mercy for't\nLaf. Goodfaith a-crosse, but my good Lord 'tis thus,\nWill you be cur'd of your infirmitie?\nKing. No\nLaf. O will you eat no grapes my royall foxe?\nYes but you will, my noble grapes, and if\nMy royall foxe could reach them: I haue seen a medicine\nThat's able to breath life into a stone,\nQuicken a rocke, and make you dance Canari\nWith sprightly fire and motion, whose simple touch\nIs powerfull to arayse King Pippen, nay\nTo giue great Charlemaine a pen in's hand\nAnd write to her a loue-line\nKing. What her is this?\nLaf. Why doctor she: my Lord, there's one arriu'd,\nIf you will see her: now by my faith and honour,\nIf seriously I may conuay my thoughts\nIn this my light deliuerance, I haue spoke\nWith one, that in her sexe, her yeeres, profession,\nWisedome and constancy, hath amaz'd mee more\nThen I dare blame my weakenesse: will you see her?\nFor that is her demand, and know her businesse?\nThat done, laugh well at me\nKing. Now good Lafew,\nBring in the admiration, that we with thee\nMay spend our wonder too, or take off thine\nBy wondring how thou tookst it\nLaf. Nay, Ile fit you,\nAnd not be all day neither\nKing. Thus he his speciall nothing euer prologues\nLaf. Nay, come your waies.\nEnter Hellen.\nKing. This haste hath wings indeed\nLaf. Nay, come your waies,\nThis is his Maiestie, say your minde to him,\nA Traitor you doe looke like, but such traitors\nHis Maiesty seldome feares, I am Cresseds Vncle,\nThat dare leaue two together, far you well.\nEnter.\nKing. Now faire one, do's your busines follow vs?\nHel. I my good Lord,\nGerard de Narbon was my father,\nIn what he did professe, well found\nKing. I knew him\nHel. The rather will I spare my praises towards him,\nKnowing him is enough: on's bed of death,\nMany receits he gaue me, chieflie one,\nWhich as the dearest issue of his practice\nAnd of his olde experience, th' onlie darling,\nHe bad me store vp, as a triple eye,\nSafer then mine owne two: more deare I haue so,\nAnd hearing your high Maiestie is toucht\nWith that malignant cause, wherein the honour\nOf my deare fathers gift, stands cheefe in power,\nI come to tender it, and my appliance,\nWith all bound humblenesse\nKing. We thanke you maiden,\nBut may not be so credulous of cure,\nWhen our most learned Doctors leaue vs, and\nThe congregated Colledge haue concluded,\nThat labouring Art can neuer ransome nature\nFrom her inaydible estate: I say we must not\nSo staine our iudgement, or corrupt our hope,\nTo prostitute our past-cure malladie\nTo empericks, or to disseuer so\nOur great selfe and our credit, to esteeme\nA sencelesse helpe, when helpe past sence we deeme\nHell. My dutie then shall pay me for my paines:\nI will no more enforce mine office on you,\nHumbly intreating from your royall thoughts,\nA modest one to beare me backe againe\nKing. I cannot giue thee lesse to be cal'd gratefull:\nThou thoughtst to helpe me, and such thankes I giue,\nAs one neere death to those that wish him liue:\nBut what at full I know, thou knowst no part,\nI knowing all my perill, thou no Art\nHell. What I can doe, can doe no hurt to try,\nSince you set vp your rest 'gainst remedie:\nHe that of greatest workes is finisher,\nOft does them by the weakest minister:\nSo holy Writ, in babes hath iudgement showne,\nWhen Iudges haue bin babes; great flouds haue flowne\nFrom simple sources: and great Seas haue dried\nWhen Miracles haue by the great'st beene denied.\nOft expectation failes, and most oft there\nWhere most it promises: and oft it hits,\nWhere hope is coldest, and despaire most shifts\nKing. I must not heare thee, fare thee wel kind maide,\nThy paines not vs'd, must by thy selfe be paid,\nProffers not tooke, reape thanks for their reward\nHel. Inspired Merit so by breath is bard,\nIt is not so with him that all things knowes\nAs 'tis with vs, that square our guesse by showes:\nBut most it is presumption in vs, when\nThe help of heauen we count the act of men.\nDeare sir, to my endeauors giue consent,\nOf heauen, not me, make an experiment.\nI am not an Imposture, that proclaime\nMy selfe against the leuill of mine aime,\nBut know I thinke, and thinke I know most sure,\nMy Art is not past power, nor you past cure\nKing. Art thou so confident? Within what space\nHop'st thou my cure?\nHel. The greatest grace lending grace,\nEre twice the horses of the sunne shall bring\nTheir fiery torcher his diurnall ring,\nEre twice in murke and occidentall dampe\nMoist Hesperus hath quench'd her sleepy Lampe:\nOr foure and twenty times the Pylots glasse\nHath told the theeuish minutes, how they passe:\nWhat is infirme, from your sound parts shall flie,\nHealth shall liue free, and sickenesse freely dye\nKing. Vpon thy certainty and confidence,\nWhat dar'st thou venter?\nHell. Taxe of impudence,\nA strumpets boldnesse, a divulged shame\nTraduc'd by odious ballads: my maidens name\nSeard otherwise, ne worse of worst extended\nWith vildest torture, let my life be ended\nKin. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak\nHis powerfull sound, within an organ weake:\nAnd what impossibility would slay\nIn common sence, sence saues another way:\nThy life is deere, for all that life can rate\nWorth name of life, in thee hath estimate:\nYouth, beauty, wisedome, courage, all\nThat happines and prime, can happy call:\nThou this to hazard, needs must intimate\nSkill infinite, or monstrous desperate,\nSweet practiser, thy Physicke I will try,\nThat ministers thine owne death if I die\nHel. If I breake time, or flinch in property\nOf what I spoke, vnpittied let me die,\nAnd well deseru'd: not helping, death's my fee,\nBut if I helpe, what doe you promise me\nKin. Make thy demand\nHel. But will you make it euen?\nKin. I by my Scepter, and my hopes of helpe\nHel. Then shalt thou giue me with thy kingly hand\nWhat husband in thy power I will command:\nExempted be from me the arrogance\nTo choose from forth the royall bloud of France,\nMy low and humble name to propagate\nWith any branch or image of thy state:\nBut such a one thy vassall, whom I know\nIs free for me to aske, thee to bestow\nKin. Heere is my hand, the premises obseru'd,\nThy will by my performance shall be seru'd:\nSo make the choice of thy owne time, for I\nThy resolv'd Patient, on thee still relye:\nMore should I question thee, and more I must,\nThough more to know, could not be more to trust:\nFrom whence thou cam'st, how tended on, but rest\nVnquestion'd welcome, and vndoubted blest.\nGiue me some helpe heere hoa, if thou proceed,\nAs high as word, my deed shall match thy deed.\nFlorish. Exit.\nEnter Countesse and Clowne.\nLady. Come on sir, I shall now put you to the height\nof your breeding\nClown. I will shew my selfe highly fed, and lowly\ntaught, I know my businesse is but to the Court\nLady. To the Court, why what place make you speciall,\nwhen you put off that with such contempt, but to\nthe Court?\nClo. Truly Madam, if God haue lent a man any manners,\nhee may easilie put it off at Court: hee that cannot\nmake a legge, put off's cap, kisse his hand, and say nothing,\nhas neither legge, hands, lippe, nor cap; and indeed\nsuch a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the\nCourt, but for me, I haue an answere will serue all men\nLady. Marry that's a bountifull answere that fits all\nquestions\nClo. It is like a Barbers chaire that fits all buttockes,\nthe pin buttocke, the quatch-buttocke, the brawn buttocke,\nor any buttocke\nLady. Will your answere serue fit to all questions?\nClo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an Atturney,\nas your French Crowne for your taffety punke, as\nTibs rush for Toms fore-finger, as a pancake for Shroue-tuesday,\na Morris for May-day, as the naile to his hole,\nthe Cuckold to his horne, as a scolding queane to a\nwrangling knaue, as the Nuns lip to the Friers mouth,\nnay as the pudding to his skin\nLady. Haue you, I say, an answere of such fitnesse for\nall questions?\nClo. From below your Duke, to beneath your Constable,\nit will fit any question\nLady. It must be an answere of most monstrous size,\nthat must fit all demands\nClo. But a triflle neither in good faith, if the learned\nshould speake truth of it: heere it is, and all that belongs\nto't. Aske mee if I am a Courtier, it shall doe you no\nharme to learne\nLady. To be young againe if we could: I will bee a\nfoole in question, hoping to bee the wiser by your answer\nLa. I pray you sir, are you a Courtier?\nClo. O Lord sir theres a simple putting off: more,\nmore, a hundred of them\nLa. Sir I am a poore freind of yours, that loues you\nClo. O Lord sir, thicke, thicke, spare not me\nLa. I thinke sir, you can eate none of this homely\nmeate\nClo. O Lord sir; nay put me too't, I warrant you\nLa. You were lately whipt sir as I thinke\nClo. O Lord sir, spare not me\nLa. Doe you crie O Lord sir at your whipping, and\nspare not me? Indeed your O Lord sir, is very sequent\nto your whipping: you would answere very well to a\nwhipping if you were but bound too't\nClo. I nere had worse lucke in my life in my O Lord\nsir: I see things may serue long, but not serue euer\nLa. I play the noble huswife with the time, to entertaine\nit so merrily with a foole\nClo. O Lord sir, why there't serues well agen\nLa. And end sir to your businesse: giue Hellen this,\nAnd vrge her to a present answer backe,\nCommend me to my kinsmen, and my sonne,\nThis is not much\nClo. Not much commendation to them\nLa. Not much imployement for you, you vnderstand\nme\nClo. Most fruitfully, I am there, before my legges\nLa. Hast you agen.\nExeunt.\nEnter Count, Lafew, and Parolles.\nOl.Laf. They say miracles are past, and we haue our\nPhilosophicall persons, to make moderne and familiar\nthings supernaturall and causelesse. Hence is it, that we\nmake trifles of terrours, ensconcing our selues into seeming\nknowledge, when we should submit our selues to\nan vnknowne feare\nPar. Why 'tis the rarest argument of wonder, that\nhath shot out in our latter times\nRos. And so 'tis\nOl.Laf. To be relinquisht of the Artists\nPar. So I say both of Galen and Paracelsus\nOl.Laf. Of all the learned and authenticke fellowes\nPar. Right so I say\nOl.Laf. That gaue him out incureable\nPar. Why there 'tis, so say I too\nOl.Laf. Not to be help'd\nPar. Right, as 'twere a man assur'd of a-\nOl.Laf. Vncertaine life, and sure death\nPar. Iust, you say well: so would I haue said\nOl.Laf. I may truly say, it is a noueltie to the world\nPar. It is indeede if you will haue it in shewing, you\nshall reade it in what do ye call there\nOl.Laf. A shewing of a heauenly effect in an earthly\nActor\nPar. That's it, I would haue said, the verie same\nOl.Laf. Why your Dolphin is not lustier: fore mee\nI speake in respect-\nPar. Nay 'tis strange, 'tis very straunge, that is the\nbreefe and the tedious of it, and he's of a most facinerious\nspirit, that will not acknowledge it to be the-\nOl.Laf. Very hand of heauen\nPar. I, so I say\nOl.Laf. In a most weake-\nPar. And debile minister great power, great trancendence,\nwhich should indeede giue vs a further vse to\nbe made, then alone the recou'ry of the king, as to bee\nOld Laf. Generally thankfull.\nEnter King, Hellen, and attendants.\nPar. I would haue said it, you say well: heere comes\nthe King\nOl.Laf. Lustique, as the Dutchman saies: Ile like a\nmaide the Better whil'st I haue a tooth in my head: why\nhe's able to leade her a Carranto\nPar. Mor du vinager, is not this Helen?\nOl.Laf. Fore God I thinke so\nKing. Goe call before mee all the Lords in Court,\nSit my preseruer by thy patients side,\nAnd with this healthfull hand whose banisht sence\nThou hast repeal'd, a second time receyue\nThe confirmation of my promis'd guift,\nWhich but attends thy naming.\nEnter 3 or 4 Lords.\nFaire Maide send forth thine eye, this youthfull parcell\nOf Noble Batchellors, stand at my bestowing,\nOre whom both Soueraigne power, and fathers voice\nI haue to vse; thy franke election make,\nThou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake\nHel. To each of you, one faire and vertuous Mistris;\nFall when loue please, marry to each but one\nOld Laf. I'de giue bay curtall, and his furniture\nMy mouth no more were broken then these boyes,\nAnd writ as little beard\nKing. Peruse them well:\nNot one of those, but had a Noble father.\nShe addresses her to a Lord.\nHel. Gentlemen, heauen hath through me, restor'd\nthe king to health\nAll. We vnderstand it, and thanke heauen for you\nHel. I am a simple Maide, and therein wealthiest\nThat I protest, I simply am a Maide:\nPlease it your Maiestie, I haue done already:\nThe blushes in my cheekes thus whisper mee,\nWe blush that thou shouldst choose, but be refused;\nLet the white death sit on thy cheeke for euer,\nWee'l nere come there againe\nKing. Make choise and see,\nWho shuns thy loue, shuns all his loue in mee\nHel. Now Dian from thy Altar do I fly,\nAnd to imperiall loue, that God most high\nDo my sighes streame: Sir, wil you heare my suite?\n1.Lo. And grant it\nHel. Thankes sir, all the rest is mute\nOl.Laf. I had rather be in this choise, then throw\nAmes-ace for my life\nHel. The honor sir that flames in your faire eyes,\nBefore I speake too threatningly replies:\nLoue make your fortunes twentie times aboue\nHer that so wishes, and her humble loue\n2.Lo. No better if you please\nHel. My wish receiue,\nWhich great loue grant, and so I take my leaue\nOl.Laf. Do all they denie her? And they were sons\nof mine, I'de haue them whip'd, or I would send them\nto'th Turke to make Eunuches of\nHel. Be not afraid that I your hand should take,\nIle neuer do you wrong for your owne sake:\nBlessing vpon your vowes, and in your bed\nFinde fairer fortune, if you euer wed\nOld Laf. These boyes are boyes of Ice, they'le none\nhaue heere: sure they are bastards to the English, the\nFrench nere got em\nLa. You are too young, too happie, and too good\nTo make your selfe a sonne out of my blood\n4.Lord. Faire one, I thinke not so\nOl.Lord There's one grape yet, I am sure thy father\ndrunke wine. But if thou be'st not an asse, I am a youth\nof fourteene: I haue knowne thee already\nHel. I dare not say I take you, but I giue\nMe and my seruice, euer whilst I liue\nInto your guiding power: This is the man\nKing. Why then young Bertram take her shee's thy\nwife\nBer. My wife my Leige? I shal beseech your highnes\nIn such a busines, giue me leaue to vse\nThe helpe of mine owne eies\nKing. Know'st thou not Bertram what shee ha's\ndone for mee?\nBer. Yes my good Lord, but neuer hope to know\nwhy I should marrie her\nKing. Thou know'st shee ha's rais'd me from my sickly\nbed\nBer. But followes it my Lord, to bring me downe\nMust answer for your raising? I knowe her well:\nShee had her breeding at my fathers charge:\nA poore Physitians daughter my wife? Disdaine\nRather corrupt me euer\nKing. Tis onely title thou disdainst in her, the which\nI can build vp: strange is it that our bloods\nOf colour, waight, and heat, pour'd all together,\nWould quite confound distinction: yet stands off\nIn differences so mightie. If she bee\nAll that is vertuous (saue what thou dislik'st)\nA poore Phisitians daughter, thou dislik'st\nOf vertue for the name: but doe not so:\nFrom lowest place, whence vertuous things proceed,\nThe place is dignified by th' doers deede.\nWhere great additions swell's, and vertue none,\nIt is a dropsied honour. Good alone,\nIs good without a name? Vilenesse is so:\nThe propertie by what is is, should go,\nNot by the title. Shee is young, wise, faire,\nIn these, to Nature shee's immediate heire:\nAnd these breed honour: that is honours scorne,\nWhich challenges it selfe as honours borne,\nAnd is not like the sire: Honours thriue,\nWhen rather from our acts we them deriue\nThen our fore-goers: the meere words, a slaue\nDebosh'd on euerie tombe, on euerie graue:\nA lying Trophee, and as oft is dumbe,\nWhere dust, and damn'd obliuion is the Tombe.\nOf honour'd bones indeed, what should be saide?\nIf thou canst like this creature, as a maide,\nI can create the rest: Vertue, and shee\nIs her owne dower: Honour and wealth, from mee\nBer. I cannot loue her, nor will striue to doo't\nKing. Thou wrong'st thy selfe, if thou shold'st striue\nto choose\nHel. That you are well restor'd my Lord, I'me glad:\nLet the rest go\nKing. My Honor's at the stake, which to defeate\nI must produce my power. Heere, take her hand,\nProud scornfull boy, vnworthie this good gift,\nThat dost in vile misprision shackle vp\nMy loue, and her desert: that canst not dreame,\nWe poizing vs in her defectiue scale,\nShall weigh thee to the beame: That wilt not know,\nIt is in Vs to plant thine Honour, where\nWe please to haue it grow. Checke thy contempt:\nObey Our will, which trauailes in thy good:\nBeleeue not thy disdaine, but presentlie\nDo thine owne fortunes that obedient right\nWhich both thy dutie owes, and Our power claimes,\nOr I will throw thee from my care for euer\nInto the staggers, and the carelesse lapse\nOf youth and ignorance: both my reuenge and hate\nLoosing vpon thee, in the name of iustice,\nWithout all termes of pittie. Speake, thine answer\nBer. Pardon my gracious Lord: for I submit\nMy fancie to your eies, when I consider\nWhat great creation, and what dole of honour\nFlies where you bid it: I finde that she which late\nWas in my Nobler thoughts, most base: is now\nThe praised of the King, who so ennobled,\nIs as 'twere borne so\nKing. Take her by the hand,\nAnd tell her she is thine: to whom I promise\nA counterpoize: If not to thy estate,\nA ballance more repleat\nBer. I take her hand\nKin. Good fortune, and the fauour of the King\nSmile vpon this Contract: whose Ceremonie\nShall seeme expedient on the now borne briefe,\nAnd be perform'd to night: the solemne Feast\nShall more attend vpon the coming space,\nExpecting absent friends. As thou lou'st her,\nThy loue's to me Religious: else, do's erre.\nExeunt.\nParolles and Lafew stay behind, commenting of this wedding.\nLaf. Do you heare Monsieur? A word with you\nPar. Your pleasure sir\nLaf. Your Lord and Master did well to make his recantation\nPar. Recantation? My Lord? my Master?\nLaf. I: Is it not a Language I speake?\nPar. A most harsh one, and not to bee vnderstoode\nwithout bloudie succeeding. My Master?\nLaf. Are you Companion to the Count Rosillion?\nPar. To any Count, to all Counts: to what is man\nLaf. To what is Counts man: Counts maister is of\nanother stile\nPar. You are too old sir: Let it satisfie you, you are\ntoo old\nLaf. I must tell thee sirrah, I write Man: to which\ntitle age cannot bring thee\nPar. What I dare too well do, I dare not do\nLaf. I did thinke thee for two ordinaries: to bee a\nprettie wise fellow, thou didst make tollerable vent of\nthy trauell, it might passe: yet the scarffes and the bannerets\nabout thee, did manifoldlie disswade me from beleeuing\nthee a vessell of too great a burthen. I haue now\nfound thee, when I loose thee againe, I care not: yet art\nthou good for nothing but taking vp, and that th'ourt\nscarce worth\nPar. Hadst thou not the priuiledge of Antiquity vpon\nthee\nLaf. Do not plundge thy selfe to farre in anger, least\nthou hasten thy triall: which if, Lord haue mercie on\nthee for a hen, so my good window of Lettice fare thee\nwell, thy casement I neede not open, for I look through\nthee. Giue me thy hand\nPar. My Lord, you giue me most egregious indignity\nLaf. I with all my heart, and thou art worthy of it\nPar. I haue not my Lord deseru'd it\nLaf. Yes good faith, eu'ry dramme of it, and I will\nnot bate thee a scruple\nPar. Well, I shall be wiser\nLaf. Eu'n as soone as thou can'st, for thou hast to pull\nat a smacke a'th contrarie. If euer thou bee'st bound\nin thy skarfe and beaten, thou shall finde what it is to be\nproud of thy bondage, I haue a desire to holde my acquaintance\nwith thee, or rather my knowledge, that I\nmay say in the default, he is a man I know\nPar. My Lord you do me most insupportable vexation\nLaf. I would it were hell paines for thy sake, and my\npoore doing eternall: for doing I am past, as I will by\nthee, in what motion age will giue me leaue.\nEnter.\nPar. Well, thou hast a sonne shall take this disgrace\noff me; scuruy, old, filthy, scuruy Lord: Well, I must\nbe patient, there is no fettering of authority. Ile beate\nhim (by my life) if I can meete him with any conuenience,\nand he were double and double a Lord. Ile haue\nno more pittie of his age then I would haue of- Ile\nbeate him, and if I could but meet him agen.\nEnter Lafew.\nLaf. Sirra, your Lord and masters married, there's\nnewes for you: you haue a new Mistris\nPar. I most vnfainedly beseech your Lordshippe to\nmake some reseruation of your wrongs. He is my good\nLord, whom I serue aboue is my master\nLaf. Who? God\nPar. I sir\nLaf. The deuill it is, that's thy master. Why dooest\nthou garter vp thy armes a this fashion? Dost make hose\nof thy sleeues? Do other seruants so? Thou wert best set\nthy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine Honor,\nif I were but two houres yonger, I'de beate thee: mee-think'st\nthou art a generall offence, and euery man shold\nbeate thee: I thinke thou wast created for men to breath\nthemselues vpon thee\nPar. This is hard and vndeserued measure my Lord\nLaf. Go too sir, you were beaten in Italy for picking\na kernell out of a Pomgranat, you are a vagabond, and\nno true traueller: you are more sawcie with Lordes and\nhonourable personages, then the Commission of your\nbirth and vertue giues you Heraldry. You are not worth\nanother word, else I'de call you knaue. I leaue you.\nExit\nEnter Count Rossillion.\nPar. Good, very good, it is so then: good, very\ngood, let it be conceal'd awhile\nRos. Vndone, and forfeited to cares for euer\nPar. What's the matter sweet-heart?\nRossill. Although before the solemne Priest I haue\nsworne, I will not bed her\nPar. What? what sweet heart?\nRos. O my Parrolles, they haue married me:\nIle to the Tuscan warres, and neuer bed her\nPar. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits,\nThe tread of a mans foot: too'th warres\nRos. There's letters from my mother: What th' import\nis, I know not yet\nPar. I that would be knowne: too'th warrs my boy,\ntoo'th warres:\nHe weares his honor in a boxe vnseene,\nThat hugges his kickie wickie heare at home,\nSpending his manlie marrow in her armes\nWhich should sustaine the bound and high curuet\nOf Marses fierie steed: to other Regions,\nFrance is a stable, wee that dwell in't Iades,\nTherefore too'th warre\nRos. It shall be so, Ile send her to my house,\nAcquaint my mother with my hate to her,\nAnd wherefore I am fled: Write to the King\nThat which I durst not speake. His present gift\nShall furnish me to those Italian fields\nWhere noble fellowes strike: Warres is no strife\nTo the darke house, and the detected wife\nPar. Will this Caprichio hold in thee, art sure?\nRos. Go with me to my chamber, and aduice me.\nIle send her straight away: To morrow,\nIle to the warres, she to her single sorrow\nPar. Why these bals bound, ther's noise in it. Tis hard\nA yong man maried, is a man that's mard:\nTherefore away, and leaue her brauely: go,\nThe King ha's done you wrong: but hush 'tis so.\nExit\nEnter Helena and Clowne.\nHel. My mother greets me kindly, is she well?\nClo. She is not well, but yet she has her health, she's\nvery merrie, but yet she is not well: but thankes be giuen\nshe's very well, and wants nothing i'th world: but\nyet she is not well\nHel. If she be verie wel, what do's she ayle, that she's\nnot verie well?\nClo. Truly she's very well indeed, but for two things\nHel. What two things?\nClo. One, that she's not in heauen, whether God send\nher quickly: the other, that she's in earth, from whence\nGod send her quickly.\nEnter Parolles.\nPar. Blesse you my fortunate Ladie\nHel. I hope sir I haue your good will to haue mine\nowne good fortune\nPar. You had my prayers to leade them on, and to\nkeepe them on, haue them still. O my knaue, how do's\nmy old Ladie?\nClo. So that you had her wrinkles, and I her money,\nI would she did as you say\nPar. Why I say nothing\nClo. Marry you are the wiser man: for many a mans\ntongue shakes out his masters vndoing: to say nothing,\nto do nothing, to know nothing, and to haue nothing,\nis to be a great part of your title, which is within a verie\nlittle of nothing\nPar. Away, th'art a knaue\nClo. You should haue said sir before a knaue, th'art a\nknaue, that's before me th'art a knaue: this had beene\ntruth sir\nPar. Go too, thou art a wittie foole, I haue found\nthee\nClo. Did you finde me in your selfe sir, or were you\ntaught to finde me?\nClo. The search sir was profitable, and much Foole\nmay you find in you, euen to the worlds pleasure, and the\nencrease of laughter\nPar. A good knaue ifaith, and well fed.\nMadam, my Lord will go awaie to night,\nA verie serrious businesse call's on him:\nThe great prerogatiue and rite of loue,\nWhich as your due time claimes, he do's acknowledge,\nBut puts it off to a compell'd restraint:\nWhose want, and whose delay, is strew'd with sweets\nWhich they distill now in the curbed time,\nTo make the comming houre oreflow with ioy,\nAnd pleasure drowne the brim\nHel. What's his will else?\nPar. That you will take your instant leaue a'th king,\nAnd make this hast as your owne good proceeding,\nStrengthned with what Apologie you thinke\nMay make it probable neede\nHel. What more commands hee?\nPar. That hauing this obtain'd, you presentlie\nAttend his further pleasure\nHel. In euery thing I waite vpon his will\nPar. I shall report it so.\nExit Par.\nHell. I pray you come sirrah.\nExit\nEnter Lafew and Bertram.\nLaf. But I hope your Lordshippe thinkes not him a\nsouldier\nBer. Yes my Lord and of verie valiant approofe\nLaf. You haue it from his owne deliuerance\nBer. And by other warranted testimonie\nLaf. Then my Diall goes not true, I tooke this Larke\nfor a bunting\nBer. I do assure you my Lord he is very great in knowledge,\nand accordinglie valiant\nLaf. I haue then sinn'd against his experience, and\ntransgrest against his valour, and my state that way is\ndangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to repent:\nHeere he comes, I pray you make vs freinds, I will pursue\nthe amitie.\nEnter Parolles.\nPar. These things shall be done sir\nLaf. Pray you sir whose his Tailor?\nPar. Sir?\nLaf. O I know him well, I sir, hee sirs a good workeman,\na verie good Tailor\nBer. Is shee gone to the king?\nPar. Shee is\nBer. Will shee away to night?\nPar. As you'le haue her\nBer. I haue writ my letters, casketted my treasure,\nGiuen order for our horses, and to night,\nWhen I should take possession of the Bride,\nAnd ere I doe begin\nLaf. A good Trauailer is something at the latter end\nof a dinner, but on that lies three thirds, and vses a\nknown truth to passe a thousand nothings with, should\nbee once hard, and thrice beaten. God saue you Captaine\nBer. Is there any vnkindnes betweene my Lord and\nyou Monsieur?\nPar. I know not how I haue deserued to run into my\nLords displeasure\nLaf. You haue made shift to run into't, bootes and\nspurres and all: like him that leapt into the Custard, and\nout of it you'le runne againe, rather then suffer question\nfor your residence\nBer. It may bee you haue mistaken him my Lord\nLaf. And shall doe so euer, though I tooke him at's\nprayers. Fare you well my Lord, and beleeue this of\nme, there can be no kernell in this light Nut: the soule\nof this man is his cloathes: Trust him not in matter of\nheauie consequence: I haue kept of them tame, & know\ntheir natures. Farewell Monsieur, I haue spoken better\nof you, then you haue or will to deserue at my hand, but\nwe must do good against euill\nPar. An idle Lord, I sweare\nBer. I thinke so\nPar. Why do you not know him?\nBer. Yes, I do know him well, and common speech\nGiues him a worthy passe. Heere comes my clog.\nEnter Helena.\nHel. I haue sir as I was commanded from you\nSpoke with the King, and haue procur'd his leaue\nFor present parting, onely he desires\nSome priuate speech with you\nBer. I shall obey his will.\nYou must not meruaile Helen at my course,\nWhich holds not colour with the time, nor does\nThe ministration, and required office\nOn my particular. Prepar'd I was not\nFor such a businesse, therefore am I found\nSo much vnsetled: This driues me to intreate you,\nThat presently you take your way for home,\nAnd rather muse then aske why I intreate you,\nFor my respects are better then they seeme,\nAnd my appointments haue in them a neede\nGreater then shewes it selfe at the first view,\nTo you that know them not. This to my mother,\n'Twill be two daies ere I shall see you, so\nI leaue you to your wisedome\nHel. Sir, I can nothing say,\nBut that I am your most obedient seruant\nBer. Come, come, no more of that\nHel. And euer shall\nWith true obseruance seeke to eeke out that\nWherein toward me my homely starres haue faild\nTo equall my great fortune\nBer. Let that goe: my hast is verie great. Farwell:\nHie home\nHel. Pray sir your pardon\nBer. Well, what would you say?\nHel. I am not worthie of the wealth I owe,\nNor dare I say 'tis mine: and yet it is,\nBut like a timorous theefe, most faine would steale\nWhat law does vouch mine owne\nBer. What would you haue?\nHel. Something, and scarse so much: nothing indeed,\nI would not tell you what I would my Lord: Faith yes,\nStrangers and foes do sunder, and not kisse\nBer. I pray you stay not, but in hast to horse\nHel. I shall not breake your bidding, good my Lord:\nWhere are my other men? Monsieur, farwell.\nExit\nBer. Go thou toward home, where I wil neuer come,\nWhilst I can shake my sword, or heare the drumme:\nAway, and for our flight\nPar. Brauely, Coragio.\nActus Tertius.\nFlourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, the two Frenchmen, with a\ntroope of\nSouldiers.\nDuke. So that from point to point, now haue you heard\nThe fundamentall reasons of this warre,\nWhose great decision hath much blood let forth\nAnd more thirsts after\n1.Lord. Holy seemes the quarrell\nVpon your Graces part: blacke and fearefull\nOn the opposer\nDuke. Therefore we meruaile much our Cosin France\nWould in so iust a businesse, shut his bosome\nAgainst our borrowing prayers\nFrench E. Good my Lord,\nThe reasons of our state I cannot yeelde,\nBut like a common and an outward man,\nThat the great figure of a Counsaile frames,\nBy selfe vnable motion, therefore dare not\nSay what I thinke of it, since I haue found\nMy selfe in my incertaine grounds to faile\nAs often as I guest\nDuke. Be it his pleasure\nFren.G. But I am sure the yonger of our nature,\nThat surfet on their ease, will day by day\nCome heere for Physicke\nDuke. Welcome shall they bee:\nAnd all the honors that can flye from vs,\nShall on them settle: you know your places well,\nWhen better fall, for your auailes they fell,\nTo morrow to'th the field.\nFlourish.\nEnter Countesse and Clowne.\nCount. It hath happen'd all, as I would haue had it, saue\nthat he comes not along with her\nClo. By my troth I take my young Lord to be a verie\nmelancholly man\nCount. By what obseruance I pray you\nClo. Why he will looke vppon his boote, and sing:\nmend the Ruffe and sing, aske questions and sing, picke\nhis teeth, and sing: I know a man that had this tricke of\nmelancholy hold a goodly Mannor for a song\nLad. Let me see what he writes, and when he meanes\nto come\nClow. I haue no minde to Isbell since I was at Court.\nOur old Lings, and our Isbels a'th Country, are nothing\nlike your old Ling and your Isbels a'th Court: the brains\nof my Cupid's knock'd out, and I beginne to loue, as an\nold man loues money, with no stomacke\nLad. What haue we heere?\nClo. In that you haue there.\nExit\nA Letter.\nI haue sent you a daughter-in-Law, shee hath recouered the\nKing, and vndone me: I haue wedded her, not bedded her,\nand sworne to make the not eternall. You shall heare I am\nrunne away, know it before the report come. If there bee\nbredth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My\nduty to you. Your vnfortunate sonne,\nBertram.\nThis is not well rash and vnbridled boy,\nTo flye the fauours of so good a King,\nTo plucke his indignation on thy head,\nBy the misprising of a Maide too vertuous\nFor the contempt of Empire.\nEnter Clowne.\nClow. O Madam, yonder is heauie newes within betweene\ntwo souldiers, and my yong Ladie\nLa. What is the matter\nClo. Nay there is some comfort in the newes, some\ncomfort, your sonne will not be kild so soone as I thoght\nhe would\nLa. Why should he be kill'd?\nClo. So say I Madame, if he runne away, as I heare he\ndoes, the danger is in standing too't, that's the losse of\nmen, though it be the getting of children. Heere they\ncome will tell you more. For my part I onely heare your\nsonne was run away.\nEnter Hellen and two Gentlemen.\nFrench E. Saue you good Madam\nHel. Madam, my Lord is gone, for euer gone\nFrench G. Do not say so\nLa. Thinke vpon patience, pray you Gentlemen,\nI haue felt so many quirkes of ioy and greefe,\nThat the first face of neither on the start\nCan woman me vntoo't. Where is my sonne I pray you?\nFren.G. Madam he's gone to serue the Duke of Florence,\nWe met him thitherward, for thence we came:\nAnd after some dispatch in hand at Court,\nThither we bend againe\nHel. Looke on his Letter Madam, here's my Pasport.\nWhen thou canst get the Ring vpon my finger, which neuer\nshall come off, and shew mee a childe begotten of thy bodie,\nthat I am father too, then call me husband: but in such a (then)\nI write a Neuer.\nThis is a dreadfull sentence\nLa. Brought you this Letter Gentlemen?\n1.G. I Madam, and for the Contents sake are sorrie\nfor our paines\nOld La. I prethee Ladie haue a better cheere,\nIf thou engrossest, all the greefes are thine,\nThou robst me of a moity: He was my sonne,\nBut I do wash his name out of my blood,\nAnd thou art all my childe. Towards Florence is he?\nFren.G. I Madam\nLa. And to be a souldier\nFren.G. Such is his noble purpose, and beleeu't\nThe Duke will lay vpon him all the honor\nThat good conuenience claimes\nLa. Returne you thither\nFren.E. I Madam, with the swiftest wing of speed\nHel. Till I haue no wife, I haue nothing in France,\n'Tis bitter\nLa. Finde you that there?\nHel. I Madame\nFren.E. 'Tis but the boldnesse of his hand haply, which\nhis heart was not consenting too\nLad. Nothing in France, vntill he haue no wife:\nThere's nothing heere that is too good for him\nBut onely she, and she deserues a Lord\nThat twenty such rude boyes might tend vpon,\nAnd call her hourely Mistris. Who was with him?\nFren.E. A seruant onely, and a Gentleman: which I\nhaue sometime knowne\nLa. Parolles was it not?\nFren.E. I my good Ladie, hee\nLa. A verie tainted fellow, and full of wickednesse,\nMy sonne corrupts a well deriued nature\nWith his inducement\nFren.E. Indeed good Ladie the fellow has a deale of\nthat, too much, which holds him much to haue\nLa. Y'are welcome Gentlemen, I will intreate you\nwhen you see my sonne, to tell him that his sword can\nneuer winne the honor that he looses: more Ile intreate\nyou written to beare along\nFren.G. We serue you Madam in that and all your\nworthiest affaires\nLa. Not so, but as we change our courtesies,\nWill you draw neere?\nEnter.\nHel. Till I haue no wife I haue nothing in France.\nNothing in France vntill he has no wife:\nThou shalt haue none Rossillion, none in France,\nThen hast thou all againe: poore Lord, is't I\nThat chase thee from thy Countrie, and expose\nThose tender limbes of thine, to the euent\nOf the none-sparing warre? And is it I,\nThat driue thee from the sportiue Court, where thou\nWas't shot at with faire eyes, to be the marke\nOf smoakie Muskets? O you leaden messengers,\nThat ride vpon the violent speede of fire,\nFly with false ayme, moue the still-peering aire\nThat sings with piercing, do not touch my Lord:\nWho euer shoots at him, I set him there.\nWho euer charges on his forward brest\nI am the Caitiffe that do hold him too't,\nAnd though I kill him not, I am the cause\nHis death was so effected: Better 'twere\nI met the rauine Lyon when he roar'd\nWith sharpe constraint of hunger: better 'twere,\nThat all the miseries which nature owes\nWere mine at once. No come thou home Rossillion,\nWhence honor but of danger winnes a scarre,\nAs oft it looses all. I will be gone:\nMy being heere it is, that holds thee hence,\nShall I stay heere to doo't? No, no, although\nThe ayre of Paradise did fan the house,\nAnd Angels offic'd all: I will be gone,\nThat pittifull rumour may report my flight\nTo consolate thine eare. Come night, end day,\nFor with the darke (poore theefe) Ile steale away.\nEnter.\nFlourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Rossillion, drum and\ntrumpets,\nsoldiers, Parrolles.\nDuke. The Generall of our horse thou art, and we\nGreat in our hope, lay our best loue and credence\nVpon thy promising fortune\nBer. Sir it is\nA charge too heauy for my strength, but yet\nWee'l striue to beare it for your worthy sake,\nTo th' extreme edge of hazard\nDuke. Then go thou forth,\nAnd fortune play vpon thy prosperous helme\nAs thy auspicious mistris\nBer. This very day\nGreat Mars I put my selfe into thy file,\nMake me but like my thoughts, and I shall proue\nA louer of thy drumme, hater of loue.\nExeunt. omnes\nEnter Countesse & Steward.\nLa. Alas! and would you take the letter of her:\nMight you not know she would do, as she has done,\nBy sending me a Letter. Reade it agen.\nLetter.\nI am S[aint]. Iaques Pilgrim, thither gone:\nAmbitious loue hath so in me offended,\nThat bare-foot plod I the cold ground vpon\nWith sainted vow my faults to haue amended\nWrite, write, that from the bloodie course of warre,\nMy deerest Master your deare sonne, may hie,\nBlesse him at home in peace. Whilst I from farre,\nHis name with zealous feruour sanctifie:\nHis taken labours bid him me forgiue:\nI his despightfull Iuno sent him forth,\nFrom Courtly friends, with Camping foes to liue,\nWhere death and danger dogges the heeles of worth.\nHe is too good and faire for death, and mee,\nWhom I my selfe embrace, to set him free.\nAh what sharpe stings are in her mildest words?\nRynaldo, you did neuer lacke aduice so much,\nAs letting her passe so: had I spoke with her,\nI could haue well diuerted her intents,\nWhich thus she hath preuented\nSte. Pardon me Madam,\nIf I had giuen you this at ouer-night,\nShe might haue beene ore-tane: and yet she writes\nPursuite would be but vaine\nLa. What Angell shall\nBlesse this vnworthy husband, he cannot thriue,\nVnlesse her prayers, whom heauen delights to heare\nAnd loues to grant, repreeue him from the wrath\nOf greatest Iustice. Write, write Rynaldo,\nTo this vnworthy husband of his wife,\nLet euerie word waigh heauie of her worth,\nThat he does waigh too light: my greatest greefe,\nThough little he do feele it, set downe sharpely.\nDispatch the most conuenient messenger,\nWhen haply he shall heare that she is gone,\nHe will returne, and hope I may that shee\nHearing so much, will speede her foote againe,\nLed hither by pure loue: which of them both\nIs deerest to me, I haue no skill in sence\nTo make distinction: prouide this Messenger:\nMy heart is heauie, and mine age is weake,\nGreefe would haue teares, and sorrow bids me speake.\nExeunt.\nA Tucket afarre off.\nEnter old Widdow of Florence, her daughter Violenta and\nMariana, with\nother Citizens.\nWiddow. Nay come,\nFor if they do approach the Citty,\nWe shall loose all the sight\nDiana. They say, the French Count has done\nMost honourable seruice\nWid. It is reported,\nThat he has taken their great'st Commander,\nAnd that with his owne hand he slew\nThe Dukes brother: we haue lost our labour,\nThey are gone a contrarie way: harke,\nyou may know by their Trumpets\nMaria. Come lets returne againe,\nAnd suffice our selues with the report of it.\nWell Diana, take heed of this French Earle,\nThe honor of a Maide is her name,\nAnd no Legacie is so rich\nAs honestie\nWiddow. I haue told my neighbour\nHow you haue beene solicited by a Gentleman\nHis Companion\nMaria. I know that knaue, hang him, one Parolles,\na filthy Officer he is in those suggestions for the young\nEarle, beware of them Diana; their promises, entisements,\noathes, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are\nnot the things they go vnder: many a maide hath beene\nseduced by them, and the miserie is example, that so\nterrible shewes in the wracke of maiden-hood, cannot\nfor all that disswade succession, but that they are limed\nwith the twigges that threatens them. I hope I neede\nnot to aduise you further, but I hope your owne grace\nwill keepe you where you are, though there were no\nfurther danger knowne, but the modestie which is so\nlost\nDia. You shall not neede to feare me.\nEnter Hellen.\nWid. I hope so: looke here comes a pilgrim, I know\nshe will lye at my house, thither they send one another,\nIle question her. God saue you pilgrim, whether are\nbound?\nHel. To S[aint]. Iaques la grand.\nWhere do the Palmers lodge, I do beseech you?\nWid. At the S[aint]. Francis heere beside the Port\nHel. Is this the way?\nA march afarre.\nWid. I marrie ist. Harke you, they come this way:\nIf you will tarrie holy Pilgrime\nBut till the troopes come by,\nI will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd,\nThe rather for I thinke I know your hostesse\nAs ample as my selfe\nHel. Is it your selfe?\nWid. If you shall please so Pilgrime\nHel. I thanke you, and will stay vpon your leisure\nWid. You came I thinke from France?\nHel. I did so\nWid. Heere you shall see a Countriman of yours\nThat has done worthy seruice\nHel. His name I pray you?\nDia. The Count Rossillion: know you such a one?\nHel. But by the eare that heares most nobly of him:\nHis face I know not\nDia. What somere he is\nHe's brauely taken heere. He stole from France\nAs 'tis reported: for the King had married him\nAgainst his liking. Thinke you it is so?\nHel. I surely meere the truth, I know his Lady\nDia. There is a Gentleman that serues the Count,\nReports but coursely of her\nHel. What's his name?\nDia. Monsieur Parrolles\nHel. Oh I beleeue with him,\nIn argument of praise, or to the worth\nOf the great Count himselfe, she is too meane\nTo haue her name repeated, all her deseruing\nIs a reserued honestie, and that\nI haue not heard examin'd\nDian. Alas poore Ladie,\n'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife\nOf a detesting Lord\nWid. I write good creature, wheresoere she is,\nHer hart waighes sadly: this yong maid might do her\nA shrewd turne if she pleas'd\nHel. How do you meane?\nMay be the amorous Count solicites her\nIn the vnlawfull purpose\nWid. He does indeede,\nAnd brokes with all that can in such a suite\nCorrupt the tender honour of a Maide:\nBut she is arm'd for him, and keepes her guard\nIn honestest defence.\nDrumme and Colours. Enter Count Rossillion, Parrolles, and the\nwhole\nArmie.\nMar. The goddes forbid else\nWid. So, now they come:\nThat is Anthonio the Dukes eldest sonne,\nThat Escalus\nHel. Which is the Frenchman?\nDia. Hee,\nThat with the plume, 'tis a most gallant fellow,\nI would he lou'd his wife: if he were honester\nHe were much goodlier. Is't not a handsom Gentleman\nHel. I like him well\nDi. 'Tis pitty he is not honest: yonds that same knaue\nThat leades him to these places: were I his Ladie,\nI would poison that vile Rascall\nHel. Which is he?\nDia. That Iacke-an-apes with scarfes. Why is hee\nmelancholly?\nHel. Perchance he's hurt i'th battaile\nPar. Loose our drum? Well\nMar. He's shrewdly vext at something. Looke he\nhas spyed vs\nWid. Marrie hang you\nMar. And your curtesie, for a ring-carrier.\nEnter.\nWid. The troope is past: Come pilgrim, I wil bring\nyou, Where you shall host: Of inioyn'd penitents\nThere's foure or fiue, to great S[aint]. Iaques bound,\nAlreadie at my house\nHel. I humbly thanke you:\nPlease it this Matron, and this gentle Maide\nTo eate with vs to night, the charge and thanking\nShall be for me, and to requite you further,\nI will bestow some precepts of this Virgin,\nWorthy the note\nBoth. Wee'l take your offer kindly.\nExeunt.\nEnter Count Rossillion and the Frenchmen, as at first.\nCap.E. Nay good my Lord put him too't: let him\nhaue his way\nCap.G. If your Lordshippe finde him not a Hilding,\nhold me no more in your respect\nCap.E. On my life my Lord, a bubble\nBer. Do you thinke I am so farre\nDeceiued in him\nCap.E. Beleeue it my Lord, in mine owne direct\nknowledge, without any malice, but to speake of him\nas my kinsman, hee's a most notable Coward, an infinite\nand endlesse Lyar, an hourely promise-breaker, the\nowner of no one good qualitie, worthy your Lordships\nentertainment\nCap.G. It were fit you knew him, least reposing too\nfarre in his vertue which he hath not, he might at some\ngreat and trustie businesse, in a maine daunger, fayle\nyou\nBer. I would I knew in what particular action to try\nhim\nCap.G. None better then to let him fetch off his\ndrumme, which you heare him so confidently vndertake\nto do\nC.E. I with a troop of Florentines wil sodainly surprize\nhim; such I will haue whom I am sure he knowes\nnot from the enemie: wee will binde and hoodwinke\nhim so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried\ninto the Leager of the aduersaries, when we bring\nhim to our owne tents: be but your Lordship present\nat his examination, if he do not for the promise of his\nlife, and in the highest compulsion of base feare, offer to\nbetray you, and deliuer all the intelligence in his power\nagainst you, and that with the diuine forfeite of his\nsoule vpon oath, neuer trust my iudgement in anie\nthing\nCap.G. O for the loue of laughter, let him fetch his\ndrumme, he sayes he has a stratagem for't: when your\nLordship sees the bottome of this successe in't, and to\nwhat mettle this counterfeyt lump of ours will be melted\nif you giue him not Iohn drummes entertainement,\nyour inclining cannot be remoued. Heere he comes.\nEnter Parrolles.\nCap.E. O for the loue of laughter hinder not the honor\nof his designe, let him fetch off his drumme in any\nhand\nBer. How now Monsieur? This drumme sticks sorely\nin your disposition\nCap.G. A pox on't, let it go, 'tis but a drumme\nPar. But a drumme: Ist but a drumme? A drum so\nlost. There was excellent command, to charge in with\nour horse vpon our owne wings, and to rend our owne\nsouldiers\nCap.G. That was not to be blam'd in the command\nof the seruice: it was a disaster of warre that C\u00e6sar him\nselfe could not haue preuented, if he had beene there to\ncommand\nBer. Well, wee cannot greatly condemne our successe:\nsome dishonor wee had in the losse of that drum,\nbut it is not to be recouered\nPar. It might haue beene recouered\nBer. It might, but it is not now\nPar. It is to be recouered, but that the merit of seruice\nis sildome attributed to the true and exact performer,\nI would haue that drumme or another, or hic iacet\nBer. Why if you haue a stomacke, too't Monsieur: if\nyou thinke your mysterie in stratagem, can bring this\ninstrument of honour againe into his natiue quarter, be\nmagnanimious in the enterprize and go on, I wil grace\nthe attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speede well in\nit, the Duke shall both speake of it, and extend to you\nwhat further becomes his greatnesse, euen to the vtmost\nsyllable of your worthinesse\nPar. By the hand of a souldier I will vndertake it\nBer. But you must not now slumber in it\nPar. Ile about it this euening, and I will presently\npen downe my dilemma's, encourage my selfe in my\ncertaintie, put my selfe into my mortall preparation:\nand by midnight looke to heare further from me\nBer. May I bee bold to acquaint his grace you are\ngone about it\nPar. I know not what the successe wil be my Lord,\nbut the attempt I vow\nBer. I know th'art valiant,\nAnd to the possibility of thy souldiership,\nWill subscribe for thee: Farewell\nPar. I loue not many words.\nExit\nCap.E. No more then a fish loues water. Is not this\na strange fellow my Lord, that so confidently seemes to\nvndertake this businesse, which he knowes is not to be\ndone, damnes himselfe to do, & dares better be damnd\nthen to doo't\nCap.G. You do not know him my Lord as we doe,\ncertaine it is that he will steale himselfe into a mans fauour,\nand for a weeke escape a great deale of discoueries,\nbut when you finde him out, you haue him euer after\nBer. Why do you thinke he will make no deede at\nall of this that so seriouslie hee dooes addresse himselfe\nvnto?\nCap.E. None in the world, but returne with an inuention,\nand clap vpon you two or three probable lies:\nbut we haue almost imbost him, you shall see his fall to\nnight; for indeede he is not for your Lordshippes respect\nCap.G. Weele make you some sport with the Foxe\nere we case him. He was first smoak'd by the old Lord\nLafew, when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what\na sprat you shall finde him, which you shall see this verie\nnight\nCap.E. I must go looke my twigges,\nHe shall be caught\nBer. Your brother he shall go along with me\nCap.G. As't please your Lordship, Ile leaue you\nBer. Now wil I lead you to the house, and shew you\nThe Lasse I spoke of\nCap.E. But you say she's honest\nBer. That's all the fault: I spoke with hir but once,\nAnd found her wondrous cold, but I sent to her\nBy this same Coxcombe that we haue i'th winde\nTokens and Letters, which she did resend,\nAnd this is all I haue done: She's a faire creature,\nWill you go see her?\nCap.E. With all my heart my Lord.\nExeunt.\nEnter Hellen, and Widdow.\nHel. If you misdoubt me that I am not shee,\nI know not how I shall assure you further,\nBut I shall loose the grounds I worke vpon\nWid. Though my estate be falne, I was well borne,\nNothing acquainted with these businesses,\nAnd would not put my reputation now\nIn any staining act\nHel. Nor would I wish you.\nFirst giue me trust, the Count he is my husband,\nAnd what to your sworne counsaile I haue spoken,\nIs so from word to word: and then you cannot\nBy the good ayde that I of you shall borrow,\nErre in bestowing it\nWid. I should beleeue you,\nFor you haue shew'd me that which well approues\nY'are great in fortune\nHel. Take this purse of Gold,\nAnd let me buy your friendly helpe thus farre,\nWhich I will ouer-pay, and pay againe\nWhen I haue found it. The Count he woes your\ndaughter,\nLayes downe his wanton siedge before her beautie,\nResolue to carrie her: let her in fine consent\nAs wee'l direct her how 'tis best to beare it:\nNow his important blood will naught denie,\nThat shee'l demand: a ring the Countie weares,\nThat downward hath succeeded in his house\nFrom sonne to sonne, some foure or fiue discents,\nSince the first father wore it. This Ring he holds\nIn most rich choice: yet in his idle fire,\nTo buy his will, it would not seeme too deere,\nHow ere repented after\nWid. Now I see the bottome of your purpose\nHel. You see it lawfull then, it is no more,\nBut that your daughter ere she seemes as wonne,\nDesires this Ring; appoints him an encounter;\nIn fine, deliuers me to fill the time,\nHer selfe most chastly absent: after\nTo marry her, Ile adde three thousand Crownes\nTo what is past already\nWid. I haue yeelded:\nInstruct my daughter how she shall perseuer,\nThat time and place with this deceite so lawfull\nMay proue coherent. Euery night he comes\nWith Musickes of all sorts, and songs compos'd\nTo her vnworthinesse: It nothing steeds vs\nTo chide him from our eeues, for he persists\nAs if his life lay on't\nHel. Why then to night\nLet vs assay our plot, which if it speed,\nIs wicked meaning in a lawfull deede;\nAnd lawfull meaning in a lawfull act,\nWhere both not sinne, and yet a sinfull fact.\nBut let's about it.\nActus Quartus.\nEnter one of the Frenchmen, with fiue or sixe other souldiers in\nambush.\nLord E. He can come no other way but by this hedge\ncorner: when you sallie vpon him, speake what terrible\nLanguage you will: though you vnderstand it not your\nselues, no matter: for we must not seeme to vnderstand\nhim, vnlesse some one among vs, whom wee must produce\nfor an Interpreter\n1.Sol. Good Captaine, let me be th' Interpreter\nLor.E. Art not acquainted with him? knowes he not\nthy voice?\n1.Sol. No sir I warrant you\nLo.E. But what linsie wolsy hast thou to speake to vs\nagaine\n1.Sol. E'n such as you speake to me\nLo.E. He must thinke vs some band of strangers, i'th\naduersaries entertainment. Now he hath a smacke of all\nneighbouring Languages: therefore we must euery one\nbe a man of his owne fancie, not to know what we speak\none to another: so we seeme to know, is to know straight\nour purpose: Choughs language, gabble enough, and\ngood enough. As for you interpreter, you must seeme\nvery politicke. But couch hoa, heere hee comes, to beguile\ntwo houres in a sleepe, and then to returne & swear\nthe lies he forges.\nEnter Parrolles.\nPar. Ten a clocke: Within these three houres 'twill\nbe time enough to goe home. What shall I say I haue\ndone? It must bee a very plausiue inuention that carries\nit. They beginne to smoake mee, and disgraces haue of\nlate, knock'd too often at my doore: I finde my tongue\nis too foole-hardie, but my heart hath the feare of Mars\nbefore it, and of his creatures, not daring the reports of\nmy tongue\nLo.E. This is the first truth that ere thine own tongue\nwas guiltie of\nPar. What the diuell should moue mee to vndertake\nthe recouerie of this drumme, being not ignorant of the\nimpossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I\nmust giue my selfe some hurts, and say I got them in exploit:\nyet slight ones will not carrie it. They will say,\ncame you off with so little? And great ones I dare not\ngiue, wherefore what's the instance. Tongue, I must put\nyou into a Butter-womans mouth, and buy my selfe another\nof Baiazeths Mule, if you prattle mee into these\nperilles\nLo.E. Is it possible he should know what hee is, and\nbe that he is\nPar. I would the cutting of my garments wold serue\nthe turne, or the breaking of my Spanish sword\nLo.E. We cannot affoord you so\nPar. Or the baring of my beard, and to say it was in\nstratagem\nLo.E. 'Twould not do\nPar. Or to drowne my cloathes, and say I was stript\nLo.E. Hardly serue\nPar. Though I swore I leapt from the window of the\nCitadell\nLo.E. How deepe?\nPar. Thirty fadome\nLo.E. Three great oathes would scarse make that be\nbeleeued\nPar. I would I had any drumme of the enemies, I\nwould sweare I recouer'd it\nLo.E. You shall heare one anon\nPar. A drumme now of the enemies.\nAlarum within.\nLo.E. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo\nAll. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo\nPar. O ransome, ransome,\nDo not hide mine eyes\nInter. Boskos thromuldo boskos\nPar. I know you are the Muskos Regiment,\nAnd I shall loose my life for want of language.\nIf there be heere German or Dane, Low Dutch,\nItalian, or French, let him speake to me,\nIle discouer that, which shal vndo the Florentine\nInt. Boskos vauvado, I vnderstand thee, & can speake\nthy tongue: Kerelybonto sir, betake thee to thy faith, for\nseuenteene ponyards are at thy bosome\nPar. Oh\nInter. Oh pray, pray, pray,\nManka reuania dulche\nLo.E. Oscorbidulchos voliuorco\nInt. The Generall is content to spare thee yet,\nAnd hoodwinkt as thou art, will leade thee on\nTo gather from thee. Haply thou mayst informe\nSomething to saue thy life\nPar. O let me liue,\nAnd all the secrets of our campe Ile shew,\nTheir force, their purposes: Nay, Ile speake that,\nWhich you will wonder at\nInter. But wilt thou faithfully?\nPar. If I do not, damne me\nInter. Acordo linta.\nCome on, thou are granted space.\nExit\nA short Alarum within.\nL.E. Go tell the Count Rossillion and my brother,\nWe haue caught the woodcocke, and will keepe him mufled\nTill we do heare from them\nSol. Captaine I will\nL.E. A will betray vs all vnto our selues,\nInforme on that\nSol. So I will sir\nL.E. Till then Ile keepe him darke and safely lockt.\nExit\nEnter Bertram, and the Maide called Diana.\nBer. They told me that your name was Fontybell\nDia. No my good Lord, Diana\nBer. Titled Goddesse,\nAnd worth it with addition: but faire soule,\nIn your fine frame hath loue no qualitie?\nIf the quicke fire of youth light not your minde,\nYou are no Maiden but a monument\nWhen you are dead you should be such a one\nAs you are now: for you are cold and sterne,\nAnd now you should be as your mother was\nWhen your sweet selfe was got\nDia. She then was honest\nBer. So should you be\nDia. No:\nMy mother did but dutie, such (my Lord)\nAs you owe to your wife\nBer. No more a'that:\nI prethee do not striue against my vowes:\nI was compell'd to her, but I loue thee\nBy loues owne sweet constraint, and will for euer\nDo thee all rights of seruice\nDia. I so you serue vs\nTill we serue you: But when you haue our Roses,\nYou barely leaue our thornes to pricke our selues,\nAnd mocke vs with our barenesse\nBer. How haue I sworne\nDia. Tis not the many oathes that makes the truth,\nBut the plaine single vow, that is vow'd true:\nWhat is not holie, that we sweare not by,\nBut take the high'st to witnesse: then pray you tell me,\nIf I should sweare by Ioues great attributes,\nI lou'd you deerely, would you beleeue my oathes,\nWhen I did loue you ill? This ha's no holding\nTo sweare by him whom I protest to loue\nThat I will worke against him. Therefore your oathes\nAre words and poore conditions, but vnseal'd\nAt lest in my opinion\nBer. Change it, change it:\nBe not so holy cruell: Loue is holie,\nAnd my integritie ne're knew the crafts\nThat you do charge men with: Stand no more off,\nBut giue thy selfe vnto my sicke desires,\nWho then recouers. Say thou art mine, and euer\nMy loue as it beginnes, shall so perseuer\nDia. I see that men make rope's in such a scarre,\nThat wee'l forsake our selues. Giue me that Ring\nBer. Ile lend it thee my deere; but haue no power\nTo giue it from me\nDia. Will you not my Lord?\nBer. It is an honour longing to our house,\nBequeathed downe from manie Ancestors,\nWhich were the greatest obloquie i'th world,\nIn me to loose\nDian. Mine Honors such a Ring,\nMy chastities the Iewell of our house,\nBequeathed downe from many Ancestors,\nWhich were the greatest obloquie i'th world,\nIn mee to loose. Thus your owne proper wisedome\nBrings in the Champion honor on my part,\nAgainst your vaine assault\nBer. Heere, take my Ring,\nMy house, mine honor, yea my life be thine,\nAnd Ile be bid by thee\nDia. When midnight comes, knocke at my chamber\nwindow:\nIle order take, my mother shall not heare.\nNow will I charge you in the band of truth,\nWhen you haue conquer'd my yet maiden-bed,\nRemaine there but an houre, nor speake to mee:\nMy reasons are most strong, and you shall know them,\nWhen backe againe this Ring shall be deliuer'd:\nAnd on your finger in the night, Ile put\nAnother Ring, that what in time proceeds,\nMay token to the future, our past deeds.\nAdieu till then, then faile not: you haue wonne\nA wife of me, though there my hope be done\nBer. A heauen on earth I haue won by wooing thee\nDi. For which, liue long to thank both heauen & me,\nYou may so in the end.\nMy mother told me iust how he would woo,\nAs if she sate in's heart. She sayes, all men\nHaue the like oathes: He had sworne to marrie me\nWhen his wife's dead: therfore Ile lye with him\nWhen I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braide,\nMarry that will, I liue and die a Maid:\nOnely in this disguise, I think't no sinne,\nTo cosen him that would vniustly winne.\nExit\nEnter the two French Captaines, and some two or three Souldiours.\nCap.G. You haue not giuen him his mothers letter\nCap.E. I haue deliu'red it an houre since, there is som\nthing in't that stings his nature: for on the reading it,\nhe chang'd almost into another man\nCap.G. He has much worthy blame laid vpon him,\nfor shaking off so good a wife, and so sweet a Lady\nCap.E. Especially, hee hath incurred the euerlasting\ndispleasure of the King, who had euen tun'd his bounty\nto sing happinesse to him. I will tell you a thing, but\nyou shall let it dwell darkly with you\nCap.G. When you haue spoken it 'tis dead, and I am\nthe graue of it\nCap.E. Hee hath peruerted a young Gentlewoman\nheere in Florence, of a most chaste renown, & this night\nhe fleshes his will in the spoyle of her honour: hee hath\ngiuen her his monumentall Ring, and thinkes himselfe\nmade in the vnchaste composition\nCap.G. Now God delay our rebellion as we are our\nselues, what things are we\nCap.E. Meerely our owne traitours. And as in the\ncommon course of all treasons, we still see them reueale\nthemselues, till they attaine to their abhorr'd ends: so\nhe that in this action contriues against his owne Nobility\nin his proper streame, ore-flowes himselfe\nCap.G. Is it not meant damnable in vs, to be Trumpeters\nof our vnlawfull intents? We shall not then haue\nhis company to night?\nCap.E. Not till after midnight: for hee is dieted to\nhis houre\nCap.G. That approaches apace: I would gladly haue\nhim see his company anathomiz'd, that hee might take\na measure of his owne iudgements, wherein so curiously\nhe had set this counterfeit\nCap.E. We will not meddle with him till he come;\nfor his presence must be the whip of the other\nCap.G. In the meane time, what heare you of these\nWarres?\nCap.E. I heare there is an ouerture of peace\nCap.G. Nay, I assure you a peace concluded\nCap.E. What will Count Rossillion do then? Will he\ntrauaile higher, or returne againe into France?\nCap.G. I perceiue by this demand, you are not altogether\nof his councell\nCap.E. Let it be forbid sir, so should I bee a great\ndeale of his act\nCap.G. Sir, his wife some two months since fledde\nfrom his house, her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Iaques\nle grand; which holy vndertaking, with most austere\nsanctimonie she accomplisht: and there residing,\nthe tendernesse of her Nature, became as a prey to her\ngreefe: in fine, made a groane of her last breath, & now\nshe sings in heauen\nCap.E. How is this iustified?\nCap.G. The stronger part of it by her owne Letters,\nwhich makes her storie true, euen to the poynt of her\ndeath: her death it selfe, which could not be her office\nto say, is come: was faithfully confirm'd by the Rector\nof the place\nCap.E. Hath the Count all this intelligence?\nCap.G. I, and the particular confirmations, point\nfrom point, to the full arming of the veritie\nCap.E. I am heartily sorrie that hee'l bee gladde of\nthis\nCap.G. How mightily sometimes, we make vs comforts\nof our losses\nCap.E. And how mightily some other times, wee\ndrowne our gaine in teares, the great dignitie that his\nvalour hath here acquir'd for him, shall at home be encountred\nwith a shame as ample\nCap.G. The webbe of our life, is of a mingled yarne,\ngood and ill together: our vertues would bee proud, if\nour faults whipt them not, and our crimes would dispaire\nif they were not cherish'd by our vertues.\nEnter a Messenger.\nHow now? Where's your master?\nSer. He met the Duke in the street sir, of whom hee\nhath taken a solemne leaue: his Lordshippe will next\nmorning for France. The Duke hath offered him Letters\nof commendations to the King\nCap.E. They shall bee no more then needfull there,\nif they were more then they can commend.\nEnter Count Rossillion.\nBer. They cannot be too sweete for the Kings tartnesse,\nheere's his Lordship now. How now my Lord,\ni'st not after midnight?\nBer. I haue to night dispatch'd sixteene businesses, a\nmoneths length a peece, by an abstract of successe: I\nhaue congied with the Duke, done my adieu with his\nneerest; buried a wife, mourn'd for her, writ to my Ladie\nmother, I am returning, entertain'd my Conuoy, &\nbetweene these maine parcels of dispatch, affected many\nnicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that I haue\nnot ended yet\nCap.E. If the businesse bee of any difficulty, and this\nmorning your departure hence, it requires hast of your\nLordship\nBer. I meane the businesse is not ended, as fearing\nto heare of it hereafter: but shall we haue this dialogue\nbetweene the Foole and the Soldiour. Come, bring\nforth this counterfet module, ha's deceiu'd mee, like a\ndouble-meaning Prophesier\nCap.E. Bring him forth, ha's sate i'th stockes all night\npoore gallant knaue\nBer. No matter, his heeles haue deseru'd it, in vsurping\nhis spurres so long. How does he carry himselfe?\nCap.E. I haue told your Lordship alreadie: The\nstockes carrie him. But to answer you as you would be\nvnderstood, hee weepes like a wench that had shed her\nmilke, he hath confest himselfe to Morgan, whom hee\nsupposes to be a Friar, fro[m] the time of his remembrance\nto this very instant disaster of his setting i'th stockes:\nand what thinke you he hath confest?\nBer. Nothing of me, ha's a?\nCap.E. His confession is taken, and it shall bee read\nto his face, if your Lordshippe be in't, as I beleeue you\nare, you must haue the patience to heare it.\nEnter Parolles with his Interpreter.\nBer. A plague vpon him, muffeld; he can say nothing\nof me: hush, hush\nCap.G. Hoodman comes: Portotartarossa\nInter. He calles for the tortures, what will you say\nwithout em\nPar. I will confesse what I know without constraint,\nIf ye pinch me like a Pasty, I can say no more\nInt. Bosko Chimurcho\nCap. Boblibindo chicurmurco\nInt. You are a mercifull Generall: Our Generall\nbids you answer to what I shall aske you out of a Note\nPar. And truly, as I hope to liue\nInt. First demand of him, how many horse the Duke\nis strong. What say you to that?\nPar. Fiue or sixe thousand, but very weake and vnseruiceable:\nthe troopes are all scattered, and the Commanders\nverie poore rogues, vpon my reputation and\ncredit, and as I hope to liue\nInt. Shall I set downe your answer so?\nPar. Do, Ile take the Sacrament on't, how & which\nway you will: all's one to him\nBer. What a past-sauing slaue is this?\nCap.G. Y'are deceiu'd my Lord, this is Mounsieur\nParrolles the gallant militarist, that was his owne phrase\nthat had the whole theoricke of warre in the knot of his\nscarfe, and the practise in the chape of his dagger\nCap.E. I will neuer trust a man againe, for keeping\nhis sword cleane, nor beleeue he can haue euerie thing\nin him, by wearing his apparrell neatly\nInt. Well, that's set downe\nPar. Fiue or six thousand horse I sed, I will say true,\nor thereabouts set downe, for Ile speake truth\nCap.G. He's very neere the truth in this\nBer. But I con him no thankes for't in the nature he\ndeliuers it\nPar. Poore rogues, I pray you say\nInt. Well, that's set downe\nPar. I humbly thanke you sir, a truth's a truth, the\nRogues are maruailous poore\nInterp. Demaund of him of what strength they are a\nfoot. What say you to that?\nPar. By my troth sir, if I were to liue this present\nhoure, I will tell true. Let me see, Spurio a hundred &\nfiftie, Sebastian so many, Corambus so many, Iaques so\nmany: Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowicke, and Gratij, two hundred\nfiftie each: Mine owne Company, Chitopher, Vaumond,\nBentij, two hundred fiftie each: so that the muster\nfile, rotten and sound, vppon my life amounts not to fifteene\nthousand pole, halfe of the which, dare not shake\nthe snow from off their Cassockes, least they shake themselues\nto peeces\nBer. What shall be done to him?\nCap.G. Nothing, but let him haue thankes. Demand\nof him my condition: and what credite I haue with the\nDuke\nInt. Well that's set downe: you shall demaund of\nhim, whether one Captaine Dumaine bee i'th Campe, a\nFrenchman: what his reputation is with the Duke, what\nhis valour, honestie, and expertnesse in warres: or whether\nhe thinkes it were not possible with well-waighing\nsummes of gold to corrupt him to a reuolt. What say you\nto this? What do you know of it?\nPar. I beseech you let me answer to the particular of\nthe intergatories. Demand them singly\nInt. Do you know this Captaine Dumaine?\nPar. I know him, a was a Botchers Prentize in Paris,\nfrom whence he was whipt for getting the Shrieues fool\nwith childe, a dumbe innocent that could not say him\nnay\nBer. Nay, by your leaue hold your hands, though I\nknow his braines are forfeite to the next tile that fals\nInt. Well, is this Captaine in the Duke of Florences\ncampe?\nPar. Vpon my knowledge he is, and lowsie\nCap.G. Nay looke not so vpon me: we shall heare of\nyour Lord anon\nInt. What is his reputation with the Duke?\nPar. The Duke knowes him for no other, but a poore\nOfficer of mine, and writ to mee this other day, to turne\nhim out a'th band. I thinke I haue his Letter in my pocket\nInt. Marry we'll search\nPar. In good sadnesse I do not know, either it is there,\nor it is vpon a file with the Dukes other Letters, in my\nTent\nInt. Heere 'tis, heere's a paper, shall I reade it to you?\nPar. I do not know if it be it or no\nBer. Our Interpreter do's it well\nCap.G. Excellently\nInt. Dian, the Counts a foole, and full of gold\nPar. That is not the Dukes letter sir: that is an aduertisement\nto a proper maide in Florence, one Diana, to\ntake heede of the allurement of one Count Rossillion, a\nfoolish idle boy: but for all that very ruttish. I pray you\nsir put it vp againe\nInt. Nay, Ile reade it first by your fauour\nPar. My meaning in't I protest was very honest in the\nbehalfe of the maid: for I knew the young Count to be a\ndangerous and lasciuious boy, who is a whale to Virginity,\nand deuours vp all the fry it finds\nBer. Damnable both-sides rogue\nInt.\nLet.\nWhen he sweares oathes, bid him drop gold, and\ntake it:\nAfter he scores, he neuer payes the score:\nHalfe won is match well made, match and well make it,\nHe nere payes after-debts, take it before,\nAnd say a souldier (Dian) told thee this:\nMen are to mell with, boyes are not to kis.\nFor count of this, the Counts a Foole I know it,\nWho payes before, but not when he does owe it.\nThine as he vow'd to thee in thine eare,\nParolles\nBer. He shall be whipt through the Armie with this\nrime in's forehead\nCap.E. This is your deuoted friend sir, the manifold\nLinguist, and the army-potent souldier\nBer. I could endure any thing before but a Cat, and\nnow he's a Cat to me\nInt. I perceiue sir by your Generals lookes, wee shall\nbe faine to hang you\nPar. My life sir in any case: Not that I am afraide to\ndye, but that my offences beeing many, I would repent\nout the remainder of Nature. Let me liue sir in a dungeon,\ni'th stockes, or any where, so I may liue\nInt. Wee'le see what may bee done, so you confesse\nfreely: therefore once more to this Captaine Dumaine:\nyou haue answer'd to his reputation with the Duke, and\nto his valour. What is his honestie?\nPar. He will steale sir an Egge out of a Cloister: for\nrapes and rauishments he paralels Nessus. Hee professes\nnot keeping of oaths, in breaking em he is stronger then\nHercules. He will lye sir, with such volubilitie, that you\nwould thinke truth were a foole: drunkennesse is his best\nvertue, for he will be swine-drunke, and in his sleepe he\ndoes little harme, saue to his bed-cloathes about him:\nbut they know his conditions, and lay him in straw. I\nhaue but little more to say sir of his honesty, he ha's euerie\nthing that an honest man should not haue; what an\nhonest man should haue, he has nothing\nCap.G. I begin to loue him for this\nBer. For this description of thine honestie? A pox\nvpon him for me, he's more and more a Cat\nInt. What say you to his expertnesse in warre?\nPar. Faith sir, ha's led the drumme before the English\nTragedians: to belye him I will not, and more of his\nsouldiership I know not, except in that Country, he had\nthe honour to be the Officer at a place there called Mile-end,\nto instruct for the doubling of files. I would doe the\nman what honour I can, but of this I am not certaine\nCap.G. He hath out-villain'd villanie so farre, that the\nraritie redeemes him\nBer. A pox on him, he's a Cat still\nInt. His qualities being at this poore price, I neede\nnot to aske you, if Gold will corrupt him to reuolt\nPar. Sir, for a Cardceue he will sell the fee-simple of\nhis saluation, the inheritance of it, and cut th' intaile from\nall remainders, and a perpetuall succession for it perpetually\nInt. What's his Brother, the other Captain Dumain?\nCap.E. Why do's he aske him of me?\nInt. What's he?\nPar. E'ne a Crow a'th same nest: not altogether so\ngreat as the first in goodnesse, but greater a great deale in\neuill. He excels his Brother for a coward, yet his Brother\nis reputed one of the best that is. In a retreate hee outrunnes\nany Lackey; marrie in comming on, hee ha's the\nCrampe\nInt. If your life be saued, will you vndertake to betray\nthe Florentine\nPar. I, and the Captaine of his horse, Count Rossillion\nInt. Ile whisper with the Generall, and knowe his\npleasure\nPar. Ile no more drumming, a plague of all drummes,\nonely to seeme to deserue well, and to beguile the supposition\nof that lasciuious yong boy the Count, haue I run\ninto this danger: yet who would haue suspected an ambush\nwhere I was taken?\nInt. There is no remedy sir, but you must dye: the\nGenerall sayes, you that haue so traitorously discouerd\nthe secrets of your army, and made such pestifferous reports\nof men very nobly held, can serue the world for\nno honest vse: therefore you must dye. Come headesman,\noff with his head\nPar. O Lord sir let me liue, or let me see my death\nInt. That shall you, and take your leaue of all your\nfriends:\nSo, looke about you, know you any heere?\nCount. Good morrow noble Captaine\nLo.E. God blesse you Captaine Parolles\nCap.G. God saue you noble Captaine\nLo.E. Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord\nLafew? I am for France\nCap.G. Good Captaine will you giue me a Copy of\nthe sonnet you writ to Diana in behalfe of the Count\nRossillion, and I were not a verie Coward, I'de compell\nit of you, but far you well.\nExeunt.\nInt. You are vndone Captaine all but your scarfe,\nthat has a knot on't yet\nPar. Who cannot be crush'd with a plot?\nInter. If you could finde out a Countrie where but\nwomen were that had receiued so much shame, you\nmight begin an impudent Nation. Fare yee well sir, I\nam for France too, we shall speake of you there.\nExit\nPar. Yet am I thankfull: if my heart were great\n'Twould burst at this: Captaine Ile be no more,\nBut I will eate, and drinke, and sleepe as soft\nAs Captaine shall. Simply the thing I am\nShall make me liue: who knowes himselfe a braggart\nLet him feare this; for it will come to passe,\nThat euery braggart shall be found an Asse.\nRust sword, coole blushes, and Parrolles liue\nSafest in shame: being fool'd, by fool'rie thriue;\nThere's place and meanes for euery man aliue.\nIle after them.\nEnter.\nEnter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana.\nHel. That you may well perceiue I haue not\nwrong'd you,\nOne of the greatest in the Christian world\nShall be my suretie: for whose throne 'tis needfull\nEre I can perfect mine intents, to kneele.\nTime was, I did him a desired office\nDeere almost as his life, which gratitude\nThrough flintie Tartars bosome would peepe forth,\nAnd answer thankes. I duly am inform'd,\nHis grace is at Marcellae, to which place\nWe haue conuenient conuoy: you must know\nI am supposed dead, the Army breaking,\nMy husband hies him home, where heauen ayding,\nAnd by the leaue of my good Lord the King,\nWee'l be before our welcome\nWid. Gentle Madam,\nYou neuer had a seruant to whose trust\nYour busines was more welcome\nHel. Nor your Mistris\nEuer a friend, whose thoughts more truly labour\nTo recompence your loue: Doubt not but heauen\nHath brought me vp to be your daughters dower,\nAs it hath fated her to be my motiue\nAnd helper to a husband. But O strange men,\nThat can such sweet vse make of what they hate,\nWhen sawcie trusting of the cosin'd thoughts\nDefiles the pitchy night, so lust doth play\nWith what it loathes, for that which is away,\nBut more of this heereafter: you Diana,\nVnder my poore instructions yet must suffer\nSomething in my behalfe\nDia. Let death and honestie\nGo with your impositions, I am yours\nVpon your will to suffer\nHel. Yet I pray you:\nBut with the word the time will bring on summer,\nWhen Briars shall haue leaues as well as thornes,\nAnd be as sweet as sharpe: we must away,\nOur Wagon is prepar'd, and time reuiues vs,\nAll's well that ends well, still the fines the Crowne;\nWhat ere the course, the end is the renowne.\nExeunt.\nEnter Clowne, old Lady, and Lafew.\nLaf. No, no, no, your sonne was misled with a snipt\ntaffata fellow there, whose villanous saffron wold haue\nmade all the vnbak'd and dowy youth of a nation in his\ncolour: your daughter-in-law had beene aliue at this\nhoure, and your sonne heere at home, more aduanc'd\nby the King, then by that red-tail'd humble Bee I speak\nof\nLa. I would I had not knowne him, it was the death\nof the most vertuous gentlewoman, that euer Nature\nhad praise for creating. If she had pertaken of my flesh\nand cost mee the deerest groanes of a mother, I could\nnot haue owed her a more rooted loue\nLaf. Twas a good Lady, 'twas a good Lady. Wee\nmay picke a thousand sallets ere wee light on such another\nhearbe\nClo. Indeed sir she was the sweete Margerom of the\nsallet, or rather the hearbe of grace\nLaf. They are not hearbes you knaue, they are nose-hearbes\nClowne. I am no great Nabuchadnezar sir, I haue not\nmuch skill in grace\nLaf. Whether doest thou professe thy selfe, a knaue\nor a foole?\nClo. A foole sir at a womans seruice, and a knaue at a\nmans\nLaf. Your distinction\nClo. I would cousen the man of his wife, and do his\nseruice\nLaf. So you were a knaue at his seruice indeed\nClo. And I would giue his wife my bauble sir to doe\nher seruice\nLaf. I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knaue\nand foole\nClo. At your seruice\nLaf. No, no, no\nClo. Why sir, if I cannot serue you, I can serue as\ngreat a prince as you are\nLaf. Whose that, a Frenchman?\nClo. Faith sir a has an English maine, but his fisnomie\nis more hotter in France then there\nLaf. What prince is that?\nClo. The blacke prince sir, alias the prince of darkenesse,\nalias the diuell\nLaf. Hold thee there's my purse, I giue thee not this\nto suggest thee from thy master thou talk'st off, serue\nhim still\nClo. I am a woodland fellow sir, that alwaies loued\na great fire, and the master I speak of euer keeps a good\nfire, but sure he is the Prince of the world, let his Nobilitie\nremaine in's Court. I am for the house with the\nnarrow gate, which I take to be too little for pompe to\nenter: some that humble themselues may, but the manie\nwill be too chill and tender, and theyle bee for the\nflowrie way that leads to the broad gate, and the great\nfire\nLaf. Go thy waies, I begin to bee a wearie of thee,\nand I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out\nwith thee. Go thy wayes, let my horses be wel look'd\ntoo, without any trickes\nClo. If I put any trickes vpon em sir, they shall bee\nIades trickes, which are their owne right by the law of\nNature.\nExit\nLaf. A shrewd knaue and an vnhappie\nLady. So a is. My Lord that's gone made himselfe\nmuch sport out of him, by his authoritie hee remaines\nheere, which he thinkes is a pattent for his sawcinesse,\nand indeede he has no pace, but runnes where he will\nLaf. I like him well, 'tis not amisse: and I was about\nto tell you, since I heard of the good Ladies death, and\nthat my Lord your sonne was vpon his returne home. I\nmoued the King my master to speake in the behalfe of\nmy daughter, which in the minoritie of them both, his\nMaiestie out of a selfe gracious remembrance did first\npropose, his Highnesse hath promis'd me to doe it, and\nto stoppe vp the displeasure he hath conceiued against\nyour sonne, there is no fitter matter. How do's your\nLadyship like it?\nLa. With verie much content my Lord, and I wish\nit happily effected\nLaf. His Highnesse comes post from Marcellus, of as\nable bodie as when he number'd thirty, a will be heere\nto morrow, or I am deceiu'd by him that in such intelligence\nhath seldome fail'd\nLa. It reioyces me, that I hope I shall see him ere I\ndie. I haue letters that my sonne will be heere to night:\nI shall beseech your Lordship to remaine with mee, till\nthey meete together\nLaf. Madam, I was thinking with what manners I\nmight safely be admitted\nLad. You neede but pleade your honourable priuiledge\nLaf. Ladie, of that I haue made a bold charter, but\nI thanke my God, it holds yet.\nEnter Clowne.\nClo. O Madam, yonders my Lord your sonne with\na patch of veluet on's face, whether there bee a scar vnder't\nor no, the Veluet knowes, but 'tis a goodly patch\nof Veluet, his left cheeke is a cheeke of two pile and a\nhalfe, but his right cheeke is worne bare\nLaf. A scarre nobly got,\nOr a noble scarre, is a good liu'rie of honor,\nSo belike is that\nClo. But it is your carbinado'd face\nLaf. Let vs go see\nyour sonne I pray you, I long to talke\nWith the yong noble souldier\nClowne. 'Faith there's a dozen of em, with delicate\nfine hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the\nhead, and nod at euerie man.\nExeunt.\nActus Quintus.\nEnter Hellen, Widdow, and Diana, with two Attendants.\nHel. But this exceeding posting day and night,\nMust wear your spirits low, we cannot helpe it:\nBut since you haue made the daies and nights as one,\nTo weare your gentle limbes in my affayres,\nBe bold you do so grow in my requitall,\nAs nothing can vnroote you. In happie time,\nEnter a gentle Astringer.\nThis man may helpe me to his Maiesties eare,\nIf he would spend his power. God saue you sir\nGent. And you\nHel. Sir, I haue seene you in the Court of France\nGent. I haue beene sometimes there\nHel. I do presume sir, that you are not falne\nFrom the report that goes vpon your goodnesse,\nAnd therefore goaded with most sharpe occasions,\nWhich lay nice manners by, I put you to\nThe vse of your owne vertues, for the which\nI shall continue thankefull\nGent. What's your will?\nHel. That it will please you\nTo giue this poore petition to the King,\nAnd ayde me with that store of power you haue\nTo come into his presence\nGen. The Kings not heere\nHel. Not heere sir?\nGen. Not indeed,\nHe hence remou'd last night, and with more hast\nThen is his vse\nWid. Lord how we loose our paines\nHel. All's well that ends well yet,\nThough time seeme so aduerse, and meanes vnfit:\nI do beseech you, whither is he gone?\nGent. Marrie as I take it to Rossillion,\nWhither I am going\nHel. I do beseech you sir,\nSince you are like to see the King before me,\nCommend the paper to his gracious hand,\nWhich I presume shall render you no blame,\nBut rather make you thanke your paines for it,\nI will come after you with what good speede\nOur meanes will make vs meanes\nGent. This Ile do for you\nHel. And you shall finde your selfe to be well thankt\nwhat e're falles more. We must to horse againe, Go, go,\nprouide.\nEnter Clowne and Parrolles.\nPar. Good Mr Lauatch giue my Lord Lafew this letter,\nI haue ere now sir beene better knowne to you, when\nI haue held familiaritie with fresher cloathes: but I am\nnow sir muddied in fortunes mood, and smell somewhat\nstrong of her strong displeasure\nClo. Truely, Fortunes displeasure is but sluttish if it\nsmell so strongly as thou speak'st of: I will hencefoorth\neate no Fish of Fortunes butt'ring. Prethee alow the\nwinde\nPar. Nay you neede not to stop your nose sir: I spake\nbut by a Metaphor\nClo. Indeed sir, if your Metaphor stinke, I will stop\nmy nose, or against any mans Metaphor. Prethe get thee\nfurther\nPar. Pray you sir deliuer me this paper\nClo. Foh, prethee stand away: a paper from fortunes\nclose-stoole, to giue to a Nobleman. Looke heere he\ncomes himselfe.\nEnter Lafew.\nClo. Heere is a purre of Fortunes sir, or of Fortunes\nCat, but not a Muscat, that ha's falne into the vncleane\nfish-pond of her displeasure, and as he sayes is muddied\nwithall. Pray you sir, vse the Carpe as you may, for he\nlookes like a poore decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally\nknaue. I doe pittie his distresse in my smiles of comfort,\nand leaue him to your Lordship\nPar. My Lord I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly\nscratch'd\nLaf. And what would you haue me to doe? 'Tis too\nlate to paire her nailes now. Wherein haue you played\nthe knaue with fortune that she should scratch you, who\nof her selfe is a good Lady, and would not haue knaues\nthriue long vnder? There's a Cardecue for you: Let the\nIustices make you and fortune friends; I am for other\nbusinesse\nPar. I beseech your honour to heare mee one single\nword,\nLaf. you begge a single peny more: Come you shall\nha't, saue your word\nPar. My name my good Lord is Parrolles\nLaf. You begge more then word then. Cox my passion,\ngiue me your hand: How does your drumme?\nPar. O my good Lord, you were the first that found\nmee\nLaf. Was I insooth? And I was the first that lost thee\nPar. It lies in you my Lord to bring me in some grace\nfor you did bring me out\nLaf. Out vpon thee knaue, doest thou put vpon mee\nat once both the office of God and the diuel: one brings\nthee in grace, and the other brings thee out. The Kings\ncomming I know by his Trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further\nafter me, I had talke of you last night, though you\nare a foole and a knaue, you shall eate, go too, follow\nPar. I praise God for you.\nFlourish. Enter King, old Lady, Lafew, the two French Lords, with\nattendants.\nKin. We lost a Iewell of her, and our esteeme\nWas made much poorer by it: but your sonne,\nAs mad in folly, lack'd the sence to know\nHer estimation home\nOld La. 'Tis past my Liege,\nAnd I beseech your Maiestie to make it\nNaturall rebellion, done i'th blade of youth,\nWhen oyle and fire, too strong for reasons force,\nOre-beares it, and burnes on\nKin. My honour'd Lady,\nI haue forgiuen and forgotten all,\nThough my reuenges were high bent vpon him,\nAnd watch'd the time to shoote\nLaf. This I must say,\nBut first I begge my pardon: the yong Lord\nDid to his Maiesty, his Mother, and his Ladie,\nOffence of mighty note; but to himselfe\nThe greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife,\nWhose beauty did astonish the suruey\nOf richest eies: whose words all eares tooke captiue,\nWhose deere perfection, hearts that scorn'd to serue,\nHumbly call'd Mistris\nKin. Praising what is lost,\nMakes the remembrance deere. Well, call him hither,\nWe are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill\nAll repetition: Let him not aske our pardon,\nThe nature of his great offence is dead,\nAnd deeper then obliuion, we do burie\nTh' incensing reliques of it. Let him approach\nA stranger, no offender; and informe him\nSo 'tis our will he should\nGent. I shall my Liege\nKin. What sayes he to your daughter,\nHaue you spoke?\nLaf. All that he is, hath reference to your Highnes\nKin. Then shall we haue a match. I haue letters sent\nme, that sets him high in fame.\nEnter Count Bertram.\nLaf. He lookes well on't\nKin. I am not a day of season,\nFor thou maist see a sun-shine, and a haile\nIn me at once: But to the brightest beames\nDistracted clouds giue way, so stand thou forth,\nThe time is faire againe\nBer. My high repented blames\nDeere Soueraigne pardon to me\nKin. All is whole,\nNot one word more of the consumed time,\nLet's take the instant by the forward top:\nFor we are old, and on our quick'st decrees\nTh' inaudible, and noiselesse foot of time\nSteales, ere we can effect them. You remember\nThe daughter of this Lord?\nBer. Admiringly my Liege, at first\nI stucke my choice vpon her, ere my heart\nDurst make too bold a herauld of my tongue:\nWhere the impression of mine eye enfixing,\nContempt his scornfull Perspectiue did lend me,\nWhich warpt the line, of euerie other fauour,\nScorn'd a faire colour, or exprest it stolne,\nExtended or contracted all proportions\nTo a most hideous obiect. Thence it came,\nThat she whom all men prais'd, and whom my selfe,\nSince I haue lost, haue lou'd; was in mine eye\nThe dust that did offend it\nKin. Well excus'd:\nThat thou didst loue her, strikes some scores away\nFrom the great compt: but loue that comes too late,\nLike a remorsefull pardon slowly carried\nTo the great sender, turnes a sowre offence,\nCrying, that's good that's gone: Our rash faults,\nMake triuiall price of serious things we haue,\nNot knowing them, vntill we know their graue.\nOft our displeasures to our selues vniust,\nDestroy our friends, and after weepe their dust:\nOur owne loue waking, cries to see what's done,\nWhile shamefull hate sleepes out the afternoone.\nBe this sweet Helens knell, and now forget her.\nSend forth your amorous token for faire Maudlin,\nThe maine consents are had, and heere wee'l stay\nTo see our widdowers second marriage day:\nWhich better then the first, O deere heauen blesse,\nOr, ere they meete in me, O Nature cesse\nLaf. Come on my sonne, in whom my houses name\nMust be digested: giue a fauour from you\nTo sparkle in the spirits of my daughter,\nThat she may quickly come. By my old beard,\nAnd eu'rie haire that's on't, Helen that's dead\nWas a sweet creature: such a ring as this,\nThe last that ere I tooke her leaue at Court,\nI saw vpon her finger\nBer. Hers it was not\nKing. Now pray you let me see it. For mine eye,\nWhile I was speaking, oft was fasten'd too't:\nThis Ring was mine, and when I gaue it Hellen,\nI bad her if her fortunes euer stoode\nNecessitied to helpe, that by this token\nI would releeue her. Had you that craft to reaue her\nOf what should stead her most?\nBer. My gracious Soueraigne,\nHow ere it pleases you to take it so,\nThe ring was neuer hers\nOld La. Sonne, on my life\nI haue seene her weare it, and she reckon'd it\nAt her liues rate\nLaf. I am sure I saw her weare it\nBer. You are deceiu'd my Lord, she neuer saw it:\nIn Florence was it from a casement throwne mee,\nWrap'd in a paper, which contain'd the name\nOf her that threw it: Noble she was, and thought\nI stood ingag'd, but when I had subscrib'd\nTo mine owne fortune, and inform'd her fully,\nI could not answer in that course of Honour\nAs she had made the ouerture, she ceast\nIn heauie satisfaction, and would neuer\nReceiue the Ring againe\nKin. Platus himselfe,\nThat knowes the tinct and multiplying med'cine,\nHath not in natures mysterie more science,\nThen I haue in this Ring. 'Twas mine, 'twas Helens,\nWho euer gaue it you: then if you know\nThat you are well acquainted with your selfe,\nConfesse 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement\nYou got it from her. She call'd the Saints to suretie,\nThat she would neuer put it from her finger,\nVnlesse she gaue it to your selfe in bed,\nWhere you haue neuer come: or sent it vs\nVpon her great disaster\nBer. She neuer saw it\nKin. Thou speak'st it falsely: as I loue mine Honor,\nAnd mak'st connecturall feares to come into me,\nWhich I would faine shut out, if it should proue\nThat thou art so inhumane, 'twill not proue so:\nAnd yet I know not, thou didst hate her deadly,\nAnd she is dead, which nothing but to close\nHer eyes my selfe, could win me to beleeue,\nMore then to see this Ring. Take him away,\nMy fore-past proofes, how ere the matter fall\nShall taze my feares of little vanitie,\nHauing vainly fear'd too little. Away with him,\nWee'l sift this matter further\nBer. If you shall proue\nThis Ring was euer hers, you shall as easie\nProue that I husbanded her bed in Florence,\nWhere yet she neuer was.\nEnter a Gentleman.\nKing. I am wrap'd in dismall thinkings\nGen. Gracious Soueraigne.\nWhether I haue beene too blame or no, I know not,\nHere's a petition from a Florentine,\nWho hath for foure or fiue remoues come short,\nTo tender it her selfe. I vndertooke it,\nVanquish'd thereto by the faire grace and speech\nOf the poore suppliant, who by this I know\nIs heere attending: her businesse lookes in her\nWith an importing visage, and she told me\nIn a sweet verball breefe, it did concerne\nYour Highnesse with her selfe.\nA Letter.\nVpon his many protestations to marrie mee when his wife was\ndead, I blush to say it, he wonne me. Now is the Count Rossillion\na Widdower, his vowes are forfeited to mee, and my\nhonors payed to him. Hee stole from Florence, taking no\nleaue, and I follow him to his Countrey for Iustice: Grant\nit me, O King, in you it best lies, otherwise a seducer flourishes,\nand a poore Maid is vndone.\nDiana Capilet\nLaf. I will buy me a sonne in Law in a faire, and toule\nfor this. Ile none of him\nKin. The heauens haue thought well on thee Lafew,\nTo bring forth this discou'rie, seeke these sutors:\nGo speedily, and bring againe the Count.\nEnter Bertram.\nI am a-feard the life of Hellen (Ladie)\nWas fowly snatcht\nOld La. Now iustice on the doers\nKing. I wonder sir, sir, wiues are monsters to you,\nAnd that you flye them as you sweare them Lordship,\nYet you desire to marry. What woman's that?\nEnter Widdow, Diana, and Parrolles.\nDia. I am my Lord a wretched Florentine,\nDeriued from the ancient Capilet,\nMy suite as I do vnderstand you know,\nAnd therefore know how farre I may be pittied\nWid. I am her Mother sir, whose age and honour\nBoth suffer vnder this complaint we bring,\nAnd both shall cease, without your remedie\nKing. Come hether Count, do you know these Women?\nBer. My Lord, I neither can nor will denie,\nBut that I know them, do they charge me further?\nDia. Why do you looke so strange vpon your wife?\nBer. She's none of mine my Lord\nDia. If you shall marrie\nYou giue away this hand, and that is mine,\nYou giue away heauens vowes, and those are mine:\nYou giue away my selfe, which is knowne mine:\nFor I by vow am so embodied yours,\nThat she which marries you, must marrie me,\nEither both or none\nLaf. Your reputation comes too short for my daughter,\nyou are no husband for her\nBer. My Lord, this is a fond and desp'rate creature,\nWhom sometime I haue laugh'd with: Let your highnes\nLay a more noble thought vpon mine honour,\nThen for to thinke that I would sinke it heere\nKin. Sir for my thoughts, you haue them il to friend,\nTill your deeds gaine them fairer: proue your honor,\nThen in my thought it lies\nDian. Good my Lord,\nAske him vpon his oath, if hee do's thinke\nHe had not my virginity\nKin. What saist thou to her?\nBer. She's impudent my Lord,\nAnd was a common gamester to the Campe\nDia. He do's me wrong my Lord: If I were so,\nHe might haue bought me at a common price.\nDo not beleeue him. O behold this Ring,\nWhose high respect and rich validitie\nDid lacke a Paralell: yet for all that\nHe gaue it to a Commoner a'th Campe\nIf I be one\nCoun. He blushes, and 'tis hit:\nOf sixe preceding Ancestors that Iemme\nConfer'd by testament to'th sequent issue\nHath it beene owed and worne. This is his wife,\nThat Ring's a thousand proofes\nKing. Me thought you saide\nYou saw one heere in Court could witnesse it\nDia. I did my Lord, but loath am to produce\nSo bad an instrument, his names Parrolles\nLaf. I saw the man to day, if man he bee\nKin. Finde him, and bring him hether\nRos. What of him:\nHe's quoted for a most perfidious slaue\nWith all the spots a'th world, taxt and debosh'd,\nWhose nature sickens: but to speake a truth,\nAm I, or that or this for what he'l vtter,\nThat will speake any thing\nKin. She hath that Ring of yours\nRos. I thinke she has; certaine it is I lyk'd her,\nAnd boorded her i'th wanton way of youth:\nShe knew her distance, and did angle for mee,\nMadding my eagernesse with her restraint,\nAs all impediments in fancies course\nAre motiues of more fancie, and in fine,\nHer insuite comming with her moderne grace,\nSubdu'd me to her rate, she got the Ring,\nAnd I had that which any inferiour might\nAt Market price haue bought\nDia. I must be patient:\nYou that haue turn'd off a first so noble wife,\nMay iustly dyet me. I pray you yet,\n(Since you lacke vertue, I will loose a husband)\nSend for your Ring, I will returne it home,\nAnd giue me mine againe\nRos. I haue it not\nKin. What Ring was yours I pray you?\nDian. Sir much like the same vpon your finger\nKin. Know you this Ring, this Ring was his of late\nDia. And this was it I gaue him being a bed\nKin. The story then goes false, you threw it him\nOut of a Casement\nDia. I haue spoke the truth.\nEnter Parolles.\nRos. My Lord, I do confesse the ring was hers\nKin. You boggle shrewdly, euery feather starts you:\nIs this the man you speake of?\nDia. I, my Lord\nKin. Tell me sirrah, but tell me true I charge you,\nNot fearing the displeasure of your master:\nWhich on your iust proceeding, Ile keepe off,\nBy him and by this woman heere, what know you?\nPar. So please your Maiesty, my master hath bin an\nhonourable Gentleman. Trickes hee hath had in him,\nwhich Gentlemen haue\nKin. Come, come, to'th' purpose: Did hee loue this\nwoman?\nPar. Faith sir he did loue her, but how\nKin. How I pray you?\nPar. He did loue her sir, as a Gent. loues a Woman\nKin. How is that?\nPar. He lou'd her sir, and lou'd her not\nKin. As thou art a knaue and no knaue, what an equiuocall\nCompanion is this?\nPar. I am a poore man, and at your Maiesties command\nLaf. Hee's a good drumme my Lord, but a naughtie\nOrator\nDian. Do you know he promist me marriage?\nPar. Faith I know more then Ile speake\nKin. But wilt thou not speake all thou know'st?\nPar. Yes so please your Maiesty: I did goe betweene\nthem as I said, but more then that he loued her, for indeede\nhe was madde for her, and talkt of Sathan, and of\nLimbo, and of Furies, and I know not what: yet I was in\nthat credit with them at that time, that I knewe of their\ngoing to bed, and of other motions, as promising her\nmarriage, and things which would deriue mee ill will to\nspeake of, therefore I will not speake what I know\nKin. Thou hast spoken all alreadie, vnlesse thou canst\nsay they are maried, but thou art too fine in thy euidence,\ntherefore stand aside. This Ring you say was yours\nDia. I my good Lord\nKin. Where did you buy it? Or who gaue it you?\nDia. It was not giuen me, nor I did not buy it\nKin. Who lent it you?\nDia. It was not lent me neither\nKin. Where did you finde it then?\nDia. I found it not\nKin. If it were yours by none of all these wayes,\nHow could you giue it him?\nDia. I neuer gaue it him\nLaf. This womans an easie gloue my Lord, she goes\noff and on at pleasure\nKin. This Ring was mine, I gaue it his first wife\nDia. It might be yours or hers for ought I know\nKin. Take her away, I do not like her now,\nTo prison with her: and away with him,\nVnlesse thou telst me where thou hadst this Ring,\nThou diest within this houre\nDia. Ile neuer tell you\nKin. Take her away\nDia. Ile put in baile my liedge\nKin. I thinke thee now some common Customer\nDia. By Ioue if euer I knew man 'twas you\nKing. Wherefore hast thou accusde him al this while\nDia. Because he's guiltie, and he is not guilty:\nHe knowes I am no Maid, and hee'l sweare too't:\nIle sweare I am a Maid, and he knowes not.\nGreat King I am no strumpet, by my life,\nI am either Maid, or else this old mans wife\nKin. She does abuse our eares, to prison with her\nDia. Good mother fetch my bayle. Stay Royall sir,\nThe Ieweller that owes the Ring is sent for,\nAnd he shall surety me. But for this Lord,\nWho hath abus'd me as he knowes himselfe,\nThough yet he neuer harm'd me, heere I quit him.\nHe knowes himselfe my bed he hath defil'd,\nAnd at that time he got his wife with childe:\nDead though she be, she feeles her yong one kicke:\nSo there's my riddle, one that's dead is quicke,\nAnd now behold the meaning.\nEnter Hellen and Widdow.\nKin. Is there no exorcist\nBeguiles the truer Office of mine eyes?\nIs't reall that I see?\nHel. No my good Lord,\n'Tis but the shadow of a wife you see,\nThe name, and not the thing\nRos. Both, both, O pardon\nHel. Oh my good Lord, when I was like this Maid,\nI found you wondrous kinde, there is your Ring,\nAnd looke you, heeres your letter: this it sayes,\nWhen from my finger you can get this Ring,\nAnd is by me with childe, &c. This is done,\nWill you be mine now you are doubly wonne?\nRos. If she my Liege can make me know this clearly,\nIle loue her dearely, euer, euer dearly\nHel. If it appeare not plaine, and proue vntrue,\nDeadly diuorce step betweene me and you.\nO my deere mother do I see you liuing?\nLaf. Mine eyes smell Onions, I shall weepe anon:\nGood Tom Drumme lend me a handkercher.\nSo I thanke thee, waite on me home, Ile make sport with\nthee: Let thy curtsies alone, they are scuruy ones\nKing. Let vs from point to point this storie know,\nTo make the euen truth in pleasure flow:\nIf thou beest yet a fresh vncropped flower,\nChoose thou thy husband, and Ile pay thy dower.\nFor I can guesse, that by thy honest ayde,\nThou keptst a wife her selfe, thy selfe a Maide.\nOf that and all the progresse more and lesse,\nResoluedly more leasure shall expresse:\nAll yet seemes well, and if it end so meete,\nThe bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.\nFlourish.\nThe Kings a Begger, now the Play is done,\nAll is well ended, if this suite be wonne,\nThat you expresse Content: which we will pay,\nWith strife to please you, day exceeding day:\nOurs be your patience then, and yours our parts,\nYour gentle hands lend vs, and take our hearts.\nExeunt. omn.\nFINIS. ALL'S Well, that Ends Well.","title":"All's Well, that Ends Well","type":"page"}