Leon. Call her forth, brother, here's the friar D. Pedro. Good morrow, That you have such a February face, Claud. I think, he thinks upon the savage bull:-- When he would play the noble beast in love. Bene. Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low; Which is the lady I must seize upon? Ant. This same is she, and I do give you her. Leon. No, that you shall not, till you take her Claud. Give me your hand before this holy D. Pedro. The former Hero! Hero that is dead! Friar. All this amazement can I qualify; Bene. Soft and fair, friar.-Which is Beatrice? Bene. Do not you love me? Beat. No, no more than reason. Bene. 'Tis no such matter.-Then, you do not love me? Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman. [her; Claud. And I'll be sworn upon't, that he loves Hero. And here's another, Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocket, Bene. A miracle! here's our own hands against our hearts!-Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity. Beat. I would not deny you;-but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion; and, partly, to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption. Bene. Peace, I will stop your mouth. [kissing ler. D. Pedro. How dost thou, Benedick, the married man? Bene. I'll tell thee what, prince; a college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour: dost thou think, I care for a satire, or an epigram? No: if a man will be beaten with brains, he shall wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.-For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee; but, in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruised, and love my cousin. Claud. I had well hoped, thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double dealer; which, out of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look exceedingly narrowly to thee. Bene. Come, come, we are friends:-let's have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts, and our wives' heels. Leon. We'll have dancing afterwards Bene. First, o'my word; therefore play, music. Be. Why, then, your uncle, and the prince,-Prince, thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee and Claudio, Have been deceived; for they swore you did. Bene. No, no more than reason. [Ursula, a wife: there is no staff more reverend than one tipp'd with horn. Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord, your brother John is ta'en in And brought with armed men back to Messina. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. King of France. Duke of Florence. Bertram, Count of Rousillon. Lafeu, an old lord. Parolles, a follower of Bertram. DRAMATIS PERSONE. Countess of Rousillon, mother to Bertram. Helena, a gentlewoman protected by the countess An old widow of Florence. Diana, daughter to the widow. Violenta, Several young French lords, that serve with Bertram in the Mariana, neighbours and friends to the widow. Florentine war. Steward,7 servants to the Countess of Rousillon. Lords, attending on the king; officers, soldiers, &c. Frenck and Florentine. SCENE-Partly in France, and partly in Tuscany. ACT I. SCENE I. ROUSILLON. A ROOM IN THE COUNTESS'S PALACE. Enter Bertram, the Countess of Rousillon, Helena, and Lafeu, in mourning." Count. In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband. Ber. And I, in going, madam, weep o'er my father's death anew: but I must attend his majesty's command, to whom I am now in ward, evermore in subjection. Laf. You shall find of the king a husband, madam ;—you, sir, a father. He that so generally is at all times good, must of necessity hold his virtue to you; whose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted, rather than lack it where there is such abundance. Count. What hope is there of his majesty's amendment? Laf. He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; under whose practices he hath persecuted time with hope and finds no other advantage in the process, but only the losing of hope by time. : Laf. I would, it were not notorious.-Was this gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbou? Count. His sole child, my lord; and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good, that her education promises: her dispositions she inherits, which make fair gifts fairer: for where an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity, they are virtues and traitors too; in her they are the better for their simpleness; she derives her honesty, and achieves her goodness. Laf. Your commendations, madam, get from her tears. 1. Count. 'Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father never approaches her heart, but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena, go to, no more; lest it be rather thought you affect a sorrow, than to have. Hel. I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too. Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living. Count. If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal. Ber. Madam, I desire your holy wishes. Count. Be thou bless'd, Bertram! and succeed In manners, as in shape' thy blood, and virtue, That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck Fall on thy head! Farewell.-My lord, Laf. He cannot want the best Count. Heaven bless him!-Farewell, Bertram. [exit Countess. Ber. The best wishes, that can be forged in your thoughts, [to Helena,] be servants to you! Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her. Laf. Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the credit of your father. [exeunt Bertram and Lafeu. Hel. O, were that all!-I think not on my father: And these great tears grace his remembrance more One that goes with him: I love him for his sake; Par. No. Hel. And no. Par. Are you meditating on virginity? Hel. Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you; let me ask you a question.-Man is enemy to virginity; how may we barricado it against him? Par. Keep him out. Hel. But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant in the defence, yet is weak: unfold to us some warlike resistance. Par. There is none; man, sitting down before you, will undermine you, and blow you up. Hel. Bless our poor virginity from underminers, and blowers up!-Is there no military policy, how virgins might blow up men? were made of; is metal to make virgins. Virginity, by being once lost, may be ten times found: by being ever kept, it is ever lost; 'tis too cold a companion; away with it. Hel. I will stand for't a little, though therefore I die a virgin. Par. There's little can be said in't: 'tis against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity, is to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He, that hangs himself, is a virgin virginity murders itself; and should be buried in highways, out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese; consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but lose by't: Out with't: within ten years it will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase; and the principal i elf not much the worse: Away with't. Hel. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking? Par. Let me see: marry, ill, to like him that ne'er it likes. 'Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with lying: the longer kept, the less worth: off with't, while 'tis vendible answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion; richly suited, but unsuitable: just like the brooch and tooth pick, which wear not now. Your date is better in your pie and your porridge, than in your cheek and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French withered pears; it looks ill, it eats dryly; marry, 'tis a withered pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet 'tis a withered pear.-Will you any thing with it? Hel. Not my virginity yet. There shall your master have a thousand loves, Hel. That I wish well.-'Tis pity- Hel. That wishing well had not a body in't, Par. Virginity being blown down, man will Enter a Page. Page. Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you. [exit Page. Par. Little Helen, farewell: If I can remember thee, Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were born under! A nursery to our gentry, who are sick charitable star. Pur. Under Mars, I. Hel. I especially think, under Mars. Par. Why under Mars? For breathing and exploit. King. What's he comes here? 1 Lord. It is the count Rousillon, my good [lord, Hel. The wars have so kept you under, that Young Bertram. you inust needs be born under Mars, Par. When he was predominant. Hel. When he was retrograde, I think, rather. Hel. You go so much backward, when you fight. Hel. So is running away, when fear proposes the safety. But the composition, that your valour and fear makes in you, is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well. Par. I am so full of businesses, I cannot answer thee acutely: I will return perfect courtier; in the which, my instruction shall serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier's counsel, and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away: farewell. When thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember thy friends: get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee: so, farewell. [exit. Hel. Our remedies oft' in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky Gives us free scope; only, doth backward pull Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull. What power is it, which mounts my love so high; That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye? The mightiest space in fortune nature brings To join like likes, and kiss like native things. Impossible be strange attempts, to those That weigh their pains in sense; and do suppose Who hath been cannot be. Who ever strove To show her merit, that did miss her love? The king's disease-my project may deceive me, But my intents are fix'd, and will not leave me. [exit. SCENE II. PARIS. A ROOM IN THE KING'S PALACE. Flourish of cornets. Enter the King of France, with letters; Lords and others attending. King. The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears; Have fought with equal fortune, and continue A braving war. 1 Lord. So 'tis reported, sir. King. Youth, thou bear'st thy father's face; Frank nature, rather curious than in haste, [parts Hath well compos'd thee. Thy father's moral May'st thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris. Ber. My thanks and duty are your majesty's King. I would I had that corporal soundness now, As when thy father, and myself, in friendship, In their poor praise be humbled. Such a man Ber. His good remembrance, sir, [always say. King. 'Would, I were with him! He would King. Nay, 'tis most credible; we here receive Of but new things disdain: whose judgments are it A certainty, vouch'd from our cousin Austria, 1 Lord. His love and wisdom, Approv'd so to your majesty, may plead For amplest credence. King. He bath arm'd our answer, 2 Lord. It may well serve Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies Since I nor wax, nor honey, can bring home, To give some labourers room. 2 Lord. You are lov'd, sir; They, that least lend it you, shall lack you first. King. I fill a place, I know't.-How long is't, Since the physician at your father's died? [count, He was much fam'd. Ber. Some six months since, my lord. King. If he were living, I would try him yet;— Lend me an arm ;-the rest have worn me out With several applications:-nature and sickness COUNTESS'S PALACE. Enter Countess, Steward, and Clown. Count. I will now hear: what say you of this gentlewoman? Stew. Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty, and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them. Count. What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah: The complaints, I have heard of you, I do not all believe; 'tis my slowness, that I lo not: for, I know, you lack not the folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours. Clo. 'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow. Count. Well, sir. Clo. No, madam, 'tis not so well, that I am poor; though many of the rich are damned. But, if I may have your ladyship's good will to go to the world, Isbel, the woman, and I, will do as we may. Count. Wilt thou needs be a beggar? Clo. In Isbel's case, and mine own. Service is no heritage and, I think, I shall never have the blessing of God, till I have issue of my body; for, they say, bearns are blessings. Count. Tell me thy reason, why thou wilt marry. Clo. My poor body, madam, requires it; I am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs go, that the devil drives. Count. Is this all your worship's reason? Clo. Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are. Count. May the world know them? Clo. I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry that I may repent. [ness. Count. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedClo. I am out of friends, madam; and I hope to have friends for my wife's sake. Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave. Clo. You are shallow, madam; e'en great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am a-weary of. He, that ears my land, spares my team, and gives me leave to inn the crop; if I be his cuckold, he's my drudge: he, that comforts my wife, is the cherisher of my flesh and blood: he, that cherishes my flesh and blood, loves my flesh and blood: he, that loves my flesh and blood, is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife, is my friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage; for young Charbon, the Puritan, and old Poysam, the Papist, howsoe'er their hearts are severed in religion, their heads are both one, they may joll horns together, like any deer i'the herd. Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and Orlumnious knave? Clo. A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way: For I the ballad will repeat, Which men full true shall find; Your marriage comes by destiny, Count. Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you more anon. Stew. May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you; of her I am to speak. Count. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman, I would speak with her: Helen, I mean. Clo. Was this fair face the cause, quoth she, [singing. Was this King Priam's joy. And gave this sentence then; Count. What, one good in ten? you corrupt the song, sirrah? Clo. One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying o' the song. 'Would God would serve the world so all the year! we'd find no fault with the tythe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth a'! and we might have a good woman born but every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well; a man may draw his heart out, ere he pluck one. Count. You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you? Clo. That man should be at woman's command, and yet no hurt done!-Though honesty be no Puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart.—I am going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither. [exit Clown. Count. Well, now. Stew. I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely. Count. Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to me; and she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds: there is more owing her, than is paid; and more shall be paid her, than she'll demand. Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her than, I think, she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate to herself, her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son: Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love, no god, that would not extend his might, only where qualities were level; Diana, no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight to be surprised, without rescue, in the first assault, or ransom afterward. This she delivered in the most bitter touch of sorrow, that e'er I heard virgin exclaim in: which I held my duty, speedily to acquaint you withal; sithence in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it. Count. You have discharged this honestly; keep it to yourself: many likelihoods informed me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance, that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pra |