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1. Act I, Scene 1
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0
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Rousillon. The COUNT’s palace.
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1
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Enter BERTRAM, the COUNTESS of Rousillon, HELENA,] [p]and LAFEU, all in black]
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2
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Countess.
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In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.
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4
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Bertram.
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And I in going, madam, weep o'er my father's death
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anew: but I must attend his majesty's command, to
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whom I am now in ward, evermore in subjection.
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8
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Lafeu.
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9
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You shall find of the king a husband, madam; you,
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sir, a father: he that so generally is at all times
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good must of necessity hold his virtue to you; whose
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worthiness would stir it up where it wanted rather
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than lack it where there is such abundance.
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Countess.
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What hope is there of his majesty's amendment?
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Lafeu.
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He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; under whose
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practises he hath persecuted time with hope, and
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finds no other advantage in the process but only the
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losing of hope by time.
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Countess.
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This young gentlewoman had a father,—O, that
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'had'! how sad a passage 'tis!—whose skill was
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almost as great as his honesty; had it stretched so
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far, would have made nature immortal, and death
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should have play for lack of work. Would, for the
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king's sake, he were living! I think it would be
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the death of the king's disease.
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Lafeu.
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How called you the man you speak of, madam?
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Countess.
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He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was
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his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon.
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Lafeu.
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He was excellent indeed, madam: the king very
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lately spoke of him admiringly and mourningly: he
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was skilful enough to have lived still, if knowledge
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could be set up against mortality.
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Bertram.
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40
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What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of?
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Lafeu.
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A fistula, my lord.
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Bertram.
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I heard not of it before.
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Lafeu.
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I would it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman
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the daughter of Gerard de Narbon?
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Countess.
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His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my
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overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that
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her education promises; her dispositions she
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inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where
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an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there
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commendations go with pity; they are virtues and
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traitors too; in her they are the better for their
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simpleness; she derives her honesty and achieves her goodness.
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Lafeu.
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Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.
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Countess.
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'Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise
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in. The remembrance of her father never approaches
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her heart but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all
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livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena;
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go to, no more; lest it be rather thought you affect
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a sorrow than have it.
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Helena.
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I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too.
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Lafeu.
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Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead,
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excessive grief the enemy to the living.
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Countess.
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If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess
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makes it soon mortal.
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Bertram.
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Madam, I desire your holy wishes.
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Lafeu.
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How understand we that?
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Countess.
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Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy father
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In manners, as in shape! thy blood and virtue
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Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness
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Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few,
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Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy
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Rather in power than use, and keep thy friend
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Under thy own life's key: be cheque'd for silence,
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But never tax'd for speech. What heaven more will,
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That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down,
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Fall on thy head! Farewell, my lord;
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'Tis an unseason'd courtier; good my lord,
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Advise him.
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Lafeu.
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He cannot want the best
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That shall attend his love.
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Countess.
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Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram.
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[Exit]
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Bertram.
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[To HELENA]The best wishes that can be forged in
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your thoughts be servants to you! Be comfortable
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to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her.
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Lafeu.
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Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the credit of
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your father.
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[Exeunt BERTRAM and LAFEU]
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Helena.
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O, were that all! I think not on my father;
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And these great tears grace his remembrance more
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Than those I shed for him. What was he like?
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I have forgot him: my imagination
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Carries no favour in't but Bertram's.
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I am undone: there is no living, none,
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If Bertram be away. 'Twere all one
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That I should love a bright particular star
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And think to wed it, he is so above me:
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In his bright radiance and collateral light
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Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
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The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
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The hind that would be mated by the lion
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Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though plague,
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To see him every hour; to sit and draw
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His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
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In our heart's table; heart too capable
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Of every line and trick of his sweet favour:
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But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
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Must sanctify his reliques. Who comes here?
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[Enter PAROLLES]
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[Aside]
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One that goes with him: I love him for his sake;
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And yet I know him a notorious liar,
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Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;
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Yet these fixed evils sit so fit in him,
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That they take place, when virtue's steely bones
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Look bleak i' the cold wind: withal, full oft we see
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Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
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Parolles.
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Save you, fair queen!
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Helena.
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And you, monarch!
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Parolles.
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No.
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Helena.
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142
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And no.
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Parolles.
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Are you meditating on virginity?
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Helena.
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Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you: let me
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ask you a question. Man is enemy to virginity; how
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may we barricado it against him?
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Parolles.
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Keep him out.
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Helena.
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But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant,
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in the defence yet is weak: unfold to us some
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warlike resistance.
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Parolles.
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There is none: man, sitting down before you, will
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undermine you and blow you up.
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Helena.
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Bless our poor virginity from underminers and
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blowers up! Is there no military policy, how
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virgins might blow up men?
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Parolles.
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Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be
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blown up: marry, in blowing him down again, with
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the breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It
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is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to
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preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational
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increase and there was never virgin got till
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virginity was first lost. That you were made of is
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metal to make virgins. Virginity by being once lost
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may be ten times found; by being ever kept, it is
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ever lost: 'tis too cold a companion; away with 't!
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Helena.
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I will stand for 't a little, though therefore I die a virgin.
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Parolles.
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There's little can be said in 't; 'tis against the
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rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity,
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is to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible
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disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin:
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virginity murders itself and should be buried in
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highways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate
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offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites,
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much like a cheese; consumes itself to the very
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paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach.
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Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of
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self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the
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canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but loose
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by't: out with 't! within ten year it will make
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itself ten, which is a goodly increase; and the
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principal itself not much the worse: away with 't!
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Helena.
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How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?
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Parolles.
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Let me see: marry, ill, to like him that ne'er it
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likes. 'Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with
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lying; the longer kept, the less worth: off with 't
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while 'tis vendible; answer the time of request.
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Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out
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of fashion: richly suited, but unsuitable: just
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like the brooch and the tooth-pick, which wear not
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now. Your date is better in your pie and your
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202
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porridge than in your cheek; and your virginity,
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your old virginity, is like one of our French
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withered pears, it looks ill, it eats drily; marry,
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'tis a withered pear; it was formerly better;
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marry, yet 'tis a withered pear: will you anything with it?
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Helena.
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Not my virginity yet[—]
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There shall your master have a thousand loves,
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A mother and a mistress and a friend,
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A phoenix, captain and an enemy,
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A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,
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A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear;
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His humble ambition, proud humility,
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His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet,
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His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world
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Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms,
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That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he—
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I know not what he shall. God send him well!
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The court's a learning place, and he is one—
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Parolles.
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What one, i' faith?
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Helena.
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That I wish well. 'Tis pity—
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Parolles.
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226
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What's pity?
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Helena.
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That wishing well had not a body in't,
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Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born,
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Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,
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Might with effects of them follow our friends,
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And show what we alone must think, which never
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Return us thanks.
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[Enter Page]
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235
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Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.
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236
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[Exit]
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Parolles.
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Little Helen, farewell; if I can remember thee, I
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will think of thee at court.
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240
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Helena.
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241
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Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.
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Parolles.
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243
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Under Mars, I.
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244
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Helena.
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245
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I especially think, under Mars.
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Parolles.
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Why under Mars?
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248
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Helena.
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249
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The wars have so kept you under that you must needs
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be born under Mars.
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Parolles.
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252
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When he was predominant.
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253
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Helena.
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254
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When he was retrograde, I think, rather.
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255
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Parolles.
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256
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Why think you so?
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257
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Helena.
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258
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You go so much backward when you fight.
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259
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Parolles.
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That's for advantage.
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Helena.
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262
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So is running away, when fear proposes the safety;
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but the composition that your valour and fear makes
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in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well.
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Parolles.
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266
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I am so full of businesses, I cannot answer thee
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267
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acutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the
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which, my instruction shall serve to naturalize
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thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier's
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counsel and understand what advice shall thrust upon
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thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and
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thine ignorance makes thee away: farewell. When
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thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast
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none, remember thy friends; get thee a good husband,
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and use him as he uses thee; so, farewell.
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276
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[Exit]
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277
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Helena.
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278
|
|
|
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
|
|
279
|
|
|
Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky
|
|
280
|
|
|
Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull
|
|
281
|
|
|
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.
|
|
282
|
|
|
What power is it which mounts my love so high,
|
|
283
|
|
|
That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?
|
|
284
|
|
|
The mightiest space in fortune nature brings
|
|
285
|
|
|
To join like likes and kiss like native things.
|
|
286
|
|
|
Impossible be strange attempts to those
|
|
287
|
|
|
That weigh their pains in sense and do suppose
|
|
288
|
|
|
What hath been cannot be: who ever strove
|
|
289
|
|
|
So show her merit, that did miss her love?
|
|
290
|
|
|
The king's disease—my project may deceive me,
|
|
291
|
|
|
But my intents are fix'd and will not leave me.
|
| |
|
292
|
|
|
[Exit]
|
| |
| |
|
2. Act I, Scene 2
|
|
0
|
|
|
Paris. The KING’s palace.
|
| |
|
1
|
|
|
Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING of France,] [p]with letters, and divers Attendants]
|
| |
|
2
|
|
|
King of France.
|
|
3
|
|
|
The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears;
|
|
4
|
|
|
Have fought with equal fortune and continue
|
|
5
|
|
|
A braving war.
|
|
6
|
|
|
First Lord.
|
|
7
|
|
|
So 'tis reported, sir.
|
|
8
|
|
|
King of France.
|
|
9
|
|
|
Nay, 'tis most credible; we here received it
|
|
10
|
|
|
A certainty, vouch'd from our cousin Austria,
|
|
11
|
|
|
With caution that the Florentine will move us
|
|
12
|
|
|
For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend
|
|
13
|
|
|
Prejudicates the business and would seem
|
|
14
|
|
|
To have us make denial.
|
|
15
|
|
|
First Lord.
|
|
16
|
|
|
His love and wisdom,
|
|
17
|
|
|
Approved so to your majesty, may plead
|
|
18
|
|
|
For amplest credence.
|
|
19
|
|
|
King of France.
|
|
20
|
|
|
He hath arm'd our answer,
|
|
21
|
|
|
And Florence is denied before he comes:
|
|
22
|
|
|
Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see
|
|
23
|
|
|
The Tuscan service, freely have they leave
|
|
24
|
|
|
To stand on either part.
|
|
25
|
|
|
Second Lord.
|
|
26
|
|
|
It well may serve
|
|
27
|
|
|
A nursery to our gentry, who are sick
|
|
28
|
|
|
For breathing and exploit.
|
|
29
|
|
|
King of France.
|
|
30
|
|
|
What's he comes here?
|
| |
|
31
|
|
|
[Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES]
|
| |
|
32
|
|
|
First Lord.
|
|
33
|
|
|
It is the Count Rousillon, my good lord,
|
|
34
|
|
|
Young Bertram.
|
|
35
|
|
|
King of France.
|
|
36
|
|
|
Youth, thou bear'st thy father's face;
|
|
37
|
|
|
Frank nature, rather curious than in haste,
|
|
38
|
|
|
Hath well composed thee. Thy father's moral parts
|
|
39
|
|
|
Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.
|
|
40
|
|
|
Bertram.
|
|
41
|
|
|
My thanks and duty are your majesty's.
|
|
42
|
|
|
King of France.
|
|
43
|
|
|
I would I had that corporal soundness now,
|
|
44
|
|
|
As when thy father and myself in friendship
|
|
45
|
|
|
First tried our soldiership! He did look far
|
|
46
|
|
|
Into the service of the time and was
|
|
47
|
|
|
Discipled of the bravest: he lasted long;
|
|
48
|
|
|
But on us both did haggish age steal on
|
|
49
|
|
|
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me
|
|
50
|
|
|
To talk of your good father. In his youth
|
|
51
|
|
|
He had the wit which I can well observe
|
|
52
|
|
|
To-day in our young lords; but they may jest
|
|
53
|
|
|
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted
|
|
54
|
|
|
Ere they can hide their levity in honour;
|
|
55
|
|
|
So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness
|
|
56
|
|
|
Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,
|
|
57
|
|
|
His equal had awaked them, and his honour,
|
|
58
|
|
|
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when
|
|
59
|
|
|
Exception bid him speak, and at this time
|
|
60
|
|
|
His tongue obey'd his hand: who were below him
|
|
61
|
|
|
He used as creatures of another place
|
|
62
|
|
|
And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks,
|
|
63
|
|
|
Making them proud of his humility,
|
|
64
|
|
|
In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man
|
|
65
|
|
|
Might be a copy to these younger times;
|
|
66
|
|
|
Which, follow'd well, would demonstrate them now
|
|
67
|
|
|
But goers backward.
|
|
68
|
|
|
Bertram.
|
|
69
|
|
|
His good remembrance, sir,
|
|
70
|
|
|
Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb;
|
|
71
|
|
|
So in approof lives not his epitaph
|
|
72
|
|
|
As in your royal speech.
|
|
73
|
|
|
King of France.
|
|
74
|
|
|
Would I were with him! He would always say—
|
|
75
|
|
|
Methinks I hear him now; his plausive words
|
|
76
|
|
|
He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them,
|
|
77
|
|
|
To grow there and to bear,—'Let me not live,'—
|
|
78
|
|
|
This his good melancholy oft began,
|
|
79
|
|
|
On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,
|
|
80
|
|
|
When it was out,—'Let me not live,' quoth he,
|
|
81
|
|
|
'After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff
|
|
82
|
|
|
Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses
|
|
83
|
|
|
All but new things disdain; whose judgments are
|
|
84
|
|
|
Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies
|
|
85
|
|
|
Expire before their fashions.' This he wish'd;
|
|
86
|
|
|
I after him do after him wish too,
|
|
87
|
|
|
Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home,
|
|
88
|
|
|
I quickly were dissolved from my hive,
|
|
89
|
|
|
To give some labourers room.
|
|
90
|
|
|
Second Lord.
|
|
91
|
|
|
You are loved, sir:
|
|
92
|
|
|
They that least lend it you shall lack you first.
|
|
93
|
|
|
King of France.
|
|
94
|
|
|
I fill a place, I know't. How long is't, count,
|
|
95
|
|
|
Since the physician at your father's died?
|
|
96
|
|
|
He was much famed.
|
|
97
|
|
|
Bertram.
|
|
98
|
|
|
Some six months since, my lord.
|
|
99
|
|
|
King of France.
|
|
100
|
|
|
If he were living, I would try him yet.
|
|
101
|
|
|
Lend me an arm; the rest have worn me out
|
|
102
|
|
|
With several applications; nature and sickness
|
|
103
|
|
|
Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count;
|
|
104
|
|
|
My son's no dearer.
|
|
105
|
|
|
Bertram.
|
|
106
|
|
|
Thank your majesty.
|
| |
|
107
|
|
|
[Exeunt. Flourish]
|
| |
| |
|
3. Act I, Scene 3
|
|
0
|
|
|
Rousillon. The COUNT’s palace.
|
| |
|
1
|
|
|
[Enter COUNTESS, Steward, and Clown]
|
| |
|
2
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
3
|
|
|
I will now hear; what say you of this gentlewoman?
|
|
4
|
|
|
Steward.
|
|
5
|
|
|
Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I
|
|
6
|
|
|
wish might be found in the calendar of my past
|
|
7
|
|
|
endeavours; for then we wound our modesty and make
|
|
8
|
|
|
foul the clearness of our deservings, when of
|
|
9
|
|
|
ourselves we publish them.
|
|
10
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
11
|
|
|
What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah:
|
|
12
|
|
|
the complaints I have heard of you I do not all
|
|
13
|
|
|
believe: 'tis my slowness that I do not; for I know
|
|
14
|
|
|
you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability
|
|
15
|
|
|
enough to make such knaveries yours.
|
|
16
|
|
|
Clown.
|
|
17
|
|
|
'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.
|
|
18
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
19
|
|
|
Well, sir.
|
|
20
|
|
|
Clown.
|
|
21
|
|
|
No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, though
|
|
22
|
|
|
many of the rich are damned: but, if I may have
|
|
23
|
|
|
your ladyship's good will to go to the world, Isbel
|
|
24
|
|
|
the woman and I will do as we may.
|
|
25
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
26
|
|
|
Wilt thou needs be a beggar?
|
|
27
|
|
|
Clown.
|
|
28
|
|
|
I do beg your good will in this case.
|
|
29
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
30
|
|
|
In what case?
|
|
31
|
|
|
Clown.
|
|
32
|
|
|
In Isbel's case and mine own. Service is no
|
|
33
|
|
|
heritage: and I think I shall never have the
|
|
34
|
|
|
blessing of God till I have issue o' my body; for
|
|
35
|
|
|
they say barnes are blessings.
|
|
36
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
37
|
|
|
Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.
|
|
38
|
|
|
Clown.
|
|
39
|
|
|
My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on
|
|
40
|
|
|
by the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives.
|
|
41
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
42
|
|
|
Is this all your worship's reason?
|
|
43
|
|
|
Clown.
|
|
44
|
|
|
Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons such as they
|
|
45
|
|
|
are.
|
|
46
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
47
|
|
|
May the world know them?
|
|
48
|
|
|
Clown.
|
|
49
|
|
|
I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and
|
|
50
|
|
|
all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry
|
|
51
|
|
|
that I may repent.
|
|
52
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
53
|
|
|
Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.
|
|
54
|
|
|
Clown.
|
|
55
|
|
|
I am out o' friends, madam; and I hope to have
|
|
56
|
|
|
friends for my wife's sake.
|
|
57
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
58
|
|
|
Such friends are thine enemies, knave.
|
|
59
|
|
|
Clown.
|
|
60
|
|
|
You're shallow, madam, in great friends; for the
|
|
61
|
|
|
knaves come to do that for me which I am aweary of.
|
|
62
|
|
|
He that ears my land spares my team and gives me
|
|
63
|
|
|
leave to in the crop; if I be his cuckold, he's my
|
|
64
|
|
|
drudge: he that comforts my wife is the cherisher
|
|
65
|
|
|
of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh
|
|
66
|
|
|
and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my
|
|
67
|
|
|
flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses
|
|
68
|
|
|
my wife is my friend. If men could be contented to
|
|
69
|
|
|
be what they are, there were no fear in marriage;
|
|
70
|
|
|
for young Charbon the Puritan and old Poysam the
|
|
71
|
|
|
Papist, howsome'er their hearts are severed in
|
|
72
|
|
|
religion, their heads are both one; they may jowl
|
|
73
|
|
|
horns together, like any deer i' the herd.
|
|
74
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
75
|
|
|
Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave?
|
|
76
|
|
|
Clown.
|
|
77
|
|
|
A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next
|
|
78
|
|
|
way:
|
|
79
|
|
|
For I the ballad will repeat,
|
|
80
|
|
|
Which men full true shall find;
|
|
81
|
|
|
Your marriage comes by destiny,
|
|
82
|
|
|
Your cuckoo sings by kind.
|
|
83
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
84
|
|
|
Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you more anon.
|
|
85
|
|
|
Steward.
|
|
86
|
|
|
May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to
|
|
87
|
|
|
you: of her I am to speak.
|
|
88
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
89
|
|
|
Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her;
|
|
90
|
|
|
Helen, I mean.
|
|
91
|
|
|
Clown.
|
|
92
|
|
|
Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,
|
|
93
|
|
|
Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
|
|
94
|
|
|
Fond done, done fond,
|
|
95
|
|
|
Was this King Priam's joy?
|
|
96
|
|
|
With that she sighed as she stood,
|
|
97
|
|
|
With that she sighed as she stood,
|
|
98
|
|
|
And gave this sentence then;
|
|
99
|
|
|
Among nine bad if one be good,
|
|
100
|
|
|
Among nine bad if one be good,
|
|
101
|
|
|
There's yet one good in ten.
|
|
102
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
103
|
|
|
What, one good in ten? you corrupt the song, sirrah.
|
|
104
|
|
|
Clown.
|
|
105
|
|
|
One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying
|
|
106
|
|
|
o' the song: would God would serve the world so all
|
|
107
|
|
|
the year! we'ld find no fault with the tithe-woman,
|
|
108
|
|
|
if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth a'! An we
|
|
109
|
|
|
might have a good woman born but one every blazing
|
|
110
|
|
|
star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery
|
|
111
|
|
|
well: a man may draw his heart out, ere a' pluck
|
|
112
|
|
|
one.
|
|
113
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
114
|
|
|
You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you.
|
|
115
|
|
|
Clown.
|
|
116
|
|
|
That man should be at woman's command, and yet no
|
|
117
|
|
|
hurt done! Though honesty be no puritan, yet it
|
|
118
|
|
|
will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of
|
|
119
|
|
|
humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am
|
|
120
|
|
|
going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither.
|
| |
|
121
|
|
|
[Exit]
|
| |
|
122
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
123
|
|
|
Well, now.
|
|
124
|
|
|
Steward.
|
|
125
|
|
|
I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.
|
|
126
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
127
|
|
|
Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to me; and
|
|
128
|
|
|
she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully
|
|
129
|
|
|
make title to as much love as she finds: there is
|
|
130
|
|
|
more owing her than is paid; and more shall be paid
|
|
131
|
|
|
her than she'll demand.
|
|
132
|
|
|
Steward.
|
|
133
|
|
|
Madam, I was very late more near her than I think
|
|
134
|
|
|
she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate
|
|
135
|
|
|
to herself her own words to her own ears; she
|
|
136
|
|
|
thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any
|
|
137
|
|
|
stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son:
|
|
138
|
|
|
Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put
|
|
139
|
|
|
such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no
|
|
140
|
|
|
god, that would not extend his might, only where
|
|
141
|
|
|
qualities were level; Dian no queen of virgins, that
|
|
142
|
|
|
would suffer her poor knight surprised, without
|
|
143
|
|
|
rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward.
|
|
144
|
|
|
This she delivered in the most bitter touch of
|
|
145
|
|
|
sorrow that e'er I heard virgin exclaim in: which I
|
|
146
|
|
|
held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal;
|
|
147
|
|
|
sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns
|
|
148
|
|
|
you something to know it.
|
|
149
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
150
|
|
|
You have discharged this honestly; keep it to
|
|
151
|
|
|
yourself: many likelihoods informed me of this
|
|
152
|
|
|
before, which hung so tottering in the balance that
|
|
153
|
|
|
I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you,
|
|
154
|
|
|
leave me: stall this in your bosom; and I thank you
|
|
155
|
|
|
for your honest care: I will speak with you further anon.
|
|
156
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[Exit Steward]
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157
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[Enter HELENA]
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158
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Even so it was with me when I was young:
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159
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If ever we are nature's, these are ours; this thorn
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160
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Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;
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161
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Our blood to us, this to our blood is born;
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162
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It is the show and seal of nature's truth,
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163
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Where love's strong passion is impress'd in youth:
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164
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By our remembrances of days foregone,
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165
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Such were our faults, or then we thought them none.
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166
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Her eye is sick on't: I observe her now.
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167
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Helena.
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168
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What is your pleasure, madam?
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169
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Countess.
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170
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You know, Helen,
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171
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I am a mother to you.
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172
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Helena.
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173
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Mine honourable mistress.
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174
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Countess.
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175
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Nay, a mother:
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176
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Why not a mother? When I said 'a mother,'
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177
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Methought you saw a serpent: what's in 'mother,'
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178
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That you start at it? I say, I am your mother;
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179
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And put you in the catalogue of those
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180
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That were enwombed mine: 'tis often seen
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181
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Adoption strives with nature and choice breeds
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182
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A native slip to us from foreign seeds:
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183
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You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan,
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184
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Yet I express to you a mother's care:
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185
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God's mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood
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186
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To say I am thy mother? What's the matter,
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187
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That this distemper'd messenger of wet,
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188
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The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye?
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189
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Why? that you are my daughter?
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190
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Helena.
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191
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That I am not.
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192
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Countess.
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193
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I say, I am your mother.
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194
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Helena.
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195
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Pardon, madam;
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196
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The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:
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197
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I am from humble, he from honour'd name;
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198
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No note upon my parents, his all noble:
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199
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My master, my dear lord he is; and I
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200
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His servant live, and will his vassal die:
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201
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He must not be my brother.
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202
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Countess.
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203
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Nor I your mother?
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204
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Helena.
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205
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You are my mother, madam; would you were,—
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206
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So that my lord your son were not my brother,—
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207
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Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers,
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208
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I care no more for than I do for heaven,
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209
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So I were not his sister. Can't no other,
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210
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But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?
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211
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Countess.
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212
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Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law:
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213
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God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother
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214
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So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again?
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215
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My fear hath catch'd your fondness: now I see
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216
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The mystery of your loneliness, and find
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217
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Your salt tears' head: now to all sense 'tis gross
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218
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You love my son; invention is ashamed,
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219
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Against the proclamation of thy passion,
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220
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To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true;
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221
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But tell me then, 'tis so; for, look thy cheeks
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222
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Confess it, th' one to th' other; and thine eyes
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223
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See it so grossly shown in thy behaviors
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224
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That in their kind they speak it: only sin
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225
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And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,
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226
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That truth should be suspected. Speak, is't so?
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227
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If it be so, you have wound a goodly clew;
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228
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If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,
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229
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As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,
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230
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Tell me truly.
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231
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Helena.
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232
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Good madam, pardon me!
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233
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Countess.
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234
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Do you love my son?
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235
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Helena.
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236
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Your pardon, noble mistress!
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237
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Countess.
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238
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Love you my son?
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239
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Helena.
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240
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Do not you love him, madam?
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241
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Countess.
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242
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Go not about; my love hath in't a bond,
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243
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Whereof the world takes note: come, come, disclose
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244
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The state of your affection; for your passions
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245
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Have to the full appeach'd.
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246
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Helena.
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247
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Then, I confess,
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248
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Here on my knee, before high heaven and you,
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249
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That before you, and next unto high heaven,
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250
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I love your son.
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251
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My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love:
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252
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Be not offended; for it hurts not him
|
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253
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That he is loved of me: I follow him not
|
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254
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By any token of presumptuous suit;
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255
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Nor would I have him till I do deserve him;
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256
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Yet never know how that desert should be.
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257
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I know I love in vain, strive against hope;
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258
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Yet in this captious and intenible sieve
|
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259
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I still pour in the waters of my love
|
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260
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And lack not to lose still: thus, Indian-like,
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261
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Religious in mine error, I adore
|
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262
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The sun, that looks upon his worshipper,
|
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263
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But knows of him no more. My dearest madam,
|
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264
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Let not your hate encounter with my love
|
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265
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For loving where you do: but if yourself,
|
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266
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Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,
|
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267
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Did ever in so true a flame of liking
|
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268
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Wish chastely and love dearly, that your Dian
|
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269
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Was both herself and love: O, then, give pity
|
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270
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To her, whose state is such that cannot choose
|
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271
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But lend and give where she is sure to lose;
|
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272
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That seeks not to find that her search implies,
|
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273
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But riddle-like lives sweetly where she dies!
|
|
274
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Countess.
|
|
275
|
|
|
Had you not lately an intent,—speak truly,—
|
|
276
|
|
|
To go to Paris?
|
|
277
|
|
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Helena.
|
|
278
|
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|
Madam, I had.
|
|
279
|
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Countess.
|
|
280
|
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|
Wherefore? tell true.
|
|
281
|
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Helena.
|
|
282
|
|
|
I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.
|
|
283
|
|
|
You know my father left me some prescriptions
|
|
284
|
|
|
Of rare and proved effects, such as his reading
|
|
285
|
|
|
And manifest experience had collected
|
|
286
|
|
|
For general sovereignty; and that he will'd me
|
|
287
|
|
|
In heedfull'st reservation to bestow them,
|
|
288
|
|
|
As notes whose faculties inclusive were
|
|
289
|
|
|
More than they were in note: amongst the rest,
|
|
290
|
|
|
There is a remedy, approved, set down,
|
|
291
|
|
|
To cure the desperate languishings whereof
|
|
292
|
|
|
The king is render'd lost.
|
|
293
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
294
|
|
|
This was your motive
|
|
295
|
|
|
For Paris, was it? speak.
|
|
296
|
|
|
Helena.
|
|
297
|
|
|
My lord your son made me to think of this;
|
|
298
|
|
|
Else Paris and the medicine and the king
|
|
299
|
|
|
Had from the conversation of my thoughts
|
|
300
|
|
|
Haply been absent then.
|
|
301
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
302
|
|
|
But think you, Helen,
|
|
303
|
|
|
If you should tender your supposed aid,
|
|
304
|
|
|
He would receive it? he and his physicians
|
|
305
|
|
|
Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him,
|
|
306
|
|
|
They, that they cannot help: how shall they credit
|
|
307
|
|
|
A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,
|
|
308
|
|
|
Embowell'd of their doctrine, have left off
|
|
309
|
|
|
The danger to itself?
|
|
310
|
|
|
Helena.
|
|
311
|
|
|
There's something in't,
|
|
312
|
|
|
More than my father's skill, which was the greatest
|
|
313
|
|
|
Of his profession, that his good receipt
|
|
314
|
|
|
Shall for my legacy be sanctified
|
|
315
|
|
|
By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your honour
|
|
316
|
|
|
But give me leave to try success, I'ld venture
|
|
317
|
|
|
The well-lost life of mine on his grace's cure
|
|
318
|
|
|
By such a day and hour.
|
|
319
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
320
|
|
|
Dost thou believe't?
|
|
321
|
|
|
Helena.
|
|
322
|
|
|
Ay, madam, knowingly.
|
|
323
|
|
|
Countess.
|
|
324
|
|
|
Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love,
|
|
325
|
|
|
Means and attendants and my loving greetings
|
|
326
|
|
|
To those of mine in court: I'll stay at home
|
|
327
|
|
|
And pray God's blessing into thy attempt:
|
|
328
|
|
|
Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this,
|
|
329
|
|
|
What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss.
|
| |
