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ne, remember thy friends: get thee a good husband, and e him as he uses thee: so, farewell. [Exit. 23 Hel. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, hich we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky ves us free scope, only doth backward pull r slow designs when we ourselves are dull, hat power is it which mounts my love so high, at makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye? he mightiest space in fortune nature brings join like likes and kiss like native things. possible be strange attempts to those at weigh their pains in sense and do suppose What hath been cannot be who ever strove show her merit, that did miss her love? e King's disease-my project may deceive me, t my intents are fix'd and will not leave me.


Flourish of cornets.

The KING's palace.

SCENE II. Paris.
Enter the KING OF FRANCE, with
letters, and divers Attendants.

King. The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears;
ve fought with equal fortune and continue
Draving war.

First Lord. So 'tis reported, sir.

King. Nay, tis most credible; we here receive it
certainty, vouch'd from our cousin Austria,
ith caution that the Florentine will move us
r speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend
ejudicates the business and would seem
have us make denial.
First Lord.
His love and wisdom,
proved so to your majesty, may plead
amplest credence.

He hath arm'd our answer,


d Florence is denied before he comes :
t, for our gentlemen that mean to see
e Tuscan service, freely have they leave
stand on either part.
Sec. Lord.
It well may serve
nursery to our gentry, who are sick
r breathing and exploit.




What's he comes here?

Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES. First Lord. It is the Count Rousillon, my good lord, ung Bertram.



King. Youth, thou bear'st thy father's face;
Frank nature, rather curious than in haste,
Hath well composed thee. Thy father's moral parts
Mayst thou inlierit 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
First tried our soldiership! He did look far
Into the service of the time and was
Discipled of the bravest: he lasted long;
But on us both did haggish age steal on
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me
To talk of your good father. In his youth
He had the wit which I can well observe
To-day in our young lords; but they may jest
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted
Ere they can hide their levity in honour:

So like a courtier : contempt nor bitterness
Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,
His equal had awaked them, and his honour,
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when
Exception bid him speak, and at this time
His tongue obey'd his hand who were below him
He used as creatures of another place

To grow there and to bear,-"Let me not live,"

This his good melancholy oft began,

On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,

When it was out," Let me not live," quoth he

'After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff

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And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks,
Making them proud of his humility,

In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man
Might be a copy to these younger times;

Which, follow'd well, would demonstrate them now
But goers backward.


His good remembrance, sir, Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb; So in approof lives not his epitaph

As in your royal speech.

King. Would I were with him! He would always sayMethinks I hear him now; his plausive words He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them,

Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses
All but new things disdain; whose judgements are
Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies
Expire before their fashions." This he wish'd:

I after him do after him wish too,






I nor wax nor honey can bring home, ckly were dissolved from my hive,

ve some labourers room.

-. Lord.

You are loved, sir; that least lend it you shall lack you first. ng. I fill a place, I know't. How long is't, count, e the physician at your father's died? as much famed.


Some six months since, my lord. ng. If he were living, I would try him yet. me an arm; the rest have worn me out several applications: nature and sickness te it at their leisure. Welcome, count; son's no dearer.


Thank your majesty.


[Exeunt. Flourish.

SCENE III. Rousillon. The COUNT's palace.

Enter COUNTESS, Steward, and Clown.

unt. I will now hear; what say you of this gentlean?

ew. Madam, the care I have had to even your content, sh might be found in the calendar of my past endeas; for then we wound our modesty and make foul the rness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish


ount. What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah : complaints I have heard of you I do not all believe: 'tis slowness that I do not; for I know you lack not folly commit them, and have ability enough to make such veries yours.

lo. "Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fel

ount. Wilt thou needs be a beggar?

lo. I do beg your good will in this case.

ount. In what case?

ount Well, sir.

lo. No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, though y of the rich are damned: but, if I may have your ship's good will to go to the world, Isbel he woman I will do as we may.


Service is no heri.

lo. In Isbel's case and mine own. e: and I think I shall never have the blessing of God I have issue o' my body; for they say barnes are bless


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. 40

Count. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness. Clo. I am out o' friends, madam; and I hope to have friends for my wife's sake.

Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

Clo. You're shallow, madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me which I am aweary of. He that ears my land spares my team and gives me leave to in the crop; if I be his cuckold, he's my drudge: he that comforts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage; for young Charbon the puritan and old Poysam the papist, howsome'er their hearts are several in religion their heads are both one; they may joul horns together, like any deer i' the herd.

Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave? 61

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,
Your cuckoo sings by kind.

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.


Was his fair face the cause, quoth she,
Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
Fond done, done fond,

Was this King Priam's joy?
With that she sighed as she stood,
With that she sighed as she stood,
And gave this sentence then ;
Among nine bad if one be &


Ainong nine bad if one be good,

There's yet one good in ten.

Count. What, one good in ten? you corrupt the song,

Clo. One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purify.
go' the song: would God would serve the world so all
e year! we'ld find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I
ere the parson. One in ten, quoth a'! An we might
ve a good woman born but one every blazing star, or at an
rthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well: a man may
aw his heart out, ere a' pluck one.
Count. You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command


Clo. That man should be at woman's command, and yet
hurt done! Though honesty be no puritan, yet it will
no hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility over the
ack gown of a big heart. I am going, forsooth: the
siness is for Helen to come hither.
[Exit. 101

Count. Well, now.

Stew. I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman encely.

Count. Faith, I do her father bequeathed her to me; d she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully ake title to as much love as she finds: there is more ving her than is paid; and more shall be paid her than e'll demand.

Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her than I think e wished me alone she was, and did communicate to erself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I re vow for her, they touched not any stranger sense. er matter was, she loved your son: Fortune, she said, as no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt eir two estates; Love no god, that would not extend his ight, only where qualities were level; Dian no queen of irgins, that would suffer her poor knight surprised, withut rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. This he delivered in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e'er I card virgin exclaim in which I held my duty speedily to cquaint you withal; sithence, in the loss that may happen, concerns you something to know it.

Count. You have discharged this honestly; keep it to ourself: many likelihoods informed me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance that I could neither elieve nor misdoubt. Pray you, leave me: stall this in our bosom; and I thank you for your honest care: I will peak with you further anon. [Exit Steward

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