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Ber.

What would you have?

Hel. Something; and scarce so much: nothing, indeed. I would not tell you what I would, my lord:

Faith, yes;

Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss.

Ber. I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse.
Hel. I shall not break your bidding, good my lord.
Ber. Where are my other men, monsieur? Farewell.

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[Exit Helena.

Go thou toward home; where I will never come
Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum.
Away, and for our flight.

Par.

Bravely, coragio!

ACT III.

[Exeunt.

SCENE I. Florence. The DUKE's palace

Flourish. Enter the DUKE of Florence, attended; the two Frenchmen, with a troop of soldiers.

Duke. So that from point to point now have you
The fundamental reasons of this war,

Whose great decision hath much blood let forth
And more thirsts after.

First Lord.

Holy seems the quarrel

Upon your grace's part; black and fearful

On the opposer.

Duke.

heard

Therefore we marvel much our cousin France

Would in so just a business shut his bosom
Against our borrowing prayers.

Sec. Lord.

Good my lord,

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The reasons of our state I cannot yield,
But like a common and an outward man,
That the great figure of a council frames
By self-unable motion: therefore dare not
Say what I think of it, since I have found
Myself in my incertain grounds to fail
As often as I guess'd.

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First Lord. But I am sure the younger of our nature, That surfeit on their ease, will day by day

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Shall on them settle. You know your places well;
When better fall, for your avails they fell:
To-morrow to the field.

SCENE II. Rousillon. The COUNT's palace.

Enter COUNTESS and CLOWN.

Count. It hath happened all as I would have had it, save that he comes not along with her.

Clo. By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very mel· ancholy man.

Count. By what observance, I pray you?

Clo. Why, he will look upon his boot and sing; mend the ruff and sing; ask questions and sing; pick his teeth and sing. I know a man that had this trick of melancholy sold a goodly manor for a song.

come.

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Count. Let me see what he writes, and when he means to [Opening a letter. Clo. I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court: our old ling and our Isbels o' the country are nothing like your old ling and your Isbels o' the court: the brains of my Cupid's knocked out, and I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.

Count. What have we here?
Clo. E'en that you have there.

[Exit. 20

Count. [Reads] I have sent you a daughter-in-law: she hath recovered the king, and undone me. I have wedded her, not bedded her; and sworn to make the "not" eternal. You shall hear I am run away: know it before the report come. If there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you. Your unfortunate son,

This is not well, rash and unbridled boy,
To fly the favours of so good a king;
To pluck his indignation on thy head
By the misprising of a maid too virtuous
For the contempt of empire.

Re-enter CLOWN.

BERTRAM.

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Clo. O madam, yonder is heavy news within between two soldiers and my young lady!

Count. What is the matter?

Clo. Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some comfort; your son will not be killed so soon as I thought he would.

Count. Why should he be killed?

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Clo. So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does : the danger is in standing to't; that's the loss of men, though it be the getting of children. Here they come will

tell you more for my part, I only hear your son was run

away.

Enter HELENA and two Gentlemen.

First Gent. Save you, good madam.

Hel. Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.
Sec. Gent. Do not say so.

[Exit.

Count. Think upon patience. Pray you, gentlemen, 50 I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief,

That the first face of neither, on the start,

Can woman me unto 't: where is my son, I pray you?
Sec. Gent. Madam, he's gone to serve the duke of Flor-

ence:

We met him thitherward; for thence we came,

And, after some dispatch in hand at court,

Thither we bend again.

Hel. Look on his letter, madam; here's my passport. [Reads] When thou canst get the ring upon my finger which never shall come off, and show me a child begotten of thy body that I am father to, then call me husband: but in such a "then" I write a "never."

This is a dreadful sentence.

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Count. Brought you this letter, gentlemen?
First Gent.

Ay, madam:

And for the contents' sake are sorry for our pains.
Count. I prithee, lady, have a better cheer;

If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,
Thou robb'st me of a moiety: he was my son ;
But I do wash his name out of my blood,

And thou art all my child. Towards Florence is he?
Sec. Gent. Ay, madam.

Count.

And to be a soldier?

Sec. Gent. Such is his noble purpose; and, believe 't, The duke will lay upon him all the honour

That good convenience claims.

Count.

Return you thither?

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First Gent. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed. Hel. [Reads] Till I have no wife, I have nothing in

France.

Tis bitter.

Count. Find you that there?

Hel.

Ay, madam.

First Gent. 'Tis but the boldness of his hand, haply,

which his heart was not consenting to.

Count. Nothing in France, until he have no wife!

There's nothing here that is too good for him

But only she; and she deserves a lord

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That twenty such rude boys might tend upon

And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?
First Gent. A servant only, and a gentleman
Which I have sometime known.

Count.

First Gent. Ay, my good lady, he.

Parolles, was it not?

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Count. A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness. My son corrupts a well-derived nature

With his inducement.

First Gent.

Indeed, good lady,

The fellow has a deal of that too much,
Which holds him much to have.

Count. You're welcome, gentlemen.

I will entreat you, when you see my son,
To tell him that his sword can never win

The honour that he loses more I'll entreat you
Written to bear along.

Sec. Gent.

We serve you, madam,

In that and all your worthiest affairs.

Count. Not so, but as we change our courtesies.

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Will you draw near? [Exeunt Countess and Gentlemen.

Hel. "Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France."

Nothing in France, until he has no wife!

Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France;

Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is 't I

That chase thee from thy country and expose

Those tender limbs of thine to the event

Of the none-sparing war? and is it I

That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark

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Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,

That ride upon the violent speed of fire,

Fly with false aim; move the still-piecing air, That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord. Whoever shoots at him, I set him there; Whoever charges on his forward breast,

I am the catiff that do hold him to't;

And, though I kill him not, I am the cause

His death was so effected: better 'twere

I met the ravin lion when he roar'd

With sharp constraint of hunger; better 'twere

That all the miseries which nature owes

Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Rousillon
Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,

As oft it loses all: I will be gone;

My being here it is that holds thee hence:
Shall I tay here to do't? no, no, although

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The air of paradise did fan the house
And angels officed all: I will be gone,
That pitiful rumour may report my flight,

To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day!
For with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away.

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[Exit.

SCENE III. Florence. Before the DUKE's palace. Flourish.

Enter the DUKE of Florence, BERTRAM, PAROLLES, Soldiers, Drum, and Trumpets. Duke. The general of our horse thou art and we, Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence Upon thy promising fortune.

Sir, it is

Ber.
A charge too heavy for my strength, but yet
We'll strive to bear it for your worthy sake
To the extreme edge of hazard.
Duke.

Then go thou forth;

This very day,

And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm,
As thy auspicious mistress!
Ber.

Great Mars, I put myself into thy file :

Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove
A lover of thy drum, hater of love.

SCENE IV. Rousillon.

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[Exeunt.

The COUNT's palace.

Enter COUNTESS and Steward.

Count. Alas! and would you take the letter of her?
Might you not know she would do as she has done,
By sending me a letter? Read it again.

Stew. [Reads]

I am Saint Jaques' pilgrim, thither gone:
Ambitious love hath so in me offended,
That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon,

With sainted vow my faults to have amended.
Write, write, that from the bloody course of war
My dearest master, your dear son, may hie:
Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far
His name with zealous fervour sanctify:

His taken labours bid him me forgive;

I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth

From courtly friends, with camping foes to live,

Where death and danger dogs the heels of worth:

He is too good and fair for death and me;

Whom I myself embrace, to set him free.

Count. Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!

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