Plays and Poems

100

I am undone there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one
That I should love a bright particular star
And think to wed it, he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself :
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table; heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics. Who comes here?
One that goes with him: I love him for his sake;
And yet I know him a notorious liar,

Think him a great way fool, solely a coward; 110
Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him,

That they take place, when virtue's steely bones Look bleak i' the cold wind: withal, full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.

119

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 war-like 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?

131

Par. Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be blown up: marry, in blowing him down again, with the breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational increase, and there was never virgin got till virginity was first lost. That you 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 't.

142

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 the year it will make itself two, which is a goodly increase, and the principal itself not much the worse. Away with 't.

160

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 the toothpick, 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 drily; marry, 'tis a withered pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet 'tis a withered pear. Will you any thing with it?

180

Hel. Not my virginity yet.
There shall your master have a thousand loves,
A mother, and a mistress, and a friend,
A phenix, captain, and an enemy,
A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,
A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear;
His humble ambition, proud humility,
His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet,
His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world
Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms,
That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he-
I know not what he shall. God send him well!
The court 's a learning-place, and he is one-
Par. What one, i' faith?

Hel. That I wish well. 'Tis pity-
Par. What's pity?

190

Hel. That wishing well had not a body in 't, Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born, Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends, And show what we alonemust think, which never Returns us thanks.

Hel. The wars have so kept you under that

you must needs be born under Mars.
Par. When he was predominant.
Hel. When he was retrograde, I think rather.
Par. Why think you so?

211

Hel. You go so much backward when you fight.
Par. That's for advantage.

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 230
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
What hath been cannot be. Who ever strove
To show her merit that did miss her love?
240
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, with letters;

Lords and others attending.

Kiny. The Florentines and Senoys are by the

ears;

Have fought with equal fortune, and continue
A braving war.

First Lord. So 'tis reported, sir.

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 awak'd them; and his honour,
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when 40
Exception bid him speak, and at this time
His tongue obey'd his hand: who were below
him

He us'd as creatures of another place,
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.
Ber.

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 say,

Methinks I hear him now: his plausive words
He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them,
To grow there and to bear; 'Let me not live,'-
Thus 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

King. Nay, 'tis most credible: we here receive it Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses

A certainty, vouch'd from our cousin Austria,
With caution that the Florentine will move us
For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend
Prejudicates the business, and would seem

To have us make denial.
First Lord.

All but new things disdain; whose judgments

are

Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies
Expire before their fashions.' This he wish'd :
I, after him, do after him wish too,

His love and wisdom, 10 Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home,

Approv'd so to your majesty, may plead

For amplest credence.

King.

He hath arm'd our answer,

And Florence is denied before he comes:

Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see

The Tuscan service, freely have they leave

To stand on either part.

Second Lord.

It well may serve

A nursery to our gentry, who are sick

For breathing and exploit.

King.

What's he comes here?

Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES.

First Lord. It is the Count Rousillon, my good lord,

Young Bertram.

SCENE III.-Rousillon. A Room in the
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 do not; for I know you lack not 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. 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.

Count. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wicked

ness.

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 severed in religion, their heads are both one; they may joll horns together, like any deer i' the herd. 60 Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and

calumnious knave?

Clo. A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way:

Clo.

Was this 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 good,
Among nine bad if one be good,
There's yet one good in ten.

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 tithe-woman if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth a'! An we might have a good woman born but for every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well: a man may draw his heart out ere a' pluck one. 94

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.

Count. Well, now.

Exit. 102

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. 110

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; Dian, no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight 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.

127

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. Pray you, leave me: stall this in your

You know, Helen, I love your son.

Hel. Mine honourable mistress. Count.

Nay, a mother:

150

Why not a mother? When I said 'a mother,'
Methought you sawa serpent: what's in 'mother'
That you start at it? I say, I am your mother;
And put you in the catalogue of those
That were enwombed mine: 'tis often seen
Adoption strives with nature, and choice breeds
A native slip to us from foreign seeds;
You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan,
Yet I express to you a mother's care.

God's mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood
To say I am thy mother? What's the matter,
That this distemper'd messenger of wet,
The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye?

Why? that you are my daughter?
Hel.

That I am not. 160

171

So that my lord your son were not my brother,
Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers,
I care no more for than I do for heaven,
So I were not his sister. Can't no other,
But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?
Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-
in-law.

God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother

So strive upon your pulse. What! pale again?
My fear hath catch'd your fondness: now I see
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tears' head: now to all sense 'tis gross
You love my son: invention is asham'd,
Against the proclamation of thy passion,

But tell me then, 'tis so; for, look, thy cheeks
Confess it, the one to the other; and thine eyes
See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours

My friends were poor, but honest; so 's my love:
Be not offended, for it hurts not him

That he is lov'd of me: I follow him not
By any token of presumptuous suit;
Nor would I have him till I do deserve him;
Yet never know how that desert should be.
I know I love in vain, strive against hope;
Yet in this captious and intenible sieve
I still pour in the waters of my love,
And lack not to lose still. Thus, Indian-like,
Religious in mine error, I adore

210

The sun, that looks upon his worshipper,
But knows of him no more. My dearest madam,
Let not your hate encounter with my love
For loving where you do but if yourself,
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,
Did ever in so true a flame of liking
Wish chastely and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself and Love: O! then, give pity
To her, whose state is such that cannot choose
But lend and give where she is sure to lose; 222
That seeks not to find that her search implies,
But riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies.

Count. Had you not lately an intent, speak truly,
To go to Paris ?
Hel.

Count.

Madam, I had.

Wherefore? tell true.

230

Hel. I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear. You know my father left me some prescriptions Of rare and prov'd effects, such as his reading And manifest experience had collected For general sovereignty; and that he will'd me In heedfull'st reservation to bestow them, As notes whose faculties inclusive were More than they were in note. Amongst the rest, There is a remedy approv'd, set down To cure the desperate languishings whereof The king is render'd lost.

180

To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true :

Count.

That in their kind they speak it only sin

And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,

If you should tender your supposed aid,
He would receive it? He and his physicians
Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him,
They, that they cannot help. How shall they credit
A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,

The danger to itself?

That truth should be suspected. Speak, is 't so? Embowell'd of their doctrine, have left off

If it be so, you have wound a goodly clew;

But one to dance with. By heaven! I'll steal away.

First Lord. There's honour in the theft.
Par.

Commit it, count. Second Lord. I am your accessary; and so farewell.

Ber. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortured body.

First Lord. Farewell, captain.

Second Lord. Sweet Monsieur Parolles!

Par. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good metals: you shall find in the regiment of the Spinii one Captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here on his sinister cheek: it was this very sword entrenched it: say to him, I live, and observe his reports for me.

Second Lord. We shall, noble captain.

Exeunt Lords. Par. Mars dote on you for his novices! What will ye do?

Ber. Stay; the king

Re-enter KING. PAROLLES and BERTRAM retire.

Par. Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have restrained yourself within the list of too cold an adieu: be more expressive to them; for they wear themselves in the cap of the time, there do muster true gait, eat, speak, and move under the influence of the most received star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed. After them, and take a more dilated farewell.

Will you be cur'd of your infirmity? King. No.

Our hearts receive your warnings. King. Farewell. Come hither to me.

Exit, attended.

First Lord. O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us!

Par. 'Tis not his fault, the spark.
Second Lord.

O! 'tis brave wars.

Laf. O! will you eat no grapes, my royal fox! Yes, but you will my noble grapes an if My royal fox could reach them. I have seen a medicine

That's able to breathe life into a stone, Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary With spritely fire and motion; whose simple

touch

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