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Gent. The king's not here.



Not here, sir?

Not, indeed:

He hence remov'd last night, and with more haste

Than is his use.


Lord, how we lose our pains!

Hel. All's well that ends well, yet;

Though time seem so advérse, and means unfit.— I do beseech whither is he gone?


Gent. Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon; Whither I am going.


I do beseech you, sir, Since you are like to see the king before me, Commend the paper to his gracious hand; Which, I presume, shall render you no blame, But rather make you thank your pains for it: I will come after you, with what good speed


means will make us means.


This I'll do for you.

Hel. And you shall find yourself to be well


Whate'er falls more.-We must to horse again;

Go, go, provide.





Enter Clown and Parolles.

Par. Good monsieur Lavatch, give my lord Lafeu this letter: I have ere now, sir, been better known

to you, when I have held familiarity with fresher clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in fortune's moat, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure.

Clo. Truly, fortune's displeasure is but sluttish, if it smell so strong as thou speak'st of: I will henceforth eat no fish of fortune's buttering. Pr'ythee, allow the wind.

Par. Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir; I spake but by a metaphor.

Clo. Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose; or against any man's metaphor. Pr'ythee, get thee further.

Par. Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper.

Clo. Foh, pr'ythee, stand away: A paper from fortune's close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look, here he comes himself.

Enter Lafeu.

Here is a pur of fortune's, sir, or of fortune's cat, (but not a musk-cat,) that has fallen into the unclean fishpond of her displeasure, and, as he says, is muddied withal: Pray you, sir, use the carp as you may; for he looks like a poor, decay'd, ingenious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his distress my smiles of comfort, and leave him to your lordship. [Exit Clown. Par. My lord, I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratch'd.


Laf. And what would you have me to do? 'tis too late to pare her nails now. Wherein have you play'd the knave with fortune, that she should scratch

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you, who of herself is a good lady, and would not have knaves thrive long under her? There's a quart

d'ecu for you: Let the justices make you and fortune friends; I am for other business.

Par. I beseech your honour, to hear me one single word.

Laf. You beg a single penny more: come, you shall ha't; save your word.

Par. My name, my good lord, is Parolles.

Laf. You beg more than one word then.-Cox' my passion! give me your hand:- How does your drum?

Par. O my good lord, you were the first that found me.

Laf. Was I, in sooth? and I was the first that lost thee.

Par. It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some grace, for you did bring me out.

Laf. Out upon thee, knave! dost thou put upon me at once both the office of God and the devil? one brings thee in grace, and the other brings thee out. [Trumpets sound.] The king's coming, I know by his trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me; I had talk of you last night: though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat; go to, follow.

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Par. I praise God for you.






Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafeu, Lords, Gentlemen, Guards, &c.

King. We lost a jewel of her; and our esteem Was made much poorer by it: but your son,

As mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know
Her estimation home.


'Tis past, my liege:

And I beseech your majesty to make it

Natural rebellion, done i'the blaze of youth;

When oil and fire, too strong for reason's force, O'erbears it, and burns on.


My honour'd lady,

I have forgiven and forgotten all;

Though my revenges were high bent upon him,
And watch'd the time to shoot.

This I must say,-
But first I beg my pardon, --The young lord
Did to his majesty, his mother, and his lady,
Offence of mighty note; but to himself
The greatest wrong of all: he lost a wife,
Whose beauty did astonish the survey

Of richest eyes; whose words all ears took captive;
Whose dear perfection, hearts that scorn'd to serve,
Humbly call'd mistress.


Praising what is lost,

-Well, call him

Makes the remembrance dear.


We are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill
All repetition: Let him not ask our pardon;
The nature of his great offence is dead,
And deeper than oblivion we do bury
The incensing relicks of it: let him approach,
A stranger, no offender; and inform him,
So 'tis our will he should.


I shall, my liege.
[Exit Gentleman.

King. What says he to your daughter? have you


Laf. All that he is hath reference to your high


King. Then shall we have a match. I have letters

sent me,

That set him high in fame.


Enter Bertram.

He looks well on't.

King. I am not a day of season,

For thou may'st see a sun-shine and a hail
In me at once: But to the brightest beams
Distracted clouds give way; so stand thou forth,
The time is fair again.


My high-repented blames,

Dear sovereign pardon to me.

All is whole;

Not one word more of the consumed time.
Let's take the instant by the forward top;
For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees
The inaudible and noiseless foot of time.
Steals ere we can effect them: You remember

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