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: Whoever strove To shew her merit, that did miss her love? 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 of France, with

letters; Lords and others attending. King. The Florentines and Senoys are by the

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

1. Lord. So 'tis reported, sir.

King. Nay, 'tis most credible; we here receive it A certainty, vouch'd froin 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,

His love and wisdom,
Approv'd so to your majesty, may plead
For amplest crelence.

King He bath arm'd our answer,
And Florence is deny'd before he comes :
Yet, for our gentlemen, that mean to see
The Tuscan service, freely have they leave
To stand on either part.

1. Lord.

.

2. Lord. It may well serve
A nursery to our gentry, who are sick
For breathing and exploit.
King. What's he comes here?

Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES.
1. Lord. It is the count Rousillon,, my good

lord, Young Bertram.

King. Youth, thou bear'st thy father's face; Frank nature, rather curious than in haste, Hath well compos'd thee. Thy father's moral

parts
May'st thou inberit 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 try'd 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,
Anil 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
IException bid him speak, and, at that 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

now

Might be a copy to these younger times; Which, follow'd well, would demonstrate them 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 hiin 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 Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses 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, Since I nor wax, nor honey, can bring home, I quickly were dissolved from my hive, To give some labourers room,

2. Lord. You are lov'd, sir; They, that least lend it you, shall lack you first. King. I fill a place, 'I know't. –

How long is't, count, Since the physician at your father's died ? He was much fam'd.

Ber. Some six months since, my lord.

King. If he were living, I would try him yet; Lend me an arm;

the rest have worn me out With several applications:

nature and sickness Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count; My son's no dearer. Ber.. Thank your majesty.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III.

Rousillon. A Room in the Count's Palace.

Enter Countess, Steward, and Clown. Count. I will now bear: what say you of this gentlewoman?

Stew. Madam , .the care I have had to éven 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 complaiuts, 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 thein, and have' ability enough to make such kuaveries yours.

Clown. 'Tis not unknown to you, madam, that I am a poor fellow.

Count. Well, sir.

Clown. No, madam, 'tis not so well, that I am poor; though many of the rich are damn'd: But, if I may have your ladyslip's good will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may

Count. Wilt thou needs be a beggar?
Clown. I do beg your good will in this case.
Count. In what case ?

Clown. In Isbel's case, and mine own. Service is no heritage: and, I think, I shall never have the blessing of God, till I have issue of my body; for, they say, bearns are blessings.

Count. Tell me thy reason why thou wile marry.

Clown. 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?

Clown. 'Faith, madain, I have other holy reasons, such as they are.

Count. May the world know them?

Clown. I have been, marlam, 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 wickedness.

Clown. I am out of friends, madam; and I hope to have friends for

ту

wife's sake. Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

Cloun. You are shallow, madam; e'en great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am a-weary of. He, that ears my land, spares. my team, and gives me leave to inn the crop: if I be his cuckold, he's my drudge: He, that comforts my wife, is the cherisher of iny 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, howsoe'er their hearts are sever'd' in religion, their lieads are both one, they may joll horns together, like any deer i' the herd.

Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth'd and calumnious knave?

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

For I the ballad will repeat ,

Which men full true shall find ;
Your marriage comes by destiny,

Your cuckoo sings by kinu.
Count. Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you