How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! What old December's bareness everywhere! And yet this time removed was summer's time, The teeming autumn big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease: Yet this abundant issue seemed to me But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit, For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And thou away, the very birds are mute. Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.


From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April (dressed in all his trim) Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing: That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell: Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose, They were but sweet, but figures of delight: Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seemed it winter still, and you away, As with your shadow I with these did play.


The forward violet thus did I chide, Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath? The purple pride Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair, The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair: A third nor red, nor white, had stol'n of both, And to his robbery had annexed thy breath, But for his theft in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee.


Where art thou Muse that thou forget'st so long, To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light? Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem, In gentle numbers time so idly spent, Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem, And gives thy pen both skill and argument. Rise resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey, If time have any wrinkle graven there, If any, be a satire to decay, And make time's spoils despised everywhere. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life, So thou prevent'st his scythe, and crooked knife.


O truant Muse what shall be thy amends, For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed? Both truth and beauty on my love depends: So dost thou too, and therein dignified: Make answer Muse, wilt thou not haply say, 'Truth needs no colour with his colour fixed, Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay: But best is best, if never intermixed'? Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee, To make him much outlive a gilded tomb: And to be praised of ages yet to be. Then do thy office Muse, I teach thee how, To make him seem long hence, as he shows now.


My love is strengthened though more weak in seeming, I love not less, though less the show appear, That love is merchandized, whose rich esteeming, The owner's tongue doth publish every where. Our love was new, and then but in the spring, When I was wont to greet it with my lays, As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, And stops her pipe in growth of riper days: Not that the summer is less pleasant now Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, But that wild music burthens every bough, And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue: Because I would not dull you with my song.


Alack what poverty my muse brings forth, That having such a scope to show her pride, The argument all bare is of more worth Than when it hath my added praise beside. O blame me not if I no more can write! Look in your glass and there appears a face, That over-goes my blunt invention quite, Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace. Were it not sinful then striving to mend, To mar the subject that before was well? For to no other pass my verses tend, Than of your graces and your gifts to tell. And more, much more than in my verse can sit, Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.


To me fair friend you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still: three winters cold, Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned, In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned, Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green. Ah yet doth beauty like a dial hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived, So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived. For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred, Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.


Let not my love be called idolatry, Nor my beloved as an idol show, Since all alike my songs and praises be To one, of one, still such, and ever so. Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence, Therefore my verse to constancy confined, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument, Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words, And in this change is my invention spent, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone. Which three till now, never kept seat in one.


When in the chronicle of wasted time, I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme, In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights, Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have expressed, Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring, And for they looked but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: For we which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.


Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul, Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured, And the sad augurs mock their own presage, Incertainties now crown themselves assured, And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time, My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes, Since spite of him I'll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes. And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.


What's in the brain that ink may character, Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit, What's new to speak, what now to register, That may express my love, or thy dear merit? Nothing sweet boy, but yet like prayers divine, I must each day say o'er the very same, Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name. So that eternal love in love's fresh case, Weighs not the dust and injury of age, Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, But makes antiquity for aye his page, Finding the first conceit of love there bred, Where time and outward form would show it dead.


O never say that I was false of heart, Though absence seemed my flame to qualify, As easy might I from my self depart, As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie: That is my home of love, if I have ranged, Like him that travels I return again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, So that my self bring water for my stain, Never believe though in my nature reigned, All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so preposterously be stained, To leave for nothing all thy sum of good: For nothing this wide universe I call, Save thou my rose, in it thou art my all.


Alas 'tis true, I have gone here and there, And made my self a motley to the view, Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, Made old offences of affections new. Most true it is, that I have looked on truth Askance and strangely: but by all above, These blenches gave my heart another youth, And worse essays proved thee my best of love. Now all is done, have what shall have no end, Mine appetite I never more will grind On newer proof, to try an older friend, A god in love, to whom I am confined. Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.


O for my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide, Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer's hand: Pity me then, and wish I were renewed, Whilst like a willing patient I will drink, Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection, No bitterness that I will bitter think, Nor double penance to correct correction. Pity me then dear friend, and I assure ye, Even that your pity is enough to cure me.


Your love and pity doth th' impression fill, Which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow, For what care I who calls me well or ill, So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow? You are my all the world, and I must strive, To know my shames and praises from your tongue, None else to me, nor I to none alive, That my steeled sense or changes right or wrong. In so profound abysm I throw all care Of others' voices, that my adder's sense, To critic and to flatterer stopped are: Mark how with my neglect I do dispense. You are so strongly in my purpose bred, That all the world besides methinks are dead.


Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind, And that which governs me to go about, Doth part his function, and is partly blind, Seems seeing, but effectually is out: For it no form delivers to the heart Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch, Of his quick objects hath the mind no part, Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch: For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight, The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature, The mountain, or the sea, the day, or night: The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature. Incapable of more, replete with you, My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.


Or whether doth my mind being crowned with you Drink up the monarch's plague this flattery? Or whether shall I say mine eye saith true, And that your love taught it this alchemy? To make of monsters, and things indigest, Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble, Creating every bad a perfect best As fast as objects to his beams assemble: O 'tis the first, 'tis flattery in my seeing, And my great mind most kingly drinks it up, Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing, And to his palate doth prepare the cup. If it be poisoned, 'tis the lesser sin, That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.


Those lines that I before have writ do lie, Even those that said I could not love you dearer, Yet then my judgement knew no reason why, My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer, But reckoning time, whose millioned accidents Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings, Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents, Divert strong minds to the course of alt'ring things: Alas why fearing of time's tyranny, Might I not then say 'Now I love you best,' When I was certain o'er incertainty, Crowning the present, doubting of the rest? Love is a babe, then might I not say so To give full growth to that which still doth grow.


Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments, love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come, Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom: If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.


Accuse me thus, that I have scanted all, Wherein I should your great deserts repay, Forgot upon your dearest love to call, Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day, That I have frequent been with unknown minds, And given to time your own dear-purchased right, That I have hoisted sail to all the winds Which should transport me farthest from your sight. Book both my wilfulness and errors down, And on just proof surmise, accumulate, Bring me within the level of your frown, But shoot not at me in your wakened hate: Since my appeal says I did strive to prove The constancy and virtue of your love.


Like as to make our appetite more keen With eager compounds we our palate urge, As to prevent our maladies unseen, We sicken to shun sickness when we purge. Even so being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness, To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding; And sick of welfare found a kind of meetness, To be diseased ere that there was true needing. Thus policy in love t' anticipate The ills that were not, grew to faults assured, And brought to medicine a healthful state Which rank of goodness would by ill be cured. But thence I learn and find the lesson true, Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.


What potions have I drunk of Siren tears Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within, Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears, Still losing when I saw my self to win! What wretched errors hath my heart committed, Whilst it hath thought it self so blessed never! How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted In the distraction of this madding fever! O benefit of ill, now I find true That better is, by evil still made better. And ruined love when it is built anew Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. So I return rebuked to my content, And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.


That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel. For if you were by my unkindness shaken As I by yours, y'have passed a hell of time, And I a tyrant have no leisure taken To weigh how once I suffered in your crime. O that our night of woe might have remembered My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, And soon to you, as you to me then tendered The humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits! But that your trespass now becomes a fee, Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.


'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be, receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed, Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing. For why should others' false adulterate eyes Give salutation to my sportive blood? Or on my frailties why are frailer spies, Which in their wills count bad what I think good? No, I am that I am, and they that level At my abuses, reckon up their own, I may be straight though they themselves be bevel; By their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be shown Unless this general evil they maintain, All men are bad and in their badness reign.


Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain Full charactered with lasting memory, Which shall above that idle rank remain Beyond all date even to eternity. Or at the least, so long as brain and heart Have faculty by nature to subsist, Till each to razed oblivion yield his part Of thee, thy record never can be missed: That poor retention could not so much hold, Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score, Therefore to give them from me was I bold, To trust those tables that receive thee more: To keep an adjunct to remember thee Were to import forgetfulness in me.


No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change, Thy pyramids built up with newer might To me are nothing novel, nothing strange, They are but dressings of a former sight: Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire, What thou dost foist upon us that is old, And rather make them born to our desire, Than think that we before have heard them told: Thy registers and thee I both defy, Not wond'ring at the present, nor the past, For thy records, and what we see doth lie, Made more or less by thy continual haste: This I do vow and this shall ever be, I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.


If my dear love were but the child of state, It might for Fortune's bastard be unfathered, As subject to time's love or to time's hate, Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gathered. No it was builded far from accident, It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls Under the blow of thralled discontent, Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls: It fears not policy that heretic, Which works on leases of short-numbered hours, But all alone stands hugely politic, That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers. To this I witness call the fools of time, Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.


Were't aught to me I bore the canopy, With my extern the outward honouring, Or laid great bases for eternity, Which proves more short than waste or ruining? Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour Lose all, and more by paying too much rent For compound sweet; forgoing simple savour, Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent? No, let me be obsequious in thy heart, And take thou my oblation, poor but free, Which is not mixed with seconds, knows no art, But mutual render, only me for thee. Hence, thou suborned informer, a true soul When most impeached, stands least in thy control.


O thou my lovely boy who in thy power, Dost hold Time's fickle glass his fickle hour: Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st, Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st. If Nature (sovereign mistress over wrack) As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back, She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill. Yet fear her O thou minion of her pleasure, She may detain, but not still keep her treasure! Her audit (though delayed) answered must be, And her quietus is to render thee.


In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were it bore not beauty's name: But now is black beauty's successive heir, And beauty slandered with a bastard shame, For since each hand hath put on nature's power, Fairing the foul with art's false borrowed face, Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower, But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace. Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem At such who not born fair no beauty lack, Slandering creation with a false esteem, Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe, That every tongue says beauty should look so.


How oft when thou, my music, music play'st, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap, To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap, At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand. To be so tickled they would change their state And situation with those dancing chips, O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, Making dead wood more blest than living lips, Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.


Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action, and till action, lust Is perjured, murd'rous, bloody full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated as a swallowed bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad. Mad in pursuit and in possession so, Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme, A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe; Before a joy proposed behind a dream. All this the world well knows yet none knows well, To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun, Coral is far more red, than her lips red, If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun: If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head: I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks, And in some perfumes is there more delight, Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know, That music hath a far more pleasing sound: I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress when she walks treads on the ground. And yet by heaven I think my love as rare, As any she belied with false compare.


Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. Yet in good faith some say that thee behold, Thy face hath not the power to make love groan; To say they err, I dare not be so bold, Although I swear it to my self alone. And to be sure that is not false I swear, A thousand groans but thinking on thy face, One on another's neck do witness bear Thy black is fairest in my judgement's place. In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds, And thence this slander as I think proceeds.


Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star that ushers in the even Doth half that glory to the sober west As those two mourning eyes become thy face: O let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part. Then will I swear beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack.


Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me; Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be? Me from my self thy cruel eye hath taken, And my next self thou harder hast engrossed, Of him, my self, and thee I am forsaken, A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed: Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward, But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail, Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard, Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol. And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee, Perforce am thine and all that is in me.


So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still: But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, For thou art covetous, and he is kind, He learned but surety-like to write for me, Under that bond that him as fist doth bind. The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, Thou usurer that put'st forth all to use, And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake, So him I lose through my unkind abuse. Him have I lost, thou hast both him and me, He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.


Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will, And Will to boot, and Will in overplus, More than enough am I that vex thee still, To thy sweet will making addition thus. Wilt thou whose will is large and spacious, Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? Shall will in others seem right gracious, And in my will no fair acceptance shine? The sea all water, yet receives rain still, And in abundance addeth to his store, So thou being rich in will add to thy will One will of mine to make thy large will more. Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill, Think all but one, and me in that one Will.


If thy soul check thee that I come so near, Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will, And will thy soul knows is admitted there, Thus far for love, my love-suit sweet fulfil. Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love, Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one, In things of great receipt with case we prove, Among a number one is reckoned none. Then in the number let me pass untold, Though in thy store's account I one must be, For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold, That nothing me, a something sweet to thee. Make but my name thy love, and love that still, And then thou lov'st me for my name is Will.


Thou blind fool Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, That they behold and see not what they see? They know what beauty is, see where it lies, Yet what the best is, take the worst to be. If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks, Be anchored in the bay where all men ride, Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks, Whereto the judgement of my heart is tied? Why should my heart think that a several plot, Which my heart knows the wide world's common place? Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not To put fair truth upon so foul a face? In things right true my heart and eyes have erred, And to this false plague are they now transferred.


When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe, her though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth, Unlearned in the world's false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue; On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed. But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? O love's best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love loves not to have years told. Therefore I lie with her, and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flattered be.


O call not me to justify the wrong, That thy unkindness lays upon my heart, Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue, Use power with power, and slay me not by art, Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere; but in my sight, Dear heart forbear to glance thine eye aside, What need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might Is more than my o'erpressed defence can bide? Let me excuse thee, ah my love well knows, Her pretty looks have been mine enemies, And therefore from my face she turns my foes, That they elsewhere might dart their injuries: Yet do not so, but since I am near slain, Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.


Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain. If I might teach thee wit better it were, Though not to love, yet love to tell me so, As testy sick men when their deaths be near, No news but health from their physicians know. For if I should despair I should grow mad, And in my madness might speak ill of thee, Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be. That I may not be so, nor thou belied, Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.


In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note, But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise, Who in despite of view is pleased to dote. Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted, Nor tender feeling to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To any sensual feast with thee alone: But my five wits, nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man, Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be: Only my plague thus far I count my gain, That she that makes me sin, awards me pain.


Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving, O but with mine, compare thou thine own state, And thou shalt find it merits not reproving, Or if it do, not from those lips of thine, That have profaned their scarlet ornaments, And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine, Robbed others' beds' revenues of their rents. Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov'st those, Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee, Root pity in thy heart that when it grows, Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, By self-example mayst thou be denied.


Lo as a careful huswife runs to catch, One of her feathered creatures broke away, Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch In pursuit of the thing she would have stay: Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent, To follow that which flies before her face: Not prizing her poor infant's discontent; So run'st thou after that which flies from thee, Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind, But if thou catch thy hope turn back to me: And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind. So will I pray that thou mayst have thy Will, If thou turn back and my loud crying still.


Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, Which, like two spirits, do suggest me still: The better angel is a man right fair, The worser spirit a woman coloured ill. To win me soon to hell my female evil Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her foul pride. And whether that my angel be turned fiend Suspect I may, yet not directly tell; But being both from me both to each friend, I guess one angel in another's hell. Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out.


Those lips that Love's own hand did make, Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate', To me that languished for her sake: But when she saw my woeful state, Straight in her heart did mercy come, Chiding that tongue that ever sweet, Was used in giving gentle doom: And taught it thus anew to greet: 'I hate' she altered with an end, That followed it as gentle day, Doth follow night who like a fiend From heaven to hell is flown away. 'I hate', from hate away she threw, And saved my life saying 'not you'.


Poor soul the centre of my sinful earth, My sinful earth these rebel powers array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms inheritors of this excess Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end? Then soul live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more, So shall thou feed on death, that feeds on men, And death once dead, there's no more dying then.


My love is as a fever longing still, For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please: My reason the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept Hath left me, and I desperate now approve, Desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care, And frantic-mad with evermore unrest, My thoughts and my discourse as mad men's are, At random from the truth vainly expressed. For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.


O me! what eyes hath love put in my head, Which have no correspondence with true sight, Or if they have, where is my judgement fled, That censures falsely what they see aright? If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, What means the world to say it is not so? If it be not, then love doth well denote, Love's eye is not so true as all men's: no, How can it? O how can love's eye be true, That is so vexed with watching and with tears? No marvel then though I mistake my view, The sun it self sees not, till heaven clears. O cunning love, with tears thou keep'st me blind, Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.


Canst thou O cruel, say I love thee not, When I against my self with thee partake? Do I not think on thee when I forgot Am of my self, all-tyrant, for thy sake? Who hateth thee that I do call my friend, On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon, Nay if thou lour'st on me do I not spend Revenge upon my self with present moan? What merit do I in my self respect, That is so proud thy service to despise, When all my best doth worship thy defect, Commanded by the motion of thine eyes? But love hate on for now I know thy mind, Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind.


O from what power hast thou this powerful might, With insufficiency my heart to sway, To make me give the lie to my true sight, And swear that brightness doth not grace the day? Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill, That in the very refuse of thy deeds, There is such strength and warrantise of skill, That in my mind thy worst all best exceeds? Who taught thee how to make me love thee more, The more I hear and see just cause of hate? O though I love what others do abhor, With others thou shouldst not abhor my state. If thy unworthiness raised love in me, More worthy I to be beloved of thee.


Love is too young to know what conscience is, Yet who knows not conscience is born of love? Then gentle cheater urge not my amiss, Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove. For thou betraying me, I do betray My nobler part to my gross body's treason, My soul doth tell my body that he may, Triumph in love, flesh stays no farther reason, But rising at thy name doth point out thee, As his triumphant prize, proud of this pride, He is contented thy poor drudge to be, To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. No want of conscience hold it that I call, Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall.


In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn, But thou art twice forsworn to me love swearing, In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn, In vowing new hate after new love bearing: But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee, When I break twenty? I am perjured most, For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee: And all my honest faith in thee is lost. For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness: Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy, And to enlighten thee gave eyes to blindness, Or made them swear against the thing they see. For I have sworn thee fair: more perjured I, To swear against the truth so foul a lie.


Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep, A maid of Dian's this advantage found, And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep In a cold valley-fountain of that ground: Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love, A dateless lively heat still to endure, And grew a seething bath which yet men prove, Against strange maladies a sovereign cure: But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired, The boy for trial needs would touch my breast, I sick withal the help of bath desired, And thither hied a sad distempered guest. But found no cure, the bath for my help lies, Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes.


The little Love-god lying once asleep, Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand, Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keep, Came tripping by, but in her maiden hand, The fairest votary took up that fire, Which many legions of true hearts had warmed, And so the general of hot desire, Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarmed. This brand she quenched in a cool well by, Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual, Growing a bath and healthful remedy, For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall, Came there for cure and this by that I prove, Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.


ACT I Scene I. Rossillon. A room in the Countess's palace. Scene II. Paris. A room in the King's palace. Scene III. Rossillon. A Room in the Palace.


ACT II Scene I. Paris. A room in the King's palace. Scene II. Rossillon. A room in the Countess's palace. Scene III. Paris. The King's palace. Scene IV. Paris. The King's palace. Scene V. Another room in the same.


ACT III Scene I. Florence. A room in the Duke's palace. Scene II. Rossillon. A room in the Countess's palace. Scene III. Florence. Before the Duke's palace. Scene IV. Rossillon. A room in the Countess's palace. Scene V. Without the walls of Florence. Scene VI. Camp before Florence. Scene VII. Florence. A room in the Widow's house.


ACT IV Scene I. Without the Florentine camp. Scene II. Florence. A room in the Widow's house. Scene III. The Florentine camp. Scene IV. Florence. A room in the Widow's house. Scene V. Rossillon. A room in the Countess's palace.


ACT V Scene I. Marseilles. A street. Scene II. Rossillon. The inner court of the Countess's palace. Scene III. The same. A room in the Countess's palace.


KING OF FRANCE. THE DUKE OF FLORENCE. BERTRAM, Count of Rossillon. LAFEW, an old Lord. PAROLLES, a follower of Bertram. Several young French Lords, that serve with Bertram in the Florentine War. RYNALDO, servant to the Countess of Rossillon. Clown, servant to the Countess of Rossillon. A Page, servant to the Countess of Rossillon. COUNTESS OF ROSSILLON, mother to Bertram. HELENA, a Gentlewoman protected by the Countess. An old WIDOW of Florence. DIANA, daughter to the Widow. VIOLENTA, neighbour and friend to the Widow. MARIANA, neighbour and friend to the Widow.


Lords attending on the KING; Officers; Soldiers, &c., French and Florentine.


SCENE: Partly in France, and partly in Tuscany.


SCENE I. Rossillon. A room in the Countess's palace.


Enter Bertram, the Countess of Rossillon, Helena, and Lafew, all in black.


COUNTESS. In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.


BERTRAM. And I in going, madam, weep o'er my father's death anew; but I must attend his majesty's command, to whom I am now in ward, evermore in subjection.


LAFEW. You shall find of the king a husband, madam; you, sir, a father. He that so generally is at all times good, must of necessity hold his virtue to you, whose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted, rather than lack it where there is such abundance.


COUNTESS. What hope is there of his majesty's amendment?


LAFEW. He hath abandon'd his physicians, madam; under whose practices he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other advantage in the process but only the losing of hope by time.


COUNTESS. This young gentlewoman had a father—O that "had!", how sad a passage 'tis!—whose skill was almost as great as his honesty; had it stretch'd so far, would have made nature immortal, and death should have play for lack of work. Would for the king's sake he were living! I think it would be the death of the king's disease.


LAFEW. How called you the man you speak of, madam?


COUNTESS. He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon.


LAFEW. He was excellent indeed, madam; the king very lately spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly; he was skilful enough to have liv'd still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality.


BERTRAM. What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of?


BERTRAM. I heard not of it before.


LAFEW. I would it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon?


COUNTESS. His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that her education promises her dispositions she inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity, they are virtues and traitors too. In her they are the better for their simpleness; she derives her honesty, and achieves her goodness.


LAFEW. Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.


COUNTESS. 'Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father never approaches her heart but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena; go to, no more, lest it be rather thought you affect a sorrow than to have.


HELENA. I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too.


LAFEW. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead; excessive grief the enemy to the living.


COUNTESS. If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal.


BERTRAM. Madam, I desire your holy wishes.


LAFEW. How understand we that?


COUNTESS. Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy father In manners, as in shape! Thy blood and virtue Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none. Be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life's key. Be check'd for silence, But never tax'd for speech. What heaven more will, That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down, Fall on thy head! Farewell. My lord, 'Tis an unseason'd courtier; good my lord, Advise him.


LAFEW. He cannot want the best That shall attend his love.


[Exit Countess.]


BERTRAM. The best wishes that can be forg'd in your thoughts be servants to you! [To Helena.] Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her.


LAFEW. Farewell, pretty lady, you must hold the credit of your father.


HELENA. O, were that all! I think not on my father, And these great tears grace his remembrance more Than those I shed for him. What was he like? I have forgot him; my imagination Carries no favour in't but Bertram's. I am undone: there is no living, none, If Bertram be away. 'Twere 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. Th'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; Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him That they take place when virtue's steely bones Looks bleak i' th' cold wind: withal, full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.


HELENA. And you, monarch!


PAROLLES. Are you meditating on virginity?


HELENA. 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?


PAROLLES. Keep him out.


HELENA. But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant, in the defence, yet is weak. Unfold to us some warlike resistance.


PAROLLES. There is none. Man setting down before you will undermine you and blow you up.


HELENA. Bless our poor virginity from underminers and blowers-up! Is there no military policy how virgins might blow up men?


PAROLLES. 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 it!


HELENA. I will stand for't a little, though therefore I die a virgin.


PAROLLES. 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 it!


HELENA. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?


PAROLLES. 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 wither'd pears; it looks ill, it eats drily; marry, 'tis a wither'd pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet 'tis a wither'd pear. Will you anything with it?


HELENA. Not my virginity yet. There shall your master have a thousand loves, A mother, and a mistress, and a friend, A phoenix, 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.


PAROLLES. What one, i' faith?


HELENA. That I wish well. 'Tis pity—


PAROLLES. What's pity?


HELENA. 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 alone must think, which never Returns us thanks.


Enter a Page.


PAROLLES. Little Helen, farewell. If I can remember thee, I will think of thee at court.


HELENA. Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.


HELENA. I especially think, under Mars.


HELENA. The wars hath so kept you under, that you must needs be born under Mars.


PAROLLES. When he was predominant.


HELENA. When he was retrograde, I think rather.


PAROLLES. Why think you so?


HELENA. You go so much backward when you fight.


PAROLLES. That's for advantage.


HELENA. 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.


PAROLLES. I am so full of business 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.


HELENA. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky 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? The king's disease,—my project may deceive me, But my intents are fix'd, and will not leave me.


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


FIRST LORD. So 'tis reported, sir.


KING. Nay, 'tis most credible, we here receive it, 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. His love and wisdom, 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?


FIRST LORD. It is the Count Rossillon, 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 Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.


BERTRAM. 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 Today 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 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, followed well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward.


BERTRAM. 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," 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 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.


SECOND LORD. You're 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.


BERTRAM. 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.


BERTRAM. Thank your majesty.


[Exeunt. Flourish.]


SCENE III. Rossillon. A Room in the Palace.


Enter Countess, Steward and Clown.


COUNTESS. I will now hear. What say you of this gentlewoman?


STEWARD. 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.


COUNTESS. 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.


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


CLOWN. No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damned; but if I may have your ladyship's good will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.


COUNTESS. Wilt thou needs be a beggar?


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


COUNTESS. 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 barnes are blessings.


COUNTESS. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.


CLOWN. My poor body, madam, requires it; I am driven on by the flesh, and he must needs go that the devil drives.


COUNTESS. Is this all your worship's reason?


CLOWN. Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are.


COUNTESS. May the world know them?


CLOWN. I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and indeed I do marry that I may repent.


COUNTESS. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.


CLOWN. I am out of friends, madam, and I hope to have friends for my wife's sake.


COUNTESS. Such friends are thine enemies, knave.


CLOWN. Y'are shallow, madam, in 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 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 sever'd in religion, their heads are both one; they may jowl horns together like any deer i' the herd.


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


CLOWN. 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.


COUNTESS. Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you more anon.


STEWARD. May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you; of her I am to speak.


COUNTESS. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; Helen I mean.


CLOWN. [Sings.] 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.


COUNTESS. What, one good in ten? You corrupt the song, sirrah.


CLOWN. 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! And we might have a good woman born but or every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well; a man may draw his heart out ere he pluck one.


COUNTESS. You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you!


CLOWN. 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.


COUNTESS. Well, now.


STEWARD. I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.


COUNTESS. Faith I do. Her father bequeath'd 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.


STEWARD. Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wish'd me; alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touch'd 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; Diana no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surpris'd, without rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. This she deliver'd 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.


COUNTESS. You have discharg'd this honestly; keep it to yourself; many likelihoods inform'd 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 bosom; and I thank you for your honest care. I will speak with you further anon.


Even so it was with me when I was young; If ever we are nature's, these are ours; this thorn Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong; Our blood to us, this to our blood is born; It is the show and seal of nature's truth, Where love's strong passion is impress'd in youth. By our remembrances of days foregone, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none. Her eye is sick on't; I observe her now.


HELENA. What is your pleasure, madam?


COUNTESS. You know, Helen, I am a mother to you.


COUNTESS. Nay, a mother. Why not a mother? When I said a mother, Methought you saw a 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 distempered messenger of wet, The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye? —Why, that you are my daughter?


HELENA. That I am not.


COUNTESS. I say, I am your mother.


HELENA. Pardon, madam; The Count Rossillon cannot be my brother. I am from humble, he from honoured name; No note upon my parents, his all noble, My master, my dear lord he is; and I His servant live, and will his vassal die. He must not be my brother.


COUNTESS. Nor I your mother?


HELENA. You are my mother, madam; would you were— 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?


COUNTESS. 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 To say thou dost not. Therefore tell me true; But tell me then, 'tis so; for, look, thy cheeks Confess it, t'one to th'other; and thine eyes See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours, That in their kind they speak it; only sin And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue, That truth should be suspected. Speak, is't so? If it be so, you have wound a goodly clew; If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee, As heaven shall work in me for thine avail, To tell me truly.


COUNTESS. Go not about; my love hath in't a bond Whereof the world takes note. Come, come, disclose The state of your affection, for your passions Have to the full appeach'd.


HELENA. Then I confess, Here on my knee, before high heaven and you, That before you, and next unto high heaven, I love your son. 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 inteemable 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 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; That seeks not to find that her search implies, But riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies!


COUNTESS. Had you not lately an intent,—speak truly,— To go to Paris?


COUNTESS. Wherefore? tell true.


HELENA. 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.


COUNTESS. This was your motive For Paris, was it? Speak.


HELENA. My lord your son made me to think of this; Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king, Had from the conversation of my thoughts Haply been absent then.


COUNTESS. But think you, Helen, 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, Embowell'd of their doctrine, have let off The danger to itself?


HELENA. There's something in't More than my father's skill, which was the great'st Of his profession, that his good receipt Shall for my legacy be sanctified By th' luckiest stars in heaven; and would your honour But give me leave to try success, I'd venture The well-lost life of mine on his grace's cure. By such a day, an hour.


COUNTESS. Dost thou believe't?


COUNTESS. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love, Means and attendants, and my loving greetings To those of mine in court. I'll stay at home, And pray God's blessing into thy attempt. Be gone tomorrow; and be sure of this, What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.


SCENE I. Paris. A room in the King's palace.


Flourish. Enter the King with young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war; Bertram, Parolles and Attendants.


KING. Farewell, young lords; these warlike principles Do not throw from you; and you, my lords, farewell; Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all, The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis receiv'd, And is enough for both.


FIRST LORD. 'Tis our hope, sir, After well-ent'red soldiers, to return And find your grace in health.


KING. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart Will not confess he owes the malady That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords. Whether I live or die, be you the sons Of worthy Frenchmen; let higher Italy,— Those bated that inherit but the fall Of the last monarchy—see that you come Not to woo honour, but to wed it, when The bravest questant shrinks: find what you seek, That fame may cry you loud. I say farewell.


SECOND LORD. Health, at your bidding serve your majesty!


KING. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them; They say our French lack language to deny If they demand; beware of being captives Before you serve.


BOTH. Our hearts receive your warnings.


KING. Farewell.—Come hither to me.


[The King retires to a couch.]


FIRST LORD. O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us!


PAROLLES. 'Tis not his fault; the spark.


SECOND LORD. O, 'tis brave wars!


PAROLLES. Most admirable! I have seen those wars.


BERTRAM. I am commanded here, and kept a coil with, "Too young", and "the next year" and "'tis too early".


PAROLLES. An thy mind stand to't, boy, steal away bravely.


BERTRAM. I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock, Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry, Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn But one to dance with. By heaven, I'll steal away.


FIRST LORD. There's honour in the theft.


PAROLLES. Commit it, count.


SECOND LORD. I am your accessary; and so farewell.


BERTRAM. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortur'd body.


FIRST LORD. Farewell, captain.


PAROLLES. 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 entrench'd it. Say to him I live; and observe his reports for me.


FIRST LORD. We shall, noble captain.


PAROLLES. Mars dote on you for his novices!


What will ye do?


BERTRAM. Stay the king.


PAROLLES. Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have restrain'd 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 receiv'd star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed. After them, and take a more dilated farewell.


BERTRAM. And I will do so.


PAROLLES. Worthy fellows, and like to prove most sinewy sword-men.


LAFEW. Pardon, my lord [kneeling], for me and for my tidings.


KING. I'll fee thee to stand up.


LAFEW. Then here's a man stands that has brought his pardon. I would you had kneel'd, my lord, to ask me mercy, And that at my bidding you could so stand up.


KING. I would I had; so I had broke thy pate, And ask'd thee mercy for't.


LAFEW. Good faith, across; But, my good lord, 'tis thus: will you be cur'd Of your infirmity?


LAFEW. O, will you eat No grapes, my royal fox? Yes, but you will My noble grapes, and 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 sprightly fire and motion; whose simple touch Is powerful to araise King Pippen, nay, To give great Charlemain a pen in's hand And write to her a love-line.


KING. What 'her' is this?


LAFEW. Why, doctor 'she'! My lord, there's one arriv'd, If you will see her. Now, by my faith and honour, If seriously I may convey my thoughts In this my light deliverance, I have spoke With one that in her sex, her years, profession, Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz'd me more Than I dare blame my weakness. Will you see her, For that is her demand, and know her business? That done, laugh well at me.


KING. Now, good Lafew, Bring in the admiration; that we with thee May spend our wonder too, or take off thine By wond'ring how thou took'st it.


LAFEW. Nay, I'll fit you, And not be all day neither.


KING. Thus he his special nothing ever prologues.


Enter Lafew with Helena.


LAFEW. Nay, come your ways.


KING. This haste hath wings indeed.


LAFEW. Nay, come your ways. This is his majesty, say your mind to him. A traitor you do look like, but such traitors His majesty seldom fears; I am Cressid's uncle, That dare leave two together. Fare you well.


KING. Now, fair one, does your business follow us?


HELENA. Ay, my good lord. Gerard de Narbon was my father, In what he did profess, well found.


HELENA. The rather will I spare my praises towards him. Knowing him is enough. On his bed of death Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one, Which, as the dearest issue of his practice, And of his old experience the only darling, He bade me store up as a triple eye, Safer than mine own two; more dear I have so, And hearing your high majesty is touch'd With that malignant cause, wherein the honour Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power, I come to tender it, and my appliance, With all bound humbleness.


KING. We thank you, maiden, But may not be so credulous of cure, When our most learned doctors leave us, and The congregated college have concluded That labouring art can never ransom nature From her inaidable estate. I say we must not So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope, To prostitute our past-cure malady To empirics, or to dissever so Our great self and our credit, to esteem A senseless help, when help past sense we deem.


HELENA. My duty then shall pay me for my pains. I will no more enforce mine office on you, Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts A modest one to bear me back again.


KING. I cannot give thee less, to be call'd grateful. Thou thought'st to help me; and such thanks I give As one near death to those that wish him live. But what at full I know, thou know'st no part; I knowing all my peril, thou no art.


HELENA. What I can do can do no hurt to try, Since you set up your rest 'gainst remedy. He that of greatest works is finisher Oft does them by the weakest minister. So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown, When judges have been babes. Great floods have flown From simple sources, and great seas have dried When miracles have by the great'st been denied. Oft expectation fails, and most oft there Where most it promises; and oft it hits Where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.


KING. I must not hear thee. Fare thee well, kind maid. Thy pains, not us'd, must by thyself be paid; Proffers, not took, reap thanks for their reward.


HELENA. Inspired merit so by breath is barr'd. It is not so with Him that all things knows As 'tis with us that square our guess by shows; But most it is presumption in us when The help of heaven we count the act of men. Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent; Of heaven, not me, make an experiment. I am not an impostor, that proclaim Myself against the level of mine aim, But know I think, and think I know most sure, My art is not past power nor you past cure.


KING. Art thou so confident? Within what space Hop'st thou my cure?


HELENA. The greatest grace lending grace. Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring, Ere twice in murk and occidental damp Moist Hesperus hath quench'd her sleepy lamp; Or four and twenty times the pilot's glass Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass; What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly, Health shall live free, and sickness freely die.


KING. Upon thy certainty and confidence What dar'st thou venture?


HELENA. Tax of impudence, A strumpet's boldness, a divulged shame, Traduc'd by odious ballads; my maiden's name Sear'd otherwise; nay worse of worst extended With vilest torture, let my life be ended.


KING. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak His powerful sound within an organ weak; And what impossibility would slay In common sense, sense saves another way. Thy life is dear, for all that life can rate Worth name of life in thee hath estimate: Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, all That happiness and prime can happy call. Thou this to hazard needs must intimate Skill infinite, or monstrous desperate. Sweet practiser, thy physic I will try, That ministers thine own death if I die.


HELENA. If I break time, or flinch in property Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die, And well deserv'd. Not helping, death's my fee; But if I help, what do you promise me?


KING. Make thy demand.


HELENA. But will you make it even?


KING. Ay, by my sceptre and my hopes of heaven.


HELENA. Then shalt thou give me, with thy kingly hand What husband in thy power I will command: Exempted be from me the arrogance To choose from forth the royal blood of France, My low and humble name to propagate With any branch or image of thy state; But such a one, thy vassal, whom I know Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow.


KING. Here is my hand; the premises observ'd, Thy will by my performance shall be serv'd; So make the choice of thy own time, for I, Thy resolv'd patient, on thee still rely. More should I question thee, and more I must, Though more to know could not be more to trust: From whence thou cam'st, how tended on; but rest Unquestion'd welcome, and undoubted bless'd. Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed.


[Flourish. Exeunt.]


SCENE II. Rossillon. A room in the Countess's palace.


Enter Countess and Clown.


COUNTESS. Come on, sir; I shall now put you to the height of your breeding.


CLOWN. I will show myself highly fed and lowly taught. I know my business is but to the court.


COUNTESS. To the court! Why, what place make you special, when you put off that with such contempt? But to the court!


CLOWN. Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he may easily put it off at court: he that cannot make a leg, put off's cap, kiss his hand, and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the court; but for me, I have an answer will serve all men.


COUNTESS. Marry, that's a bountiful answer that fits all questions.


CLOWN. It is like a barber's chair, that fits all buttocks—the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn-buttock, or any buttock.


COUNTESS. Will your answer serve fit to all questions?


CLOWN. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney, as your French crown for your taffety punk, as Tib's rush for Tom's forefinger, as a pancake for Shrove-Tuesday, a morris for May-day, as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding quean to a wrangling knave, as the nun's lip to the friar's mouth; nay, as the pudding to his skin.


COUNTESS. Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness for all questions?


CLOWN. From below your duke to beneath your constable, it will fit any question.


COUNTESS. It must be an answer of most monstrous size that must fit all demands.


CLOWN. But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned should speak truth of it. Here it is, and all that belongs to't. Ask me if I am a courtier; it shall do you no harm to learn.


COUNTESS. To be young again, if we could: I will be a fool in question, hoping to be the wiser by your answer. I pray you, sir, are you a courtier?


CLOWN. O Lord, sir! There's a simple putting off. More, more, a hundred of them.


COUNTESS. Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves you.


CLOWN. O Lord, sir! Thick, thick; spare not me.


COUNTESS. I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely meat.


CLOWN. O Lord, sir! Nay, put me to't, I warrant you.


COUNTESS. You were lately whipp'd, sir, as I think.


CLOWN. O Lord, sir! Spare not me.


COUNTESS. Do you cry 'O Lord, sir!' at your whipping, and 'spare not me'? Indeed your 'O Lord, sir!' is very sequent to your whipping. You would answer very well to a whipping, if you were but bound to't.


CLOWN. I ne'er had worse luck in my life in my 'O Lord, sir!' I see things may serve long, but not serve ever.


COUNTESS. I play the noble housewife with the time, to entertain it so merrily with a fool.


CLOWN. O Lord, sir! Why, there't serves well again.


COUNTESS. An end, sir! To your business. Give Helen this, And urge her to a present answer back. Commend me to my kinsmen and my son. This is not much.


CLOWN. Not much commendation to them?


COUNTESS. Not much employment for you. You understand me?


CLOWN. Most fruitfully. I am there before my legs.


COUNTESS. Haste you again.


[Exeunt severally.]


SCENE III. Paris. The King's palace.


LAFEW. They say miracles are past; and we have our philosophical persons to make modern and familiar things supernatural and causeless. Hence is it that we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge when we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear.


PAROLLES. Why, 'tis the rarest argument of wonder that hath shot out in our latter times.


BERTRAM. And so 'tis.


LAFEW. To be relinquish'd of the artists,—


PAROLLES. So I say; both of Galen and Paracelsus.


LAFEW. Of all the learned and authentic fellows,—


LAFEW. That gave him out incurable,—


PAROLLES. Why, there 'tis; so say I too.


LAFEW. Not to be helped.


PAROLLES. Right; as 'twere a man assur'd of a—


LAFEW. Uncertain life and sure death.


PAROLLES. Just; you say well. So would I have said.


LAFEW. I may truly say, it is a novelty to the world.


PAROLLES. It is indeed; if you will have it in showing, you shall read it in what do you call there?


LAFEW. A showing of a heavenly effect in an earthly actor.


PAROLLES. That's it; I would have said the very same.


LAFEW. Why, your dolphin is not lustier; fore me, I speak in respect—


PAROLLES. Nay, 'tis strange, 'tis very strange; that is the brief and the tedious of it; and he's of a most facinerious spirit that will not acknowledge it to be the—


LAFEW. Very hand of heaven.


LAFEW. In a most weak—


PAROLLES. And debile minister, great power, great transcendence, which should indeed give us a further use to be made than alone the recov'ry of the king, as to be—


LAFEW. Generally thankful.


PAROLLES. I would have said it; you say well. Here comes the king.


LAFEW. Lustique, as the Dutchman says. I'll like a maid the better, whilst I have a tooth in my head. Why, he's able to lead her a coranto.


PAROLLES. Mor du vinager! is not this Helen?


LAFEW. Fore God, I think so.


KING. Go, call before me all the lords in court.


Sit, my preserver, by thy patient's side, And with this healthful hand, whose banish'd sense Thou has repeal'd, a second time receive The confirmation of my promis'd gift, Which but attends thy naming.


Fair maid, send forth thine eye. This youthful parcel Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing, O'er whom both sovereign power and father's voice I have to use. Thy frank election make; Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake.


HELENA. To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress Fall, when love please! Marry, to each but one!


LAFEW. I'd give bay curtal and his furniture My mouth no more were broken than these boys', And writ as little beard.


KING. Peruse them well. Not one of those but had a noble father.


She addresses her to a Lord.


HELENA. Gentlemen, Heaven hath through me restor'd the king to health.


ALL. We understand it, and thank heaven for you.


HELENA. I am a simple maid, and therein wealthiest That I protest I simply am a maid. Please it, your majesty, I have done already. The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me: "We blush that thou shouldst choose; but, be refused, Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever, We'll ne'er come there again."


KING. Make choice; and, see, Who shuns thy love shuns all his love in me.


HELENA. Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly, And to imperial Love, that god most high, Do my sighs stream. [To first Lord.] Sir, will you hear my suit?


FIRST LORD. And grant it.


HELENA. Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.


LAFEW. I had rather be in this choice than throw ames-ace for my life.


HELENA. [To second Lord.] The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes, Before I speak, too threat'ningly replies. Love make your fortunes twenty times above Her that so wishes, and her humble love!


SECOND LORD. No better, if you please.


HELENA. My wish receive, Which great Love grant; and so I take my leave.


LAFEW. Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine I'd have them whipp'd; or I would send them to th' Turk to make eunuchs of.


HELENA. [To third Lord.] Be not afraid that I your hand should take; I'll never do you wrong for your own sake. Blessing upon your vows, and in your bed Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed!


LAFEW. These boys are boys of ice, they'll none have her. Sure, they are bastards to the English; the French ne'er got 'em.


HELENA. [To fourth Lord.] You are too young, too happy, and too good, To make yourself a son out of my blood.


FOURTH LORD. Fair one, I think not so.


LAFEW. There's one grape yet. I am sure thy father drank wine. But if thou beest not an ass, I am a youth of fourteen; I have known thee already.


HELENA. [To Bertram.] I dare not say I take you, but I give Me and my service, ever whilst I live, Into your guiding power. This is the man.


KING. Why, then, young Bertram, take her; she's thy wife.


BERTRAM. My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your highness, In such a business give me leave to use The help of mine own eyes.


KING. Know'st thou not, Bertram, What she has done for me?


BERTRAM. Yes, my good lord, But never hope to know why I should marry her.


KING. Thou know'st she has rais'd me from my sickly bed.


BERTRAM. But follows it, my lord, to bring me down Must answer for your raising? I know her well; She had her breeding at my father's charge: A poor physician's daughter my wife! Disdain Rather corrupt me ever!


KING. 'Tis only title thou disdain'st in her, the which I can build up. Strange is it that our bloods, Of colour, weight, and heat, pour'd all together, Would quite confound distinction, yet stands off In differences so mighty. If she be All that is virtuous, save what thou dislik'st, A poor physician's daughter,—thou dislik'st— Of virtue for the name. But do not so. From lowest place when virtuous things proceed, The place is dignified by the doer's deed. Where great additions swell's, and virtue none, It is a dropsied honour. Good alone Is good without a name; vileness is so: The property by what it is should go, Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair; In these to nature she's immediate heir; And these breed honour: that is honour's scorn Which challenges itself as honour's born, And is not like the sire. Honours thrive When rather from our acts we them derive Than our fore-goers. The mere word's a slave, Debauch'd on every tomb, on every grave A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb Where dust and damn'd oblivion is the tomb Of honour'd bones indeed. What should be said? If thou canst like this creature as a maid, I can create the rest. Virtue and she Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me.


BERTRAM. I cannot love her, nor will strive to do 't.


KING. Thou wrong'st thyself, if thou shouldst strive to choose.


HELENA. That you are well restor'd, my lord, I am glad. Let the rest go.


KING. My honour's at the stake, which to defeat, I must produce my power. Here, take her hand, Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift, That dost in vile misprision shackle up My love and her desert; that canst not dream We, poising us in her defective scale, Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know It is in us to plant thine honour where We please to have it grow. Check thy contempt; Obey our will, which travails in thy good; Believe not thy disdain, but presently Do thine own fortunes that obedient right Which both thy duty owes and our power claims; Or I will throw thee from my care for ever Into the staggers and the careless lapse Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate Loosing upon thee in the name of justice, Without all terms of pity. Speak! Thine answer!


BERTRAM. Pardon, my gracious lord; for I submit My fancy to your eyes. When I consider What great creation, and what dole of honour Flies where you bid it, I find that she, which late Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now The praised of the king; who, so ennobled, Is as 'twere born so.


KING. Take her by the hand, And tell her she is thine; to whom I promise A counterpoise; if not to thy estate, A balance more replete.


BERTRAM. I take her hand.


KING. Good fortune and the favour of the king Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief, And be perform'd tonight. The solemn feast Shall more attend upon the coming space, Expecting absent friends. As thou lov'st her, Thy love's to me religious; else, does err.


LAFEW. Do you hear, monsieur? A word with you.


LAFEW. Your lord and master did well to make his recantation.


PAROLLES. Recantation! My lord! My master!


PAROLLES. A most harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody succeeding. My master!


LAFEW. Are you companion to the Count Rossillon?


PAROLLES. To any count; to all counts; to what is man.


LAFEW. To what is count's man: count's master is of another style.


PAROLLES. You are too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are too old.


LAFEW. I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to which title age cannot bring thee.


LAFEW. I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty wise fellow; thou didst make tolerable vent of thy travel; it might pass. Yet the scarfs and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from believing thee a vessel of too great a burden. I have now found thee; when I lose thee again I care not. Yet art thou good for nothing but taking up, and that thou art scarce worth.


PAROLLES. Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee—


LAFEW. Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest thou hasten thy trial; which if—Lord have mercy on thee for a hen! So, my good window of lattice, fare thee well; thy casement I need not open, for I look through thee. Give me thy hand.


PAROLLES. My lord, you give me most egregious indignity.


LAFEW. Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy of it.


PAROLLES. I have not, my lord, deserv'd it.


LAFEW. Yes, good faith, every dram of it; and I will not bate thee a scruple.


LAFEW. Ev'n as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at a smack o' th' contrary. If ever thou beest bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to hold my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default, "He is a man I know."


PAROLLES. My lord, you do me most insupportable vexation.


LAFEW. I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, and my poor doing eternal; for doing I am past, as I will by thee, in what motion age will give me leave.


PAROLLES. Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace off me; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord! Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of authority. I'll beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with any convenience, an he were double and double a lord. I'll have no more pity of his age than I would have of—I'll beat him, and if I could but meet him again.


LAFEW. Sirrah, your lord and master's married; there's news for you; you have a new mistress.


PAROLLES. I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship to make some reservation of your wrongs. He is my good lord; whom I serve above is my master.


LAFEW. The devil it is that's thy master. Why dost thou garter up thy arms o' this fashion? Dost make hose of thy sleeves? Do other servants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine honour, if I were but two hours younger, I'd beat thee. Methink'st thou art a general offence, and every man should beat thee. I think thou wast created for men to breathe themselves upon thee.


PAROLLES. This is hard and undeserved measure, my lord.


LAFEW. Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernel out of a pomegranate; you are a vagabond, and no true traveller. You are more saucy with lords and honourable personages than the commission of your birth and virtue gives you heraldry. You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave. I leave you.


PAROLLES. Good, very good, it is so then. Good, very good; let it be conceal'd awhile.


BERTRAM. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!


PAROLLES. What's the matter, sweetheart?


BERTRAM. Although before the solemn priest I have sworn, I will not bed her.


PAROLLES. What, what, sweetheart?


BERTRAM. O my Parolles, they have married me! I'll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.


PAROLLES. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits The tread of a man's foot: to the wars!


BERTRAM. There's letters from my mother; what th' import is I know not yet.


PAROLLES. Ay, that would be known. To th' wars, my boy, to th' wars! He wears his honour in a box unseen That hugs his kicky-wicky here at home, Spending his manly marrow in her arms, Which should sustain the bound and high curvet Of Mars's fiery steed. To other regions! France is a stable; we that dwell in't, jades, Therefore, to th' war!


BERTRAM. It shall be so; I'll send her to my house, Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, And wherefore I am fled; write to the king That which I durst not speak. His present gift Shall furnish me to those Italian fields Where noble fellows strike. War is no strife To the dark house and the detested wife.


PAROLLES. Will this caprichio hold in thee, art sure?


BERTRAM. Go with me to my chamber and advise me. I'll send her straight away. Tomorrow I'll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.


PAROLLES. Why, these balls bound; there's noise in it. 'Tis hard: A young man married is a man that's marr'd. Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go. The king has done you wrong; but hush 'tis so.


SCENE IV. Paris. The King's palace.


Enter Helena and Clown.


HELENA. My mother greets me kindly: is she well?


CLOWN. She is not well, but yet she has her health; she's very merry, but yet she is not well. But thanks be given, she's very well, and wants nothing i' the world; but yet she is not well.


HELENA. If she be very well, what does she ail that she's not very well?


CLOWN. Truly, she's very well indeed, but for two things.


HELENA. What two things?


CLOWN. One, that she's not in heaven, whither God send her quickly! The other, that she's in earth, from whence God send her quickly!


PAROLLES. Bless you, my fortunate lady!


HELENA. I hope, sir, I have your good will to have mine own good fortune.


PAROLLES. You had my prayers to lead them on; and to keep them on, have them still. O, my knave how does my old lady?


CLOWN. So that you had her wrinkles and I her money, I would she did as you say.


CLOWN. Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a man's tongue shakes out his master's undoing. To say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to have nothing, is to be a great part of your title; which is within a very little of nothing.


PAROLLES. Away! Thou art a knave.


CLOWN. You should have said, sir, before a knave thou art a knave; that is before me thou art a knave. This had been truth, sir.


PAROLLES. Go to, thou art a witty fool; I have found thee.


CLOWN. Did you find me in yourself, sir? or were you taught to find me? The search, sir, was profitable; and much fool may you find in you, even to the world's pleasure and the increase of laughter.


PAROLLES. A good knave, i' faith, and well fed. Madam, my lord will go away tonight; A very serious business calls on him. The great prerogative and right of love, Which, as your due, time claims, he does acknowledge; But puts it off to a compell'd restraint; Whose want, and whose delay, is strew'd with sweets; Which they distil now in the curbed time, To make the coming hour o'erflow with joy And pleasure drown the brim.


HELENA. What's his will else?


PAROLLES. That you will take your instant leave o' the king, And make this haste as your own good proceeding, Strengthen'd with what apology you think May make it probable need.


HELENA. What more commands he?


PAROLLES. That, having this obtain'd, you presently Attend his further pleasure.


HELENA. In everything I wait upon his will.


PAROLLES. I shall report it so.


SCENE V. Another room in the same.


LAFEW. But I hope your lordship thinks not him a soldier.


BERTRAM. Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof.


LAFEW. You have it from his own deliverance.


BERTRAM. And by other warranted testimony.


LAFEW. Then my dial goes not true; I took this lark for a bunting.


BERTRAM. I do assure you, my lord, he is very great in knowledge, and accordingly valiant.


LAFEW. I have, then, sinned against his experience and transgressed against his valour; and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to repent. Here he comes; I pray you make us friends; I will pursue the amity.


PAROLLES. [To Bertram.] These things shall be done, sir.


LAFEW. Pray you, sir, who's his tailor?


LAFEW. O, I know him well, I, sir; he, sir, is a good workman, a very good tailor.


BERTRAM. [Aside to Parolles.] Is she gone to the king?


PAROLLES. She is.


BERTRAM. Will she away tonight?


PAROLLES. As you'll have her.


BERTRAM. I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure, Given order for our horses; and tonight, When I should take possession of the bride, End ere I do begin.


LAFEW. A good traveller is something at the latter end of a dinner; but one that lies three-thirds and uses a known truth to pass a thousand nothings with, should be once heard and thrice beaten.— God save you, Captain.


BERTRAM. Is there any unkindness between my lord and you, monsieur?


PAROLLES. I know not how I have deserved to run into my lord's displeasure.


LAFEW. You have made shift to run into 't, boots and spurs and all, like him that leapt into the custard; and out of it you'll run again, rather than suffer question for your residence.


BERTRAM. It may be you have mistaken him, my lord.


LAFEW. And shall do so ever, though I took him at his prayers. Fare you well, my lord; and believe this of me, there can be no kernal in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes; trust him not in matter of heavy consequence; I have kept of them tame, and know their natures. Farewell, monsieur; I have spoken better of you than you have or will to deserve at my hand; but we must do good against evil.


PAROLLES. An idle lord, I swear.


BERTRAM. I think so.


PAROLLES. Why, do you not know him?


BERTRAM. Yes, I do know him well; and common speech Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.


HELENA. I have, sir, as I was commanded from you, Spoke with the king, and have procur'd his leave For present parting; only he desires Some private speech with you.


BERTRAM. I shall obey his will. You must not marvel, Helen, at my course, Which holds not colour with the time, nor does The ministration and required office On my particular. Prepared I was not For such a business; therefore am I found So much unsettled: this drives me to entreat you; That presently you take your way for home, And rather muse than ask why I entreat you: For my respects are better than they seem; And my appointments have in them a need Greater than shows itself at the first view To you that know them not. This to my mother.


'Twill be two days ere I shall see you; so I leave you to your wisdom.


HELENA. Sir, I can nothing say But that I am your most obedient servant.


BERTRAM. Come, come, no more of that.


HELENA. And ever shall With true observance seek to eke out that Wherein toward me my homely stars have fail'd To equal my great fortune.


BERTRAM. Let that go. My haste is very great. Farewell; hie home.


BERTRAM. Well, what would you say?


HELENA. I am not worthy of the wealth I owe; Nor dare I say 'tis mine, and yet it is; But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal What law does vouch mine own.


BERTRAM. What would you have?


HELENA. 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.


BERTRAM. I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse.


HELENA. I shall not break your bidding, good my lord. Where are my other men, monsieur? Farewell,


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


PAROLLES. Bravely, coragio!


SCENE I. Florence. A room in the Duke's palace.


Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence attended; two French Lords, and Soldiers.


DUKE. So that, from point to point, now have you heard 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. Therefore we marvel much our cousin France Would, in so just a business, shut his bosom Against our borrowing prayers.


SECOND LORD. Good my lord, 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.


DUKE. Be it his pleasure.


FIRST LORD. But I am sure the younger of our nature, That surfeit on their ease, will day by day Come here for physic.


DUKE. Welcome shall they be; And all the honours that can fly from us Shall on them settle. You know your places well; When better fall, for your avails they fell. Tomorrow to the field.


COUNTESS. It hath happen'd all as I would have had it, save that he comes not along with her.


CLOWN. By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very melancholy man.


COUNTESS. By what observance, I pray you?


CLOWN. 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.


COUNTESS. Let me see what he writes, and when he means to come.


CLOWN. I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court. Our old lings and our Isbels o' th' country are nothing like your old ling and your Isbels o' th' court. The brains of my Cupid's knock'd out, and I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.


COUNTESS. What have we here?


CLOWN. E'en that you have there.


COUNTESS. [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, BERTRAM.


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 misprizing of a maid too virtuous For the contempt of empire.


Enter Clown.


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


COUNTESS. What is the matter?


CLOWN. Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some comfort; your son will not be kill'd so soon as I thought he would.


COUNTESS. Why should he be kill'd?


CLOWN. 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 the two Gentlemen.


HELENA. Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.


COUNTESS. Think upon patience. Pray you, gentlemen,— 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?


SECOND GENTLEMAN. Madam, he's gone to serve the Duke of Florence; We met him thitherward, for thence we came, And, after some despatch in hand at court, Thither we bend again.


HELENA. Look on this 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.


COUNTESS. Brought you this letter, gentlemen?


FIRST GENTLEMAN. Ay, madam; And for the contents' sake, are sorry for our pains.


COUNTESS. I pr'ythee, 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?


COUNTESS. And to be a soldier?


SECOND GENTLEMAN. Such is his noble purpose, and, believe't, The duke will lay upon him all the honour That good convenience claims.


COUNTESS. Return you thither?


FIRST GENTLEMAN. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed.


HELENA. [Reads.] Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France. 'Tis bitter.


COUNTESS. Find you that there?


FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis but the boldness of his hand haply, which his heart was not consenting to.


COUNTESS. 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 That twenty such rude boys might tend upon, And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?


FIRST GENTLEMAN. A servant only, and a gentleman which I have sometime known.


COUNTESS. Parolles, was it not?


COUNTESS. A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness. My son corrupts a well-derived nature With his inducement.


FIRST GENTLEMAN. Indeed, good lady, The fellow has a deal of that too much, Which holds him much to have.