sures;

Eril

I am for other than for dancing measures.
Duke S. Stay, Jaques, stay.

Jaq. To see no pastime, I:-what you would have

Ros. It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue but it is no more unhandsome, than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true, that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true, that a good play needs no epilogue: Yet to good wine they do use good bushes; and good plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a case am I in then that am neither a good epilogue, nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play? I am not furnished like a beggar, therefore to beg will not become me my way is, to conjure you; and I'll begin with the wo nen. I charge you, O women, • Dressed.

[A dance.

for the love you bear to men, to like as much of this play as pleases them: and so I charge you, men, for the fove you bear to women, (as I perceive by your simpering, none of you hate them.) that between you and the woman, the play may please. If I were a women, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me: and breaths that I defied not; and, i am sure, as many as have good beards, or god faces, or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer when I make curts`y, bid me farewell.

That I liked.

Exeunt.

KING OF FRANCE.

DUKE OF FLORENCE.

BERTRAM, Count of Rousillon.
LAFEU, an old Lord.

PAROLLES, a follower of Bertram.

Several young French Lords, that serve with Bertram in the Florentine War.

Steward,

Clown,

Servants to the Countess of Rousillon.

A Page.

SCENE L-Rousillon. A room in the Countess' Palace.

Enter BERTRAM, the COUNTESS of ROUSILLON, HELENA, and LAFEU, in mourning.

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

Ber. 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,

Laf. You shall find of the king a husband, madim-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 abondance.

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

Laf. He hath abandoned 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.

Count. This young gentlewoman had a father, (0, that had! how sad a passage 'tis!) whose skill was almost as great as his honesty; had it stretched 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.

Lf. How called you the man you speak of. madam?

Count. He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon. Laf. He was excellent, indeed, madam; the king very lately spoke of him, admiringly, and mournaly; he was skilful enough to have lived still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality. Ber. What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of?

Lf. A fistula, my lord.

Ber. I heard not of it before.

Lf. I would, it were not notorious.-Was this gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon? Count. His sole child, my lord; and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good, that her education promises: her dispositions ste inherits, which make 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 mpleness: she derives her honesty, and achieves der goodness.

Laf. Your commendations, madam, get from her

tears.

Count. 'Tis the best brine a maiden can season Under his particular care, as my guardian.

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.

Hel. I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too. Luf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living. Count. If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal.

Ber. Madam, I desire your holy wishes.
Laf. How understand we that?

Count. 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 birth-right! 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.
Lif.

He cannot want the best That shall attend his love. Count. Heaven bless him!-Farewell, Bertram. (Exit COUNTESS. Ber. The best wishes that can be forged in your thoughts, [To HELENA.] be servants to you! Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her.

Laf. Farewell, pretty lady: You must hold the credit of your father.

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

Countenanca

Par. Keep him out.

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

Par. There is none; man, sitting down before you, will undermine you, and blow you up.

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

Par. Virginity, being blown down, man will quicklier be blown up: marry, in blowing him down again, with the breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It is not politic in the commonwealth of nature, to preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational increase; and there was never virgin got, till virginity was first lost. That, you were made of, is metal to make virgins. Virginity by being once lost, may be ten times found: by being ever kept, it is ever lost; 'tis too cold a companion; away with it.

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

Par. There's little can be said in't; 'tis against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity, is to accuse your mothers: which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself, is a virgin : virginity murders itself; and should be buried in highways, out of al 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 ten years it will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase: and the principal itself not much the worse: Away with't.

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

Par. Let me see: Marry, ill, to like him that ne er it likes. 'Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less worth: off with't, while 'tis vendible: answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion; richly suited, but unsuitable: just like the brooch and toothpick, which wear not How: 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 with ered pears; it looks ill, it eats dryly: marry, 'tis a withered pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet. 'tis a withered pear; Will you any thing with it! Hel. 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-
Par. What one, i'faith?

Hel. That I wish well.-'Tis pity

Par. What's pity?

Hel. That wishing well had not a body in't, Which might be felt: that we, the poorer born, Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends,

Forbidden.

A quibble on date, which means age, and candied fruit.

Par. 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 three,
understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; els
so thou wilt be capable of a courtier's counsel, and
thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine igno
rance 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. [Eri.
Hel. 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,
The mightiest space in fortune nature brings
That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?
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-iny project may deceive me,
But my intents are fix'd, and will not leave me.
| Erit.
A Room in the King's
SCENE II.-Paris.
Palace.
Flourish of Cornets. Enter the KING OF FRANCE
with letters; Lords and others attending.
King. The Florentines and Senoys' are by the
Have fought with equal fortune, and continue
A braving war.

ears;

1 Lord.

So 'tis reported, sir. King. Nay, 'tis most credible; we here receive it A certainty, vouch'd from our cousin Austria, For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend With caution, that the Florentine will move us Prejudicates the business, and would seem To have us make denial.

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

2 Lord.

It may well serve A nursery to our gentry, who are sick For breathing and exploit.

King.

What's he comes here?

Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES.

1 Lord. It is the count Rousillon, my good lord, Young Bertram.

King. Youth, thou bear'st thy father's face; Frank nature, rather curious than in haste, Hath well compos'd thee. Thy father's moral parts Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.

Ber. My thanks and duty are your majesty's. King. I would I had that corporal soundness now As when thy father, and myself, in friendship • Things formed by nature for each other. The citizens of the small republic of which Sienna is the capital.

First try'd our soldiership! He did look far
luto 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
To-day in our young lords; but they may jest
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted,
Fre they can hide their levity in honor.
No like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness
Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,
His equal had awak`d them; and his honor,
Clark 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 used as creatures of another place;
And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks,
Making them proud of his humility,

In their poor praise he humbled: Such a man
Might be a copy to these younger times;
Which, follow d well, would demonstrate them now
But goers backward.

Ber.

His good remembrance, sir, Lies richer in your thoughts, than on his tomb; So in approof lives not his epitaph, As in your royal speech.

Kung. 'Would, I were with him! He would always say,

Methinks, I hear him now; his plausive words
He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them,
To grow there, and to bear,)--Let me not live
Thus his good melancholy oft began,
On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,
When it was out.-let me not live, quoth he,
After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff
of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses
All but new things disdain, whose judgments are
More fothers of their garments; whose constancies
Expire before their fashions;This he wish'd:
1. after him, do after him wish too,

Since I nor wax, nor honey, can bring home,
I were dissolved from my hive,

To give some laborers room.

2 Lord.

You are lov'd, sir; They, that least lend it you, shall lack you first. King. I fill a place. I know't.-How long is't, count, Since the physician at your father's died? He was much fam'd.

Ber. Some six months since, my lord. King. If he were living, I would try him yet;Lend me an arm;-the rest have worn me out With several applications: nature and sickness Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count; My son's no dearer. Ber.

Thank your majesty. [Exeunt. Flourish.

SCENE III-Rousillon. A Room in the Countess's Palace.

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

Count. Tell me the reason why thou wilt marry Clo. My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs go, that the devil drives.

Count. Is this all your worship's reason?

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

Count. May the world know them!

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

Count. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wicked

ness.

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

Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave. Clo. You are shallow, madam; e'en great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am a-weary of. He, that ears my land, spares my team, and gives me leave to inn the crop: if I be his cuckold, he's my drudge: He, that comforts my wife, is the cherisher of 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 man could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage; for young Charbon the puritan, and old Poysam the papist, howso'eer their hearts are several in religion, their heads are both one, they may joll horns together, like any deer i' the herd.

Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave?

Cio. A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way: 5

For I the ballad will repeat,

Which men full true shall find;
Your marriage comes by destiny,
Your cuckoo sings by kind.

Count. Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you

more anon.

Stew. May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you; of her I am to speak. Count. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoinan, I would speak with her; Helen I mean.

Clo. Was this fair face the cause, quoth she.
[Singing.

Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
Fond done, done fond,

Was this King Priam's joy a
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 bud if one be good,
There's yet one good in ten.

Count. What, one good in ten? you corrupt the song, sirrah.

Clo. One good woman in ten, Madam; which is a purifying o' the song: 'Would God serve the world so all the year? we'd find no fault with the tythe-woman, if I were the person: One in ten, quoth a'! an we might have a good woman born but every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well; a man may draw his heart

Count. Well, sir.

Clo. No, madam, 'tis not so well, that I am poor; hough many of the rich are damned: But, if may have your ladyship's good will to go to the world, label the woman and I will do as we may. Count. Wilt thou needs be a beggar! Clo. I do beg your good will in this case. Count. In what case?

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

• Approbation. To be married.

To act up to your desires. a Children.

Count. You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you?

Clo. That man should be at woman s command, and yet no hurt done!-Though honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither. Exit Clown.

Count. Well, now. Stew. I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.

Count. Indeed, I do; her father bequeathed her to me; and she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds: there is more owing her, than is paid; and more shall be paid her, than she'll demand.

Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her than. I think, she wished me alone she was, and did communicate to herself, her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they a Ploughs. Therefore.

The nearest way.

Foolishly done.