The Family Shakspeare

Par. What's pity?

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.

Laf.

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 Be thoughts, [To HELENA.] be servants to you! 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
What was he like?
Than those I shed for him.

I have forgot him: my imagination
Carries no favour 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 trick 2 of his sweet favour":
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Who comes here?
Must sanctify his relicks.
Enter PAROLles.

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
Look bleak in the cold wind: withal, full oft we see
Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.

Par. Save you, fair queen.

Hel. And you, monárch. — You're for the court.
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;
Par. What one, i'faith?
Hel. That I wish well.

2 Peculiarity of feature.

and he is one

'Tis pity

3 Countenance.

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

Enter a Page.

Page. Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you. [Exit Page.

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

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

Par. Under Mars, I.

Hel. I especially think, under Mars.

Par. Why under Mars?

Hel. The wars have so kept you under, that you must needs be born under Mars.

Par. When he was predominant.

Hel. When he was retrograde, I think, rather.
Par. Why think you so?

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

Hel. So is running away, when fear proposes the safety: But the composition, that your valour and fear makes in you, is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well.

Par. I am so full of businesses, I cannot answer
thee acutely: I will return perfect courtier; in the
which, my instruction shall serve to naturalize thee,
so thou wilt be capable of a courtier's counsel, and
understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else
thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine igno-
Remember thy
rance makes thee away: farewell.
friends get thee a good husband, and use him as
[Exit.
he uses thee: so farewell.

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,
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.4
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.

[Exit.

SCENE II. - Paris. A Room in the King's
Palace.

For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend Prejudicates the business, and would seem To have us make denial.

1 Lord.

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

King.

They, that least lend it you, shall lack you first. King. I fill a place, I know't. How long is't, count,

He hath arm'd our answer, Since the physician at your father's died?

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.

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.

on,

Ber. My thanks and duty are your majesty's.
King. I would I had that corporal soundness now,
As when thy father, and myself, in friendship
First try'd our soldiership! He did look far
Into the service of the time, and was
Discipled of the bravest : he lasted long;
But on us both did haggish age steal
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me
To talk of your good father: In his youth
He had the wit, which I can well observe
To-day in our young lords; but they may jest,
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted,
Ere they can hide their levity in honour.
So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness
Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,
His equal had awak'd them; and his honour,
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when
Exception bid him speak, and, at this time,
His tongue obey'd his hand: who were below him
He us'd as creatures of another place;
And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks,
Making them proud of his humility,

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

Ber.

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

As in your royal speech.

King. 'Would, I were with him! He would

always say,

(Methinks, I hear him now; his plausive words
He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them,
To grow there, and to bear,) Let me not live,·
Thus his good melancholy oft began,
On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,
When it was out, let me not live, quoth he,
After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff
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,

6 Approbation.

Some six months since, my lord.

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

Thank your majesty. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.- Rousillon.

Flourish.

A Room in the Countess's Palace.

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

Stew. Madam, the care I have had to even your content 7, I wish might be found in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty, and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.

Count. What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah: The complaints, I have heard of you, I do not all believe: 'tis my slowness, that I do not: for, I know, you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours. Clo. 'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.

no heritage and, I think, I shall never have the blessing of God, till I have issue; for, they say, bearns 9 are blessings.

Count. Is this all your worship's reason?

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

Count. May the world know them?

Clo. I have been, madam, a wicked creature ; and, indeed, I do marry, that I may repent.

Count. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness. 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. Count. Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you more

With that she sighed as she stood,
With that she sighed as she stood,

And gave this sentence then;
Among nine bad if one be good,
Among nine bad if one be good,

There's yet one good in ten.
Count. What, one good in ten? you corrupt the

song, sirrah.

Clo. One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying o' the song: 'Would Fortune serve the world so all the year! we'd find no fault with the tythe-woman. One in ten quoth a'! an we might

Nay, a mother;

Hel. Mine honourable mistress.
Count.
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: -
To say, I am thy mother? What's the matter,
Gramercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood,

That this distemper'd messenger of wet,
The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye?
Why?
I
——that you are my daughter?
That I am not.

have a good woman born but every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well; a man may draw his heart out, ere he pluck one. Count. You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as 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 [Exit Clown.

Helen to come hither.

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 touched not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son: Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love, no god, that would not extend his might, only where qualities were level: Diana, no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight to be surprised, without rescue, in the first assault, or ransome afterwards: This she delivered in the most bitter touch of sorrow, that e'er I heard virgin exclaim in which I held my duty, speedily to acquaint you withal; sithence 2, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it.

Count. You have discharged this honestly; keep it to yourself: many likelihoods informed me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance, that I could neither believe, nor misdoubt: Pray you, leave me; stall this in your bosom, and I thank you for your honest care: I will speak with you further anon. [Exit Steward.

Enter HELENA.
Count. Even so it was with me, when I was young:
If 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. Hel. What is your pleasure, madam?

Count.

I am a mother to you.

2 Since.

Hel.

(So that my lord, your son, were not my brother,)
Indeed, my mother!—or were you both our mothers,
So I were not his sister: Can't no other,
But I, your daughter, he must be my brother?

Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughterin-law;

So strive 3 upon your pulse: What, pale again?
I hope you mean it not! daughter, and mother
My fear hath catch'd your fondness: Now I see
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tears' head.4 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;
- for, look, thy cheeks
But tell me then, 'tis so:
Confess it, one to the other; and thine eyes

See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours,
That in their kind they speak it: only sin
And perverse obstinacy tie thy tongue,
That truth should be suspected: Speak, is't so ?
If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue;
If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,
As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,
To tell me truly.

Hel.

Good madam, pardon me! love my son?

Count, Do you Hel. Your pardon, noble mistress! Count. Love you my son? Hel. Do not you love him, madam? Count. 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.

Hel.

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,
You know, Helen, That he is lov'd of me: I follow him not

By any token of presumptuous suit;
Nor would I have him, till I do deserve him;
Yet never know how that desert should be.
I know I love in vain, strive against hope;
Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve,
I still pour in the waters of my love,
And lack not to lose still: thus, Indian-like,
Religious in mine error, I adore
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.
Count. Had you not lately an intent, speak truly,
To go to Paris?

Hel.

Count.

Madam, I had.

Wherefore? tell true.
Hel. I will tell true; 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 heedfullest reservation to bestow them,
As notes, whose faculties inclusive were

More than they were in note 5: amongst the rest,
There is a remedy, approv'd, set down,
To cure the desperate languishes, whereof
The king is render'd lost.

ACT II.

SCENE I.-Paris. A Room in the King's Palace. Flourish. Enter KING, with young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war; BERTRAM, PAROLLES, and Attendants.

King. Farewell, young lord, these warlike principles Do not throw from you:- and you, my lord, farewell:

Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all,
The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis receiv`d,
And is enough for both.

1 Lord.

It is our hope, sir,
After well-enter'd 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 6) see, that you come
Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when

The bravest questant 7 shrinks, find what you seek,
That fame may cry you loud: I say, farewell.
2 Lord. Health, at your bidding, serve your
majesty !

King. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them;

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.

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

Commit it, count. 2 Lord. I am your accessary; and so farewell. Ber. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortured body.

1 Lord. Farewell, captain.

8 Exhausted of their skill

9 Be not captives before you are soldiers.
1 In a bustle.

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

2 Lord. We shall, noble captain.

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

Ber. Stay the king

[Seeing him rise. Par. Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have restrained yourself within the list of too cold an adieu; be more expressive to them; for they wear themselves in the cap of the time, there, do muster true gait, eat, speak, and move under the influence of the most received star; and though the devil lead the measure 4, such are to be followed: after them, and take a more dilated farewell.

Ber. And I will do so.

Par. Worthy fellows; and like to prove most sinewy sword-men.

[Exeunt BERTRAM and PAROLLes.

Enter LAFEU.

for my tidings.

[Exit LAFEU.

And not be all day neither.
King. Thus he his special nothing ever prologues.

Re-enter LAFEU with HELENA.

Laf. Nay, come your ways.
King.

This haste hath wings indeed.
Laf. 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 8,
That dare leave two together; fare you well. [Exit.
King. Now, fair one, does your business follow
us?

Hel. Ay, my good lord. Gerard de Narbon was
My father; in what he did profess, well found.9
King. I knew him.

Hel. 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

Laf. Pardon, my lord, [Kneeling.] for me and 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
When our most learned doctors leave us; and
But may not be so credulous of cure,
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 empiricks; or to dissever so

King. I'll fee thee to stand up.
Laf.
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.
Laf.

Goodfaith, across 5:
But, my good lord, 'tis thus; Will you be cur'd
Of your infirmity?

King.
Laf.

No.

O, will you eat
No grapes, my royal fox? yes, but you will,
My noble grapes, an if my royal fox.

Could reach them: I have seen a medicine 6,
That's able to breathe life into a stone;
Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary 7,
With spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch
Is powerful to araise king Pepin, nay,

To give great Charlemain a pen in his hand,
And write to her a love-line.

Laf. 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 Lafeu,
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.

Our great self and our credit, to esteem

A senseless help, when help past sense we deem.
Hel. 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.

Hel. 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 greatest been denied.
Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises; and oft it hits,
Where hope is coldest, and despair most sits.

King. I must not hear thee; fare thee well, kind

maid;

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