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(To Orlando.) Duke S. If there be truth in sight, you are m daughter. [Rosalind.

Orl. If there be truth in sight, you are my Phe. If sight and shape be true, Why then, -my love, adieu ! Ros. I’ll have no father, if you be not he – (To Duke S.) I'll have no husband, if you be not he:— - (To Orlando. Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she. (To Phebe. Hym. Peace, ho! I bar confusion: 'Tis I must make conclusion Of these most strange events! Here's eight that must take hands, To join in Hymen's bands, If truth holds true contents. You and you no cross shall part: (To Orlando and Rosalind.) You and you are heart in heart: (To Oliver and Celia.) You (To Phebe) to his love must accord, Or have a woman to your lord:— You and you are sure together, To Touchstone and Audrey.) As the winter to foul weather. Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing, Feed yourselves with questioning; That reason wonder may diminish, How thus we met, and these things finish.

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Duke S.O, my dear niece, welcome thou art to me; Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.

Phe. I will not eat my word: now thou art mine; Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.

(To Silvius.) Enter JAQUES DE Bois.

Jaq.de B. Let me have audience for a word or two; I am the second son of old sir Rowland, That bring these tidings to this fair assembly:— Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day Men of great worth resorted to this forest, Address'd a mighty power; which were on foot, In his own conduct, purposely to take

His brother here, and put him to the sword:
And to the skirts of this wild wood he came;
Where, meeting with an old religious man,
After some question with him, was converted
Both from his enterprize and from the world:
His crown bequeathing to his banish'd brother,
And all their lands restor'd to them again
That were with him exil'd: This to be true,
I do engage my life.
Duke .# Welcome, young man ;
Thou offer'st fairly to thy brother's wedding:
To one, his lands withheld; and to the other,
A land itself at large, a potent dukedom.
First, in this forest, let us do those ends,
That here were well begun, and well begot:
And after, every of this happy number, -
That have endur'd shrewd days and nights with us,
Shall share the good of our returned fortune,
According to the measure of their states.
Meantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity,
And fall into our rustic revelry:—
Play, music;-and you brides and bridegrooms all,
With measure heap'd in joy, to the measures fall.
Jaq. Sir, by your patience; if I heard you rightly,
The duke hath put on a religious life,
And thrown into neglect the pompous court?
Jaq. de B. He hath.
Jaq. To him will I: out of these convertites
There is much matter to be heard and learu'd-
You to your former honour I bequeath;
(To Duke S.)
Your patience, and your virtue, well deserves it:-
You (to Orlando) to a love that your true faith doth
merit:- [allies:
You (to Oliver) to your land, and love, and great
You (to Silvius) to a long and well-deserved bed:–
And you (to Touchstone) to wrangling; for thy
loving voyage [sures ;
Is but for two months victuall'd:—So to your plea-
I am for other than for dancing measures.
Duke S. Stay, Jaques, stay.
Jaq. To see no pastime, I:-what you would have
I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave. . [Exit.
S. Proceed, proceed: we will begin these

rites, And we do trust they'll end in true delights.

(A dance.) EPILOGUE.

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. W. a case am I in then, that am neither a good epilogue, nor cannot insinuate 3.3% 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 women. I charge you, O women, for the love you bear to men, to like as much of this play as E. them: and so I charge you, O men, for the love you bear to women, (as I perceive by your simpering, none of you hate o that between you and the women, the play may please. If I were a woman, 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 good faces, or sweet breaths, will, for . kind offer, when I make curt’sy, bid me farewell. [Exeunt,

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:* } Servants to the Countess of Rousillon. ACT I. SCENE. I.-Rousillon. A Room in the Countess's alace.

Enter BERTRAM, the Countess of Rousillon, HELENA, and LAFEU, in mourning. Count. 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 É. majesty's command, to whom I am now in ward, evermore in subjection. Laf. 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. [amendment? Count. What hope is there of his majesty's 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 #. 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, H. were living! I think, it would be the death of the king's disease. Laf. 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 j lately spoke of him, admiringly, and

mourningly: he was skilful enough to have lived still, if to: could be set up against mortality. guishes off

Ber. What is it, my good lord, the king lan

Laf. A fistula, my lord. Ber. I heard not of it before. Laf. 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 ł. education promises: her #. she 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 É. they are the better for their simpleness; she derives her honesty, and achieves her goodness. [tears. Laf. Your commendations, madam, get from her Count. '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. Hel. I do affect a sorrow, indeed, but I have it too. Laf. 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 [father Count. Be thou blest, Bertram! and succeed thy 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 .# 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 ...; What heaven more will, That thee may furnish, and my Rio. pluck down, Fall on thy head! Farewell.–My lord, 'Tis an unseason'd courtier; good my lord, Advise him.

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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 thoughts, [to Helen A] 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 3 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 of his sweet favour: But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy Must sanctify his relics. Who comes here 7 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. Par. No. Hel. And no. Par. Are you meditating on virginity? Hel. 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 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 .. Hel. Bless our poor virginity from underminers, and blowers up!—Is there no military policy, how virgins might blow up men? ar, 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 virinity, 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 j. out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginit 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. Kcep 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 principle itself not of the worse: Away with’t. [own liking? Hel. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her Pur. 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 nnsuitable : just like the brooch and tooth-pick, which wear not now: Your date is better in your pie and your porridge, than in your cheek: o your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French wi. thered 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 Hel. Not my virginity yet. [it? 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 essects 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 Par. Under Mars, I. charitable star. 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 retrogade, 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 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. [Exit, 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. 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.
Fourish of cornets. Enter the KiNo of FRANce,
with letters; Lords and others attending.
King. The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears;
Have fought with equal fortune, and continue
A braving war.
1 Lord. So 'tis reported, sir.
King. Nay, 'tis most credible; we here receive it
A certainty, vouch'd 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.
1 Lord. His love and wisdom,
Approv’d so to your majesty, may plead
For amplest credence.
King. He hath arm'd our answer,
And Forence is denied before he comes:
Yet, for our gentlemen, that mean to see
The Tuscan service, freely they have leave
To stand on either part.
2 Lord. It may well serve
A nursery to our gentry, who are sick
For breathing jo. oit.
King. What's he come here?
Enter Berth AM, LAFEU, and PARolles.
1 Lord. It is the count Rousillon, my good lord,
Young Bertram.
King. Youth, thou bear'st thy father's face;
Frank nature, rather curious than in haste,
Hath well compos'd thee. Thy father's moral parts
May'st thou inherit too ! Welcome to Paris.
. My thanks and duty are your majesty's.
King. I would I had that corporal soundness now,
As when thy father, and orio friendship
First try’d our soldierships. 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.
$o 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 ..of 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 démonstrate them
But goers backward. [now
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, (Methiuks, 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,
Thas his good melancholy oft began,
On the catastrophe aud 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 jo. garments; whose constancies

Expire before their fashions:—This he wish'd :
I, after him, do after him wish too,
Since I nor wax, nor honey, can bring home,
I quickly were dissolved from my hive,
To give some labourers room.

2 Lord. You are loved, sir; They, that least lend it you, shall lack you first.

King. I fill a j 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.

[Exeuni. 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? Stew. 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. Count. What, does this knave here? Get you f'. sirrah: The complaints I have heard of you, do not all believe; 'tis my slowness, that I do not; for, I know, you lack not the folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours. Clo. 'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a Count. Well, sir. [poor fellow. Clo, No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damn'd: But if F.; have your ladyship's good-will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may. Count. Wilt thou needs be a beggar? Clo. I do beg your good-will in this case. Count. In what case? Clo. In Isbel's case, and mine own. Service is no heritage : and, I think, I shall never have the blessing of God, till I have issue of my body; for, they say, bearns are blessings. Count. Tell me thy reason why thou will 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? 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, as you and all flesh and blood are ; and, indeed, I do marry, that I may repent. [ness. Count. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedClo. 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 o #. and blood; he, that cherishes my flesh and blood, loves my flesh and blood; he, that loves my flesh and blood, is m friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife, is my friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage; for young Charbon the puritan, and old Poysam the papist, howsoe'er their hearts are severed in religion, their heads are both one, they may joll horns together, like any deer i' the herd. calumnious knave?

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

Clo. 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. 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 gentlewoman, I would speak with her; Helen I mean. Clo. Was this fair face the cause, quoth she, . - (Singing.) Why the Grecian 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. 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 would serve the world so all the year! we'd find no fault with the tythe-woman, if f: the parson: 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 out, ere he pluck one. 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 surblice 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. [woman entirely. Stew. I know, madam, you love your gentleCount. Faith, 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 our son: Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that ad 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 ransom afterward: 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, 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: Pra you, leave me: stall this in your bosom, and I than ou, for your honest care: I will speak with you urther anon. Exit Steward. Enter Helen A. Count. Even so it was with me, when I was

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Such were our faults;–or then we thought them
none.
Her eye is sick on't ; I observe her now.
#. What is your pleasure, madam?
Count. You know, Helen,
I am a mother to you.
Hel. Mine honourable mistress.
Count. 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 distemper'd messenger of wet,
The many-colour’d Iris, rounds thine eye *
Why?—that you are my daughter?
Hel. That I am not.
Count. I say, I am your mother.
Hel. Pardon, madam ;
The count Rousillon cannot be my brother:
I am from humble, he from honour’d 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.
Count. Nor I your mother?
Hel. You are my mother, madam; 'Would you
were -
É. that my lord, your son, were not my brother,)
ndeed my mother!—or, were you both our mo-
thers,
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?
Count. Yes, i. 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 tear's 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, 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 hellish 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!

Count. Do you love my son :

Hel. Your pardon, noble mistress :

Count. Love you my son 7

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, 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;

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