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Par. That's for advantage.

Hel. So is running away, when fear propofes fafety: but the compofition, that your valour and fear makes in you, is a virtue of a good ming; and I like the wear well.

Par. I am fo full of bufineffes, as I cannot answer thee acutely: I will return perfect courtier; in the which, my inftruction fhall serve to naturalize thee, fo thou wilt be capable of courtier's counfel, and understand what advice fhall thruft upon thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away farewel. When thou haft leisure, fay thy prayers; when thou haft none, remember thy friends; get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee: fo farewel. [Exit.


Hel. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
Which we afcribe to Heav'n. The fated sky
Gives us free fcope; only doth backward pull
Our flow defigns, when we ourselves are dull.
What power is it which mounts my love fo high,
That makes me fee, and cannot feed mine eye?
The mightieft fpace in fortune nature brings
To join like likes, and kifs like native things.
Impoffible be ftrange attempts to those

That weigh their pain in fense; and do fuppofe,
What hath been, cannot be. Whoever ftrove
To fhew her merit, that did mifs her love?
The King's disease my project may deceive me,
But my intents are fix'd, and will not leave me. [Exit.


Changes to the court of Fronce.

Flourish cornets. Enter the King of France with letters, and divers attendants.

King. The Florentines and Senoys are by th' ears; Have fought with equal fortune, and continue

A braving war.

I Lord. So 'tis reported, Sir.

King. Nay, 'tis moft credible; we here receive it, A certainty vouch'd from our cousin Austria; With caution, that the Florentine will move us For fpeedy aid; wherein our dearest friend Prejudicates the bufinefs, and would feem To have us make denial.

1 Lord, His Love and wisdom, Approv'd fo to your Majefty, may plead For ample credence.

King. He hath arm'd our anfwer;
And Florence is deny'd, before he comes:
Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to fee
The Tufcan fervice, freely have they leave.
To ftand on either part.

2 Lord, It may well ferve

A nursery to our gentry, who are fick
For breathing and exploit.

King. What's he comes here?

Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles.

I Lord. It is the Count Roufillon, my good Lord, Young Bertram.

King, Youth, thou bear'ft thy father's face. Frank nature, rather curious than in hafte,

Hath well compos'd thee. Thy father's moral parts May'ft thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.

Ber. My thanks and duty are your Majefty's. King. I would I had that corporal foundness now, As when thy father and myself in friendship First try'd our foldierfhip: he did look far Into the fervice of the time, and was Difcipled of the brav'ft. He lafted long; But on us both did haggifh age fteal 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 obferve To-day in our young lords; but they may jeft, Till their own fcorn return to them unnoted, Ere they can hide their levity in honour: So like a courtier, no contempt or bitterness Were in him; pride or fharpnefs, if there were, His equal had awak'd them; and his honour,

Clock to itself, knew the true minute when
Exceptions bid him speak; and at that time
His tongue obey'd his hand. Who were below him
He us'd as creatures of another place,

And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks;
Making them proud; and his humility,

In their poor praise, he humbled. Such a man
Might be a copy to these younger times;

Which, follow'd well, would now demonstrate them
But goers backward.

Ber. His good remembrance, Sir,

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

As in your royal speech.

King. Would I were with him! he would always fay, (Methinks I hear him now; his plaufive 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 paftime, When it was out), let me not live (quoth he) After my flame lacks oil; to be the fnuff Of younger fpirits, whofe apprehenfive fenfes All but new things difdain; whofe judgments are Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies Expire before their fashions: -this he wifh'd.

I, after him, do after him wish too

(Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home)

I quickly were diffolved from my hive,

To give fome labourer room.

2 Lord. You're loved, Sir;

They that leaft lend it you, fhall lack you firft.

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 fix months fince, my Lord.

King. If he were living, I would try him yet ;

Lend me an arm;

-the reft have worn me out

nature and fickness

Welcome, Count,

With feveral applications;
Debate it at their leifure.
My fon's no dearer.
Ber. Thank your Majesty.

[Flourish. Exeuns

SCENE VI. Changes to the Countess's at Roufillon.

Enter Countess, Steward, and Clown.

Count. I will now hear; what fay you of this tlewoman?


Stew. Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my paft endeavours; for then we wound our modefty, and make foul the clearness of our defervings, when of ourfelves we publish them.

Count. What does this knave here? get you gone, firrah the complaints I have heard of you, I do not all believe; 'tis my flownefs that, I do not; for I know you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make fuch knaveries yare.

Clo. 'Tis not unknown to you, Madam, I am a poor fellow.

Count. Well, Sir.

Clo. No, Madam; 'tis not fo well that I am poor, tho' many of the rich are damn'd; but if I have your Ladyfhip's good-will to go to the world, Ifbel 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 cafe.
Count. In what cafe?

Clo. In Ifbel's cafe, and mine own; fervice is no heritage, and I think I fhall never have the bleffing of God, till I have iffue of my body; for they fay, bearns are bleffings,

Count. Tell me thy 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 reafon ?

Clo. 'Faith, Madam, I have other holy reasons, fuch 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 fooner than thy wickedness.

Clo. I am out of friends, Madam, and I hope to have friends for my wife's fake.

Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

Clo. Y' are fhallow, Madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am weary of. He that ears my land, fpares my team, and gives. me leave to inne 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 cherisheth my flesh and. blood, loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my flesh and blood, is my friend: ergo, he that kiffes 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 Poyfon the Papift, howfoe'er their hearts are sever'd in religion, their heads are both one; they may joul horns together, like any deer i' th'


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

Clo. A prophet, I, Madam; and I speak the truth

the next way.

"For I the ballad will repeat, which men full true fhall find;

"Your marriage comes by deftiny, your cuckow fings by kind.


Count. Get you gone, Sir, I'll talk with you more


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 fpeak with her; Helen I mean.

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Clo. Was this fair face the caufe, quoth fhe,

Why the Grecians facked Troy?

"Fond done, fond done; for Paris, he,

"Was this King Priam's joy."

"With that fhe fighed as fhe ftood,

"And gave this fentence then ;

"Among nine bad if one be good,

"There's yet one good in ten.


Count. What, one good in ten? You corrupt the

fong, firrah.



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