good,
To make yourself a son out of my blood.

4 Lord. Fair one, I think not so.

Laf, There's one grape yet. I am sure, thy
father drank wine : but if thou be'st not an ass,
I am a youth of fourteen ; I have known thee
already.

Hel. 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.

Ber. 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 ?

Ber. Yes, my good lord ;

But never hope to know why I should marry her.

King. Thou know'st she has raised me frominy
sickly bed.

Ber. 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
Bather 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 stand off
In differences so mighty. If she be
All that is virtuous, save what thou dislikest,
A poor physician's daughter, thou dislikest-
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 foregoers : the mere word 's a slave,
Debosh'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.

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

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

Hel. That you are well restored, 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.

Ber. Pardon, my gracious lord: for I submit
My fancy to your eyes : when I consider
What great creation and what dole of honour.

K 5



268



ALL 9 s WELL THAT ENDS WELL.



ACT II., Sc. 3.



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.

Ber. 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 to-night : the solemn feast
Shall more attend upon the coming space,
Expecting absent friends. As thou lovest her,
Thy love 's to me religious ; else, does err.

Exeunt King, Bertram, Helena,
Lords and Attendants.

Laf. Do you hear, monsieur ? a word with you.

Par. Your pleasure, sir ?

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

Par. Recantation! My lord! my master !

Laf. Ay ; is it not a language I speak ?

Par. A most harsh one, and not to be under-
stood without bloody succeeding. My master !

Laf. Are you companion to the Count Rousillon ?

Par. To any count, to all counts, to what is man.

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

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

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

Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do.

Laf. 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 dis-
suade me from believing thee a vessel of too great
a burthen. 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 'rt scarce
worth.

Par. Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity
upon thee,

Laf. 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.

Par. My lord, you give me most egregious in-
dignity.

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

Par. I have not, my lord, deserved it.

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

Par. Well, I shall be wiser.

Laf. E'en as soon as thou canst, for thou hast
to pull at a smack o' the contrary. If ever thou
be'st 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.

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

Laf. 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. Exit.

Par. Well, thou hast a son shall take this dis-
grace 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, and he were
double and double a lord. I '11 have no more
pity of his age, than I would have of I '11 beat
him, an if I could but meet him again !

Re-enter Lafeu.

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

Par. 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.

of. Who? God?

Par. Ay, sir.

Laf. 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 'Id beat thee : methinkst thou art
a general offence, and every man should beat thee :
I think thou wast created for men to breathe
themselves upon thee.

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

Laf. 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 'Id call you knave. I leave you. Exit.

Enter Bertram.

Par. Good, very good ; it is so then : good,
very good ; let it be concealed a while.

Ber. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever !

Par. What is the matter, sweet-heart ?

Ber. Although before the solemn priest I have

sworn,
I will not bed her.

Par. What, what, sweet-heart ?

Ber. my Parolles, they have married me !
I '11 to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.

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

Ber. There 's letters from my mother : what

the import is,
I know not yet.

Par. Ay, that would be known. To the wars,

my boy, to the 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 the war !

Ber. It shall be so : I '11 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,



ACT II., Sc. 5.



ALL 's WELL THAT ENDS WELL.



269



Where noble fellows strike : war is no strife
To the dark house and the detested wife.

Par. Will this capriccio hold in thee, art sure ?

Ber. Go with me to my chamber, and advise me.
I '11 send her straight away : to-morrow
I '11 to the wars, she to her single sorrow.

Par. 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.

Exeunt.

Scene IV. Paris. The King's Palace.
Enter Helena and Clown.

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

Clo. 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.

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

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

Hel. What two things ?

Clo. 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 !
Enter Parolles.

Par. Bless you, my fortunate lady !

Hel. I hope, sir, I have your good will to have
mine own good fortunes.

Par. You had my prayers to lead them on, and
to keep them on ; have them still. 0,my knave,
how does my old lady ?

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

Par. Why, I say nothing.

Clo. '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.

Par. Away ! thou 'rt a knave.

Clo. You should have said, sir, before a knave
thou 'rt a knave: that's, before me thou'rt a
knave : this had been truth, sir.

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

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

Par. A good knave, i' faith, and well fed.
Madam, my lord will go away to-night ;
A very serious business calls on him.
The great prerogative and rite of love,
Which, as your due, time claims, he does acknow-
ledge,

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.

Hel. What's his will else?

Par. 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.

Hel. What more commands he ?

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

Hel. In every thing I wait upon his will.

Par. I shall report it so.

Hel. I pray you. Come, sirrah. Exeunt.

Scene V. Paris. The King's Palace.
Enter Lafeu and Bertram.

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

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

Laf. You have it from his own deliverance.

Ber. And by other warranted testimony.

Laf. Then my dial goes not true : I took this
lark for a bunting.

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

Laf. 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 yon,
make us friends ; I will pursue the amity.

Enter Parolles.

Par. These things shall be done, sir.

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

Par. Sir?

Laf. 0, I know him well; I, sir; he, sir, is a
good workman, a very good tailor.

Ber. Is she gone to the king ?

Par. She is.

Ber. Will she away to-night ?

Par. As you'll have her.

Ber. I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure,
Given orders for our horses ; and to-night,
When I should take possession of the bride,
End ere I do begin.

Laf. 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 no-
things with, should be once heard, and thrice
beaten. God save you, captain.

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

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

Laf. You have made shift to run into 't, boot*
and spurs and all, like him that leaped into the
custard ; and out of it you '11 run again, rather
than suffer question for your residence.

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

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

Par. An idle lord, I swear.

Ber. I think so.

Par. Why, do you not know him ?



270



ALL 9 s WELL THAT ENDS WELL.



ACT in., Sc. 2.



Ber. Yes, I do know him well, and common

speech
Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.

Enter Helena.
Hel. 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.

Ber. 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 yon,
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.

Giving a letter.

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

Hel.- Sir, I can nothing say,

But that I am your most obedient servant.

Ber. Come, come, no more of that.

Hel. 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.

Ber. Let that go :

My haste is very great : farewell ; hie home.

Hel. Pray, sir, your pardon.

Ber. Well, what would you say ?

Hel. 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.

Ber. What would you have ?

Hel. 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.

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

Hel. I shall not break your bidding, good my
lord.

Ber. Where are my other men, monsieur ?
Farewell. Exit Helena.

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

Par. Bravely, coragio !

Exeunt.



Act III.



Scene I. Florence. 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.

1 Lord. Holy seems the quarrel
Upon your Grace's part ; black and fearful
On the opposer.

Duke. Therefore we marvel much our cousia

France

Would, in so just a business, shut his bosom
Against our borrowing prayers.

2 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.

1 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 :
To-morrow to the field. Flourish. Exeunt.

Scene II. Eousillon. The Count's Palace.
Enter Countess and Clown.

Cou. It hath happened all as I would have had
it, save that he comes not along with her.

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

Cou. By what observance, I pray you?

Clo. 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.

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

Clo. I have no mind to Isbel since I was at
court : our old ling and our Isbels o' the country
are nothing like your old ling and your Isbels o'
the court: the brains of my Cupid's knocked
out, and I begin to love, as an old man loves
money, with no stomach.

Cou. What have we here ?

Clo. E'en that you have there. . Exit.

Cou. [Reads.~\ I have sent you a daughter-in-
law : she hath recovered the Icing, 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 misprising of a maid too virtuous
For the contempt of empire.



ACT III., So. 3.



4-LL 's WELL THAT ENDS WELL.



271



Re-enter Clown.

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

Cou. What is the matter ?

Clo. Nay, there is some comfort in the news,
some comfort ; your son will not be killed so soon
as I thought he would.

Cou. Why should he be killed ?

Clo. 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. Exit.

Enter Helena and two Gentlemen.

1 Gen. Save you, good madam.

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

2 Gen. Do not say so.

Cou. Think upon patience. Pray you, gentle-
men,

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?
2 Gen. Madam, he 'a gone to serve the Duke of

Florence :

We met him thitherward ; for thence we came,
And, after some dispatch in hand at court,
Thither we bend again.

Hel. 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.

Cou. Brought you this letter, gentlemen?

1 Gen. Ay, madam ;
And, for the contents' sake, are sorry for our

pains.

Cou. I prithee, 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?

2 Gen. Ay, madam.

Cou. And to be a soldier ?

2 Gen. Such is his noble purpose : and, belie ve't,
The duke will lay upon him all the honour
That good convenience claims.

Cou. Eeturn you thither ?

1 Gen. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of
speed.

Hel. [Reads.'] Till I have no^ icife, I have no-
thing in France. 'Tis bitter.

Con. Find you that there ?

Hel. Ay, madam.

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

Cou. 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 migh tend upon,
And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him ?

1 Gen. A servant only, and a gentleman
Which I have sometime known.



Cou. Parolles, was it not ?

1 Gen. Ay, my good lady, he.

Cou. A very tainted fellow, and full of wicked-
ness.

My son corrupts a well-derived nature
W^ith his inducement.

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

Cou. Y' are welcome, gentlemen.
I will entreat you, when you see my son,
To tell him that his sword can never win
The honour that he loses : more I '11 entreat you
Written to bear along.

2 Gen. We serve you, madam,
In that and all your worthiest affairs.

Cou. Not so, but as we change our courtesies.
Will you draw near ?

Exeunt Countess and Gentlemen.

Hel. Till I have no wife, I have nothing in

France.

Nothing in France, until he has no wife !
Thou shalt have none, Eousillon, none in France :
Then hast thou all again. Poor lord ! is 't I
That chase thee from thy country, and expose
Those tender limbs of thine to the event
Of the non-sparing war ? and is it I
That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark
Of smoky muskets ? O you leaden messengers,
That ride upon the violent speed of fire,
Fly with false aim ; move the still-peering air,
That sings with piercing ; do not touch my lord.
Whoever shoots at him, I set him there ;
Whoever charges on his forward breast,
I am the caitiff that do hold him to 't ;
And, though I kill him not, I am the cause
His death was so effected ; better 'twere
I met the ravin lion when he roar'd
With sharp constraint of hunger ; better 'twere
That all the miseries which nature owes
Were mine at once. No, come thou home,

Rousillon,

Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,
As oft it loses all : I will be gone ;
My being here it is that holds thee hence :
Shall I stay here to do 't ? no, no, although
The air of Paradise did fan the house,
And angels oflficed all : I will be gone,
That pitiful rumour may report my flight,
To consolate thine ear. Come, night ; end, day !
For with the dark, poor thief, I '11 steal away.

Exit.

Scene III. Florence. Before the Duke's Palace.

Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Bertram,
Parolles, Lords, Officers, Soldiers and others.

Duke. The general of our horse thou art, and

we,

Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence
Upon thy promising fortune.

Ber. Sir, it is

A charge too heavy for my strength ; but yet
We '11 strive to bear it for your worthy sake
To the extreme edge of hazard.

Duke. Then go thou forth ;

And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm s
As thy auspicious mistress !



272



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.



ACT III., Sc. 5.



Ber. This very day,

Great Mars. I put myself into thy file ;
Make me btit like my thoughts, and I shall prove
A lover of thy drum, hater of love. Exeunt.

Scene IV. Eousillon. The Count's Palace.
Enter Countess and Steward.

Cou. Alas ! and would you take the letter of

her?
Might you not know, she would do as she ha3

done,
By sending me a letter ? Kead it again.

Ste. I am Saint Jaques' pilgrim ; thither gone;

Ambitious love hath so in me offended,
That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon,

With sainted vow my faults to have amended.
Write, write, that from the bloody course of war

My dearest master, your dear son, may hie :
Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far