SCENE: Rousillon; Paris; Florence; Marseilles   ACT I. SCENE 1. Rousillon. The COUNT'S palace  Enter BERTRAM, the COUNTESS OF ROUSILLON, HELENA, and LAFEU, all in black    COUNTESS. In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.   BERTRAM. 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.   LAFEU. 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.   COUNTESS. What hope is there of his Majesty's amendment?   LAFEU. He hath abandon'd 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.   COUNTESS. This young gentlewoman had a father- O, that 'had,' how     sad a passage 'tis!-whose skill was almost as great as his     honesty; had it stretch'd 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.   LAFEU. How call'd you the man you speak of, madam?   COUNTESS. He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his     great right to be so- Gerard de Narbon.   LAFEU. He was excellent indeed, madam; the King very lately spoke     of him admiringly and mourningly; he was skilful enough to have     liv'd still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality.   BERTRAM. What is it, my good lord, the King languishes of?   LAFEU. A fistula, my lord.   BERTRAM. I heard not of it before.   LAFEU. I would it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman the     daughter of Gerard de Narbon?   COUNTESS. His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my     overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that her education     promises; her dispositions she inherits, which makes 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 simpleness; she derives     her honesty, and achieves her goodness.   LAFEU. Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.   COUNTESS. '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-   HELENA. I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too.   LAFEU. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead: excessive     grief the enemy to the living.   COUNTESS. If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it     soon mortal.   BERTRAM. Madam, I desire your holy wishes.   LAFEU. How understand we that?   COUNTESS. 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 birthright! 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.   LAFEU. He cannot want the best     That shall attend his love.   COUNTESS. Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram.            Exit   BERTRAM. The best wishes that can be forg'd in your thoughts be     servants to you!  [To HELENA]  Be comfortable to my mother, your     mistress, and make much of her.   LAFEU. Farewell, pretty lady; you must hold the credit of your     father.                             Exeunt BERTRAM and LAFEU   HELENA. 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 favour in't but Bertram's.     I am undone; there is no living, none,     If Bertram be away. 'Twere 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.     Th' 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?                         Enter PAROLLES      [Aside]  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     Looks bleak i' th' cold wind; withal, full oft we see     Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.   PAROLLES. Save you, fair queen!   HELENA. And you, monarch!   PAROLLES. No.   HELENA. And no.   PAROLLES. Are you meditating on virginity?   HELENA. 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?   PAROLLES. Keep him out.   HELENA. But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant in the     defence, yet is weak. Unfold to us some warlike resistance.   PAROLLES. There is none. Man, setting down before you, will     undermine you and blow you up.   HELENA. Bless our poor virginity from underminers and blowers-up!     Is there no military policy how virgins might blow up men?   PAROLLES. 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't.   HELENA. I will stand for 't a little, though therefore I die a     virgin.   PAROLLES. 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 all 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 year it will make itself ten, which is a goodly     increase; and the principal itself not much the worse. Away     with't.   HELENA. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?   PAROLLES. 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     the toothpick, which wear not now. 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 wither'd pears: it     looks ill, it eats drily; marry, 'tis a wither'd pear; it was     formerly better; marry, yet 'tis a wither'd pear. Will you     anything with it?   HELENA. 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-   PAROLLES. What one, i' faith?   HELENA. That I wish well. 'Tis pity-   PAROLLES. What's pity?   HELENA. 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 PAGE    PAGE. Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.      Exit PAGE   PAROLLES. Little Helen, farewell; if I can remember thee, I will     think of thee at court.   HELENA. Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.   PAROLLES. Under Mars, I.   HELENA. I especially think, under Mars.   PAROLLES. Why under Man?   HELENA. The wars hath so kept you under that you must needs be born     under Mars.   PAROLLES. When he was predominant.   HELENA. When he was retrograde, I think, rather.   PAROLLES. Why think you so?   HELENA. You go so much backward when you fight.   PAROLLES. That's for advantage.   HELENA. 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.   PAROLLES. 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 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   HELENA. 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     ACT I. SCENE 2. Paris. The KING'S palace  Flourish of 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.   FIRST 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.   FIRST LORD. His love and wisdom,     Approv'd so to your Majesty, may plead     For amplest credence.   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.   SECOND LORD. It well may serve     A nursery to our gentry, who are sick     For breathing and exploit.   KING. What's he comes here?                Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES    FIRST 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.   BERTRAM. 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 tried 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 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     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, followed well, would demonstrate them now     But goers backward.   BERTRAM. 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'-     This 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,     I quickly were dissolved from my hive,     To give some labourers room.   SECOND LORD. You're loved, 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.   BERTRAM. 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.   BERTRAM. Thank your Majesty.                 Exeunt [Flourish]     ACT I. SCENE 3. Rousillon. The COUNT'S palace  Enter COUNTESS, STEWARD, and CLOWN    COUNTESS. I will now hear; what say you of this gentlewoman?   STEWARD. 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.   COUNTESS. 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.   CLOWN. 'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.   COUNTESS. Well, sir.   CLOWN. No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, though many of     the rich are damn'd; but if I may have your ladyship's good will     to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.   COUNTESS. Wilt thou needs be a beggar?   CLOWN. I do beg your good will in this case.   COUNTESS. In what case?   CLOWN. 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 o'     my body; for they say bames are blessings.   COUNTESS. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.   CLOWN. My poor body, madam, requires it. I am driven on by the     flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives.   COUNTESS. Is this all your worship's reason?   CLOWN. Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are.   COUNTESS. May the world know them?   CLOWN. I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh     and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry that I may repent.   COUNTESS. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.   CLOWN. I am out o' friends, madam, and I hope to have friends for     my wife's sake.   COUNTESS. Such friends are thine enemies, knave.   CLOWN. Y'are shallow, madam-in great friends; for the knaves come     to do that for me which I am aweary of. He that ears my land     spares my team, and gives me leave to in 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 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, howsome'er their hearts are sever'd in religion, their     heads are both one; they may jowl horns together like any deer     i' th' herd.   COUNTESS. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth'd and calumnious knave?   CLOWN. 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.    COUNTESS. Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you more anon.   STEWARD. May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you.     Of her I am to speak.   COUNTESS. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; Helen     I mean.   CLOWN.  [Sings]                 'Was this fair face the cause' quoth she                  'Why the Grecians 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.'    COUNTESS. What, one good in ten? You corrupt the song, sirrah.   CLOWN. One good woman in ten, madam, which is a purifying o' th'     song. Would God would serve the world so all the year! We'd find     no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten,     quoth 'a! An we might have a good woman born before every blazing     star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well: a man     may draw his heart out ere 'a pluck one.   COUNTESS. You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you.   CLOWN. 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   COUNTESS. Well, now.   STEWARD. I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.   COUNTESS. Faith I do. Her father bequeath'd 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.   STEWARD. Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she     wish'd me. Alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own     words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they     touch'd 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 surpris'd without     rescue in the first assault, or ransom afterward. This she     deliver'd 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.   COUNTESS. YOU have discharg'd this honestly; keep it to yourself.     Many likelihoods inform'd me of this before, which hung so     tott'ring 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      Even so it was with me when I was young.     If ever 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.   HELENA. What is your pleasure, madam?   COUNTESS. You know, Helen,     I am a mother to you.   HELENA. Mine honourable mistress.   COUNTESS. 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 distempered messenger of wet,     The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye?     Why, that you are my daughter?   HELENA. That I am not.   COUNTESS. I say I am your mother.   HELENA. Pardon, madam.     The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:     I am from humble, he from honoured 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.   COUNTESS. Nor I your mother?   HELENA. You are my mother, madam; would you were-     So that my lord your son were not my brother-     Indeed my mother! Or were you both our mothers,     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?   COUNTESS. Yes, Helen, 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 myst'ry of your loneliness, and find     Your salt tears' 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, th' one to th' 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 clew;     If it be not, forswear't; howe'er, I charge thee,     As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,     To tell me truly.   HELENA. Good madam, pardon me.   COUNTESS. Do you love my son?   HELENA. Your pardon, noble mistress.   COUNTESS. Love you my son?   HELENA. Do not you love him, madam?   COUNTESS. 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.   HELENA. 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;     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!   COUNTESS. Had you not lately an intent-speak truly-     To go to Paris?   HELENA. Madam, I had.   COUNTESS. Wherefore? Tell true.   HELENA. I will tell truth; 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 heedfull'st reservation to bestow them,     As notes whose faculties inclusive were     More than they were in note. Amongst the rest     There is a remedy, approv'd, set down,     To cure the desperate languishings whereof     The King is render'd lost.   COUNTESS. This was your motive     For Paris, was it? Speak.   HELENA. My lord your son made me to think of this,     Else Paris, and the medicine, and the King,     Had from the conversation of my thoughts     Haply been absent then.   COUNTESS. But think you, Helen,     If you should tender your supposed aid,     He would receive it? He and his physicians     Are of a mind: he, that they cannot help him;     They, that they cannot help. How shall they credit     A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,     Embowell'd of their doctrine, have let off     The danger to itself?   HELENA. There's something in't     More than my father's skill, which was the great'st     Of his profession, that his good receipt     Shall for my legacy be sanctified     By th' luckiest stars in heaven; and, would your honour     But give me leave to try success, I'd venture     The well-lost life of mine on his Grace's cure.     By such a day and hour.   COUNTESS. Dost thou believe't?   HELENA. Ay, madam, knowingly.   COUNTESS. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love,     Means and attendants, and my loving greetings     To those of mine in court. I'll stay at home,     And pray God's blessing into thy attempt.     Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this,     What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss.          Exeunt