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William Shakespeare. All works - - Alls Well That Ends Well

Проза и поэзия >> Русская и зарубежная поэзия >> Зарубежная поэзия >> Вильям Шекспир >> William Shakespeare. All works
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William Shakespeare. Alls Well That Ends Well

1603
Dramatis Personae
KING OF FRANCE THE DUKE OF FLORENCE BERTRAM, Count of Rousillon LAFEU, an old lord PAROLLES, a follower of Bertram TWO FRENCH LORDS, serving with Bertram
STEWARD, Servant to the Countess of Rousillon LAVACHE, a clown and Servant to the Countess of Rousillon A PAGE, Servant to the Countess of Rousillon
COUNTESS OF ROUSILLON, mother to Bertram HELENA, a gentlewoman protected by the Countess A WIDOW OF FLORENCE. DIANA, daughter to the Widow
VIOLENTA, neighbour and friend to the Widow MARIANA, neighbour and friend to the Widow
Lords, Officers, Soldiers, etc., French and Florentine
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
ACT II. SCENE 1. Paris. The KING'S palace
Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING with divers young LORDS taking leave for the Florentine war; BERTRAM and PAROLLES; ATTENDANTS
KING. Farewell, young lords; these war-like principles

     Do not throw from you. And you, my lords, farewell;

     Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all,

     The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis receiv'd,

     And is enough for both. FIRST LORD. 'Tis our hope, sir,

     After well-ent'red 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-see that you come

     Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when

     The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek,

     That fame may cry you aloud. I say farewell. SECOND LORD. Health, at your bidding, serve your Majesty! KING. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them;

     They say our French lack language to deny,

     If they demand; beware of being captives

     Before you serve.

     BOTH. Our hearts receive your warnings. KING. Farewell. [To ATTENDANTS] Come hither to me.

     The KING retires attended FIRST LORD. O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us! PAROLLES. 'Tis not his fault, the spark.

     SECOND LORD. O, 'tis brave wars! PAROLLES. Most admirable! I have seen those wars. BERTRAM. I am commanded here and kept a coil with

    

... ... ...
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