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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 effects 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 charitable star.

Par. Under Mars, I.
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 retrograde, 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, iny instruction shall serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capablet of a courtier's counsel, and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thou diést 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. I.

* 1. e. and show by realities what we now must only think. † 1. e. thou wilt comprehend it. * Things formed by nature for each other,

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,

Flourish of Cornets. Enter the KING 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, Approved 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.

2 Lord. It may well serve
A nursery to our gentry, who are sick
For breathing an exploit.
King. What's he comes here?

Enter BERTRAM, 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 composed thee. Thy father's moral parts
Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.
Ber. 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

* Siennese.

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 awaked them; and his honour,
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when
Exception bid him speak, and, at this time,
His tongue obey'd its hand: who were below him
He used 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 copy to these younger times;
Which, follow'd well, would demonstrate them now
But goers backward.

Ber. His good remembrance, Sir,
Lies richer in your thoughts, than on his tomb;
So his approof lives not in 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,
Thus his good'melancholy oft began,
On the catastrophe and heel of pastíme,
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 judginents 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.

2 Lord. You are 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 physican at your father's died ?
He was much famed.

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.

[Exeunt. Flourish. SCENE III.-Rousillon. A Room in the COUNTESS'S Palace.

* Who are mere inventors of dress.

Enter COUNTESS, STEWARD, and Clown. Count. I will now hear: what say you of this gentlewoman? Stew. Madam, the care 1 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 gone, sirrah: The complaints, I have heard of you, I do not at 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.

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

Clo. No, Madam, 'tis not so well, that I am poor; though many of the rich are damned: But, if I may have your ladyship’s good will to go to the world,t 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, bearnsI are blessings.

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 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.

Count. Thy marriage sooner than thy wickedness.

Clo. 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 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, howsoe'er their hearts are severed in religion, their heads are both one, they may joll horns together, like any deer i'the herd. Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave? * To act up to your desire.

+ To be married. * Children.

§ Ploughs.

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 Grecians sacked Troy?
Fond done, t 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 tithe-woman, if I were the parson : One in ten, quoth a'! an we might have a good woman born but for 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 surplice 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. Stew. I know, Madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely,

Count. 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 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' surprised,

* The nearest way.

† Foolishly done.

# (To be.

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