SCENE 1.

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?

[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.

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

SCENE 2.

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]

SCENE 3.

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