The Works of William Shakespeare [Cambridge Edition] [Vol. 3 of 9]

King. The Florentines and Senoys are by the 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,

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.

Sec. 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 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

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 his 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 a 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 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 judgements 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.

Sec. 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 physician 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.

For I the ballad will repeat,

Which men full true shall find;

Your marriage comes by destiny,

Your cuckoo sings by kind.

Clo. 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,

And gave this sentence then;

Among nine bad if one be good,

There's yet one good in ten.

Even so it was with me when I was young:

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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:

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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.

Hel. What is your pleasure, madam?

Count. You know, Helen,

I am a mother to you.

Hel. Mine honourable mistress.

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Count. 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

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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:

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God's mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood

To say I am thy mother? What's the matter,

That this distemper'd messenger of wet,

The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye?

Why? that you are my daughter?

Hel. That I am not.

Count. I say, I am your mother.

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Hel. Pardon, madam;

The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:

I am from humble, he from honour'd name;

No note upon my parents, his all noble:

My master, my dear lord he is; and I

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His servant live, and will his vassal die:

He must not be my brother.

Count. Nor I your mother?

Hel. 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,

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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?

Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law:

God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother

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So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again?

My fear hath catch'd your fondness: now I see

The mystery of your loneliness, and find

Your salt tears' head: now to all sense 'tis gross

You love my son; invention is ashamed,

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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,

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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,

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As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,

To tell me truly.

Hel. Good madam, pardon me!

Count. Do you love my son?

Hel. Your pardon, noble mistress!

Count. Love you my son?

Hel. Do not you love him, madam?

Count. Go not about; my love hath in't a bond,

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Whereof the world takes note: come, come, disclose

The state of your affection; for your passions

Have to the full appeach'd.

Hel. Then, I confess,

Here on my knee, before high heaven and you,

That before you, and next unto high heaven,

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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 loved of me: I follow him not

By any token of presumptuous suit;

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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,

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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

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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

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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!

Count. Had you not lately an intent,—speak truly,—

To go to Paris?

Hel. Madam, I had.

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Count. Wherefore? tell true.

Hel. I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.

You know my father left me some prescriptions

Of rare and proved effects, such as his reading

And manifest experience had collected

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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, approved, set down,

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To cure the desperate languishings whereof

The king is render'd lost.

Count. This was your motive

For Paris, was it? speak.

Hel. My lord your son made me to think of this;

Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king,

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Had from the conversation of my thoughts

Haply been absent then.

Count. 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,

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They, that they cannot help: how shall they credit

A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,

Embowell'd of their doctrine, have left off

The danger to itself?

Hel. There's something in't,

More than my father's skill, which was the greatest

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Of his profession, that his good receipt

Shall for my legacy be sanctified

By the 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.

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Count. Dost them believe't?

Hel. Ay, madam, knowingly.

Count. 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

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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.

Scene III. Rousillon. The Count's palace.