The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare (book suggestions TXT) 📖

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