All's Well That Ends Well

1In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.

2And I in going, madam, weep o'er my father's death

3anew: but I must attend his majesty's command, to

4whom I am now in ward, evermore in subjection.

5You shall find of the king a husband, madam; you,

6sir, a father: he that so generally is at all times

7good must of necessity hold his virtue to you; whose

8worthiness would stir it up where it wanted rather

9than lack it where there is such abundance.

10What hope is there of his majesty's amendment?

11He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; under whose

12practises he hath persecuted time with hope, and

13finds no other advantage in the process but only the

14losing of hope by time.

15This young gentlewoman had a father,--O, that

16'had'! how sad a passage 'tis!--whose skill was

17almost as great as his honesty; had it stretched so

18far, would have made nature immortal, and death

19should have play for lack of work. Would, for the

20king's sake, he were living! I think it would be

21the death of the king's disease.

22How called you the man you speak of, madam?

23He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was

24his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon.

25He was excellent indeed, madam: the king very

26lately spoke of him admiringly and mourningly: he

27was skilful enough to have lived still, if knowledge

28could be set up against mortality.

29What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of?

30A fistula, my lord.

31I heard not of it before.

32I would it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman

33the daughter of Gerard de Narbon?

34His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my

35overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that

36her education promises; her dispositions she

37inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where

38an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there

39commendations go with pity; they are virtues and

40traitors too; in her they are the better for their

41simpleness; she derives her honesty and achieves her goodness.

42Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.

43'Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise

44in. The remembrance of her father never approaches

45her heart but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all

46livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena;

47go to, no more; lest it be rather thought you affect

48a sorrow than have it.

49I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too.

50Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead,

51excessive grief the enemy to the living.

52If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess

53makes it soon mortal.

54Madam, I desire your holy wishes.

55How understand we that?

56Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy father

57In manners, as in shape! thy blood and virtue

58Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness

59Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few,

60Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy

61Rather in power than use, and keep thy friend

62Under thy own life's key: be cheque'd for silence,

63But never tax'd for speech. What heaven more will,

64That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down,

65Fall on thy head! Farewell, my lord;

66'Tis an unseason'd courtier; good my lord,

67Advise him.

68He cannot want the best

69That shall attend his love.

70Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram.

71[To HELENA] The best wishes that can be forged in

72your thoughts be servants to you! Be comfortable

73to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her.

74Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the credit of

75your father.

76O, were that all! I think not on my father;

77And these great tears grace his remembrance more

78Than those I shed for him. What was he like?

79I have forgot him: my imagination

80Carries no favour in't but Bertram's.

81I am undone: there is no living, none,

82If Bertram be away. 'Twere all one

83That I should love a bright particular star

84And think to wed it, he is so above me:

85In his bright radiance and collateral light

86Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.

87The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:

88The hind that would be mated by the lion

89Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though plague,

90To see him every hour; to sit and draw

91His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,

92In our heart's table; heart too capable

93Of every line and trick of his sweet favour:

94But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy

95Must sanctify his reliques. Who comes here?

96One that goes with him: I love him for his sake;

97And yet I know him a notorious liar,

98Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;

99Yet these fixed evils sit so fit in him,

100That they take place, when virtue's steely bones

101Look bleak i' the cold wind: withal, full oft we see

102Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.

103Save you, fair queen!

104And you, monarch!

105No.

106And no.

107Are you meditating on virginity?

108Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you: let me

109ask you a question. Man is enemy to virginity; how

110may we barricado it against him?

111Keep him out.

112But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant,

113in the defence yet is weak: unfold to us some

114warlike resistance.

115There is none: man, sitting down before you, will

116undermine you and blow you up.

117Bless our poor virginity from underminers and

118blowers up! Is there no military policy, how

119virgins might blow up men?

120Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be

121blown up: marry, in blowing him down again, with

122the breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It

123is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to

124preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational

125increase and there was never virgin got till

126virginity was first lost. That you were made of is

127metal to make virgins. Virginity by being once lost

128may be ten times found; by being ever kept, it is

129ever lost: 'tis too cold a companion; away with 't!

130I will stand for 't a little, though therefore I die a virgin.

131There's little can be said in 't; 'tis against the

132rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity,

133is to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible

134disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin:

135virginity murders itself and should be buried in

136highways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate

137offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites,

138much like a cheese; consumes itself to the very

139paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach.

140Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of

141self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the

142canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but loose

143by't: out with 't! within ten year it will make

144itself ten, which is a goodly increase; and the

145principal itself not much the worse: away with 't!

146How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?

147Let me see: marry, ill, to like him that ne'er it

148likes. 'Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with

149lying; the longer kept, the less worth: off with 't

150while 'tis vendible; answer the time of request.

151Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out

152of fashion: richly suited, but unsuitable: just

153like the brooch and the tooth-pick, which wear not

154now. Your date is better in your pie and your

155porridge than in your cheek; and your virginity,

156your old virginity, is like one of our French

157withered pears, it looks ill, it eats drily; marry,

158'tis a withered pear; it was formerly better;

159marry, yet 'tis a withered pear: will you anything with it?

160Not my virginity yet [ ]

161There shall your master have a thousand loves,

162A mother and a mistress and a friend,

163A phoenix, captain and an enemy,

164A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,

165A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear;

166His humble ambition, proud humility,

167His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet,

168His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world

169Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms,

170That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he--

171I know not what he shall. God send him well!

172The court's a learning place, and he is one--

173What one, i' faith?

174That I wish well. 'Tis pity--

175What's pity?

176That wishing well had not a body in't,

177Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born,

178Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,

179Might with effects of them follow our friends,

180And show what we alone must think, which never

181Return us thanks.

182Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.

183Little Helen, farewell; if I can remember thee, I

184will think of thee at court.

185Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.

186Under Mars, I.

187I especially think, under Mars.

188Why under Mars?

189The wars have so kept you under that you must needs

190be born under Mars.

191When he was predominant.

192When he was retrograde, I think, rather.

193Why think you so?

194You go so much backward when you fight.

195That's for advantage.

196So is running away, when fear proposes the safety;

197but the composition that your valour and fear makes

198in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well.

199I am so full of businesses, I cannot answer thee

200acutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the

201which, my instruction shall serve to naturalize

202thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier's

203counsel and understand what advice shall thrust upon

204thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and

205thine ignorance makes thee away: farewell. When

206thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast

207none, remember thy friends; get thee a good husband,

208and use him as he uses thee; so, farewell.

209Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,

210Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky

211Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull

212Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.

213What power is it which mounts my love so high,

214That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?

215The mightiest space in fortune nature brings

216To join like likes and kiss like native things.

217Impossible be strange attempts to those

218That weigh their pains in sense and do suppose

219What hath been cannot be: who ever strove

220So show her merit, that did miss her love?

221The king's disease--my project may deceive me,

222But my intents are fix'd and will not leave me.

1The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears;

2Have fought with equal fortune and continue

3A braving war.

4So 'tis reported, sir.

5Nay, 'tis most credible; we here received it

6A certainty, vouch'd from our cousin Austria,

7With caution that the Florentine will move us

8For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend

9Prejudicates the business and would seem

10To have us make denial.

11His love and wisdom,

12Approved so to your majesty, may plead

13For amplest credence.

14He hath arm'd our answer,

15And Florence is denied before he comes:

16Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see

17The Tuscan service, freely have they leave

18To stand on either part.

19It well may serve

20A nursery to our gentry, who are sick

21For breathing and exploit.

22What's he comes here?

23It is the Count Rousillon, my good lord,

24Young Bertram.

25Youth, thou bear'st thy father's face;

26Frank nature, rather curious than in haste,

27Hath well composed thee. Thy father's moral parts

28Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.

29My thanks and duty are your majesty's.

30I would I had that corporal soundness now,

31As when thy father and myself in friendship

32First tried our soldiership! He did look far

33Into the service of the time and was

34Discipled of the bravest: he lasted long;

35But on us both did haggish age steal on

36And wore us out of act. It much repairs me

37To talk of your good father. In his youth

38He had the wit which I can well observe

39To-day in our young lords; but they may jest

40Till their own scorn return to them unnoted

41Ere they can hide their levity in honour;

42So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness

43Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,

44His equal had awaked them, and his honour,

45Clock to itself, knew the true minute when

46Exception bid him speak, and at this time

47His tongue obey'd his hand: who were below him

48He used as creatures of another place

49And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks,

50Making them proud of his humility,

51In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man

52Might be a copy to these younger times;

53Which, follow'd well, would demonstrate them now

54But goers backward.

55His good remembrance, sir,

56Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb;

57So in approof lives not his epitaph

58As in your royal speech.

59Would I were with him! He would always say--

60Methinks I hear him now; his plausive words

61He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them,

62To grow there and to bear,--'Let me not live,'--

63This his good melancholy oft began,

64On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,

65When it was out,--'Let me not live,' quoth he,

66'After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff

67Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses

68All but new things disdain; whose judgments are

69Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies

70Expire before their fashions.' This he wish'd;

71I after him do after him wish too,

72Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home,

73I quickly were dissolved from my hive,

74To give some labourers room.

75You are loved, sir:

76They that least lend it you shall lack you first.

77I fill a place, I know't. How long is't, count,

78Since the physician at your father's died?

79He was much famed.

80Some six months since, my lord.

81If he were living, I would try him yet.

82Lend me an arm; the rest have worn me out

83With several applications; nature and sickness

84Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count;

85My son's no dearer.

86Thank your majesty.

1I will now hear; what say you of this gentlewoman?

2Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I

3wish might be found in the calendar of my past

4endeavours; for then we wound our modesty and make

5foul the clearness of our deservings, when of

6ourselves we publish them.

7What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah:

8the complaints I have heard of you I do not all

9believe: 'tis my slowness that I do not; for I know

10you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability

11enough to make such knaveries yours.

12'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.

13Well, sir.

14No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, though

15many of the rich are damned: but, if I may have

16your ladyship's good will to go to the world, Isbel

17the woman and I will do as we may.

18Wilt thou needs be a beggar?

19I do beg your good will in this case.

20In what case?

21In Isbel's case and mine own. Service is no

22heritage: and I think I shall never have the

23blessing of God till I have issue o' my body; for

24they say barnes are blessings.

25Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.

26My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on

27by the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives.

28Is this all your worship's reason?

29Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons such as they

30are.

31May the world know them?

32I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and

33all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry

34that I may repent.

35Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.

36I am out o' friends, madam; and I hope to have

37friends for my wife's sake.

38Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

39You're shallow, madam, in great friends; for the

40knaves come to do that for me which I am aweary of.

41He that ears my land spares my team and gives me

42leave to in the crop; if I be his cuckold, he's my

43drudge: he that comforts my wife is the cherisher

44of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh

45and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my

46flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses

47my wife is my friend. If men could be contented to

48be what they are, there were no fear in marriage;

49for young Charbon the Puritan and old Poysam the

50Papist, howsome'er their hearts are severed in

51religion, their heads are both one; they may jowl

52horns together, like any deer i' the herd.

53Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave?

54A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next

55way:

56For I the ballad will repeat,

57Which men full true shall find;

58Your marriage comes by destiny,

59Your cuckoo sings by kind.

60Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you more anon.

61May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to

62you: of her I am to speak.

63Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her;

64Helen, I mean.

65Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,

66Why the Grecians sacked Troy?

67Fond done, done fond,

68Was this King Priam's joy?

69With that she sighed as she stood,

70With that she sighed as she stood,

71And gave this sentence then;

72Among nine bad if one be good,

73Among nine bad if one be good,

74There's yet one good in ten.

75What, one good in ten? you corrupt the song, sirrah.

76One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying

77o' the song: would God would serve the world so all

78the year! we'ld find no fault with the tithe-woman,

79if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth a'! An we

80might have a good woman born but one every blazing

81star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery

82well: a man may draw his heart out, ere a' pluck

83one.

84You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you.

85That man should be at woman's command, and yet no

86hurt done! Though honesty be no puritan, yet it

87will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of

88humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am

89going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither.

90Well, now.

91I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.

92Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to me; and

93she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully

94make title to as much love as she finds: there is

95more owing her than is paid; and more shall be paid

96her than she'll demand.

97Madam, I was very late more near her than I think

98she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate

99to herself her own words to her own ears; she

100thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any

101stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son:

102Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put

103such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no

104god, that would not extend his might, only where

105qualities were level; Dian no queen of virgins, that

106would suffer her poor knight surprised, without

107rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward.

108This she delivered in the most bitter touch of

109sorrow that e'er I heard virgin exclaim in: which I

110held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal;

111sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns

112you something to know it.

113You have discharged this honestly; keep it to

114yourself: many likelihoods informed me of this

115before, which hung so tottering in the balance that

116I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you,

117leave me: stall this in your bosom; and I thank you

118for your honest care: I will speak with you further anon.

119Even so it was with me when I was young:

120If ever we are nature's, these are ours; this thorn

121Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;

122Our blood to us, this to our blood is born;

123It is the show and seal of nature's truth,

124Where love's strong passion is impress'd in youth:

125By our remembrances of days foregone,

126Such were our faults, or then we thought them none.

127Her eye is sick on't: I observe her now.

128What is your pleasure, madam?

129You know, Helen,

130I am a mother to you.

131Mine honourable mistress.

132Nay, a mother:

133Why not a mother? When I said 'a mother,'

134Methought you saw a serpent: what's in 'mother,'

135That you start at it? I say, I am your mother;

136And put you in the catalogue of those

137That were enwombed mine: 'tis often seen

138Adoption strives with nature and choice breeds

139A native slip to us from foreign seeds:

140You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan,

141Yet I express to you a mother's care:

142God's mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood

143To say I am thy mother? What's the matter,

144That this distemper'd messenger of wet,

145The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye?

146Why? that you are my daughter?

147That I am not.

148I say, I am your mother.

149Pardon, madam;

150The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:

151I am from humble, he from honour'd name;

152No note upon my parents, his all noble:

153My master, my dear lord he is; and I

154His servant live, and will his vassal die:

155He must not be my brother.

156Nor I your mother?

157You are my mother, madam; would you were,--

158So that my lord your son were not my brother,--

159Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers,

160I care no more for than I do for heaven,

161So I were not his sister. Can't no other,

162But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?

163Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law:

164God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother

165So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again?

166My fear hath catch'd your fondness: now I see

167The mystery of your loneliness, and find

168Your salt tears' head: now to all sense 'tis gross

169You love my son; invention is ashamed,

170Against the proclamation of thy passion,

171To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true;

172But tell me then, 'tis so; for, look thy cheeks

173Confess it, th' one to th' other; and thine eyes

174See it so grossly shown in thy behaviors

175That in their kind they speak it: only sin

176And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,

177That truth should be suspected. Speak, is't so?

178If it be so, you have wound a goodly clew;

179If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,

180As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,

181Tell me truly.

182Good madam, pardon me!

183Do you love my son?

184Your pardon, noble mistress!

185Love you my son?

186Do not you love him, madam?

187Go not about; my love hath in't a bond,

188Whereof the world takes note: come, come, disclose

189The state of your affection; for your passions

190Have to the full appeach'd.

191Then, I confess,

192Here on my knee, before high heaven and you,

193That before you, and next unto high heaven,

194I love your son.

195My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love:

196Be not offended; for it hurts not him

197That he is loved of me: I follow him not

198By any token of presumptuous suit;

199Nor would I have him till I do deserve him;

200Yet never know how that desert should be.

201I know I love in vain, strive against hope;

202Yet in this captious and intenible sieve

203I still pour in the waters of my love

204And lack not to lose still: thus, Indian-like,

205Religious in mine error, I adore

206The sun, that looks upon his worshipper,

207But knows of him no more. My dearest madam,

208Let not your hate encounter with my love

209For loving where you do: but if yourself,

210Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,

211Did ever in so true a flame of liking

212Wish chastely and love dearly, that your Dian

213Was both herself and love: O, then, give pity

214To her, whose state is such that cannot choose

215But lend and give where she is sure to lose;

216That seeks not to find that her search implies,

217But riddle-like lives sweetly where she dies!

218Had you not lately an intent,--speak truly,--

219To go to Paris?

220Madam, I had.

221Wherefore? tell true.

222I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.

223You know my father left me some prescriptions

224Of rare and proved effects, such as his reading

225And manifest experience had collected

226For general sovereignty; and that he will'd me

227In heedfull'st reservation to bestow them,

228As notes whose faculties inclusive were

229More than they were in note: amongst the rest,

230There is a remedy, approved, set down,

231To cure the desperate languishings whereof

232The king is render'd lost.

233This was your motive

234For Paris, was it? speak.

235My lord your son made me to think of this;

236Else Paris and the medicine and the king

237Had from the conversation of my thoughts

238Haply been absent then.

239But think you, Helen,

240If you should tender your supposed aid,

241He would receive it? he and his physicians

242Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him,

243They, that they cannot help: how shall they credit

244A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,

245Embowell'd of their doctrine, have left off

246The danger to itself?

247There's something in't,

248More than my father's skill, which was the greatest

249Of his profession, that his good receipt

250Shall for my legacy be sanctified

251By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your honour

252But give me leave to try success, I'ld venture

253The well-lost life of mine on his grace's cure

254By such a day and hour.

255Dost thou believe't?

256Ay, madam, knowingly.

257Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love,

258Means and attendants and my loving greetings

259To those of mine in court: I'll stay at home

260And pray God's blessing into thy attempt:

261Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this,

262What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss.

1Farewell, young lords; these warlike principles

2Do not throw from you: and you, my lords, farewell:

3Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain, all

4The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis received,

5And is enough for both.

6'Tis our hope, sir,

7After well enter'd soldiers, to return

8And find your grace in health.

9No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart

10Will not confess he owes the malady

11That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords;

12Whether I live or die, be you the sons

13Of worthy Frenchmen: let higher Italy,--

14Those bated that inherit but the fall

15Of the last monarchy,--see that you come

16Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when

17The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek,

18That fame may cry you loud: I say, farewell.

19Health, at your bidding, serve your majesty!

20Those girls of Italy, take heed of them:

21They say, our French lack language to deny,

22If they demand: beware of being captives,

23Before you serve.

24Our hearts receive your warnings.

25Farewell. Come hither to me.

26O, my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us!

27'Tis not his fault, the spark.

28O, 'tis brave wars!

29Most admirable: I have seen those wars.

30I am commanded here, and kept a coil with

31'Too young' and 'the next year' and ''tis too early.'

32An thy mind stand to't, boy, steal away bravely.

33I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock,

34Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry,

35Till honour be bought up and no sword worn

36But one to dance with! By heaven, I'll steal away.

37There's honour in the theft.

38Commit it, count.

39I am your accessary; and so, farewell.

40I grow to you, and our parting is a tortured body.

41Farewell, captain.

42Sweet Monsieur Parolles!

43Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good

44sparks and lustrous, a word, good metals: you shall

45find in the regiment of the Spinii one Captain

46Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here

47on his sinister cheek; it was this very sword

48entrenched it: say to him, I live; and observe his

49reports for me.

50We shall, noble captain.

51Mars dote on you for his novices! what will ye do?

52Stay: the king.

53[To BERTRAM] Use a more spacious ceremony to the

54noble lords; you have restrained yourself within the

55list of too cold an adieu: be more expressive to

56them: for they wear themselves in the cap of the

57time, there do muster true gait, eat, speak, and

58move under the influence of the most received star;

59and though the devil lead the measure, such are to

60be followed: after them, and take a more dilated farewell.

61And I will do so.

62Worthy fellows; and like to prove most sinewy sword-men.

63[Kneeling] Pardon, my lord, for me and for my tidings.

64I'll fee thee to stand up.

65Then here's a man stands, that has brought his pardon.

66I would you had kneel'd, my lord, to ask me mercy,

67And that at my bidding you could so stand up.

68I would I had; so I had broke thy pate,

69And ask'd thee mercy for't.

70Good faith, across: but, my good lord 'tis thus;

71Will you be cured of your infirmity?

72No.

73O, will you eat no grapes, my royal fox?

74Yes, but you will my noble grapes, an if

75My royal fox could reach them: I have seen a medicine

76That's able to breathe life into a stone,

77Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary

78With spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch,

79Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay,

80To give great Charlemain a pen in's hand,

81And write to her a love-line.

82What 'her' is this?

83Why, Doctor She: my lord, there's one arrived,

84If you will see her: now, by my faith and honour,

85If seriously I may convey my thoughts

86In this my light deliverance, I have spoke

87With one that, in her sex, her years, profession,

88Wisdom and constancy, hath amazed me more

89Than I dare blame my weakness: will you see her

90For that is her demand, and know her business?

91That done, laugh well at me.

92Now, good Lafeu,

93Bring in the admiration; that we with thee

94May spend our wonder too, or take off thine

95By wondering how thou took'st it.

96Nay, I'll fit you,

97And not be all day neither.

98Thus he his special nothing ever prologues.

99Nay, come your ways.

100This haste hath wings indeed.

101Nay, come your ways:

102This is his majesty; say your mind to him:

103A traitor you do look like; but such traitors

104His majesty seldom fears: I am Cressid's uncle,

105That dare leave two together; fare you well.

106Now, fair one, does your business follow us?

107Ay, my good lord.

108Gerard de Narbon was my father;

109In what he did profess, well found.

110I knew him.

111The rather will I spare my praises towards him:

112Knowing him is enough. On's bed of death

113Many receipts he gave me: chiefly one.

114Which, as the dearest issue of his practise,

115And of his old experience the oily darling,

116He bade me store up, as a triple eye,

117Safer than mine own two, more dear; I have so;

118And hearing your high majesty is touch'd

119With that malignant cause wherein the honour

120Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power,

121I come to tender it and my appliance

122With all bound humbleness.

123We thank you, maiden;

124But may not be so credulous of cure,

125When our most learned doctors leave us and

126The congregated college have concluded

127That labouring art can never ransom nature

128From her inaidible estate; I say we must not

129So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope,

130To prostitute our past-cure malady

131To empirics, or to dissever so

132Our great self and our credit, to esteem

133A senseless help when help past sense we deem.

134My duty then shall pay me for my pains:

135I will no more enforce mine office on you.

136Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts

137A modest one, to bear me back again.

138I cannot give thee less, to be call'd grateful:

139Thou thought'st to help me; and such thanks I give

140As one near death to those that wish him live:

141But what at full I know, thou know'st no part,

142I knowing all my peril, thou no art.

143What I can do can do no hurt to try,

144Since you set up your rest 'gainst remedy.

145He that of greatest works is finisher

146Oft does them by the weakest minister:

147So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown,

148When judges have been babes; great floods have flown

149From simple sources, and great seas have dried

150When miracles have by the greatest been denied.

151Oft expectation fails and most oft there

152Where most it promises, and oft it hits

153Where hope is coldest and despair most fits.

154I must not hear thee; fare thee well, kind maid;

155Thy pains not used must by thyself be paid:

156Proffers not took reap thanks for their reward.

157Inspired merit so by breath is barr'd:

158It is not so with Him that all things knows

159As 'tis with us that square our guess by shows;

160But most it is presumption in us when

161The help of heaven we count the act of men.

162Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent;

163Of heaven, not me, make an experiment.

164I am not an impostor that proclaim

165Myself against the level of mine aim;

166But know I think and think I know most sure

167My art is not past power nor you past cure.

168Are thou so confident? within what space

169Hopest thou my cure?

170The great'st grace lending grace

171Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring

172Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring,

173Ere twice in murk and occidental damp

174Moist Hesperus hath quench'd his sleepy lamp,

175Or four and twenty times the pilot's glass

176Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass,

177What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly,

178Health shall live free and sickness freely die.

179Upon thy certainty and confidence

180What darest thou venture?

181Tax of impudence,

182A strumpet's boldness, a divulged shame

183Traduced by odious ballads: my maiden's name

184Sear'd otherwise; nay, worse--if worse--extended

185With vilest torture let my life be ended.

186Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak

187His powerful sound within an organ weak:

188And what impossibility would slay

189In common sense, sense saves another way.

190Thy life is dear; for all that life can rate

191Worth name of life in thee hath estimate,

192Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, all

193That happiness and prime can happy call:

194Thou this to hazard needs must intimate

195Skill infinite or monstrous desperate.

196Sweet practiser, thy physic I will try,

197That ministers thine own death if I die.

198If I break time, or flinch in property

199Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die,

200And well deserved: not helping, death's my fee;

201But, if I help, what do you promise me?

202Make thy demand.

203But will you make it even?

204Ay, by my sceptre and my hopes of heaven.

205Then shalt thou give me with thy kingly hand

206What husband in thy power I will command:

207Exempted be from me the arrogance

208To choose from forth the royal blood of France,

209My low and humble name to propagate

210With any branch or image of thy state;

211But such a one, thy vassal, whom I know

212Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow.

213Here is my hand; the premises observed,

214Thy will by my performance shall be served:

215So make the choice of thy own time, for I,

216Thy resolved patient, on thee still rely.

217More should I question thee, and more I must,

218Though more to know could not be more to trust,

219From whence thou camest, how tended on: but rest

220Unquestion'd welcome and undoubted blest.

221Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed

222As high as word, my deed shall match thy meed.

1Come on, sir; I shall now put you to the height of

2your breeding.

3I will show myself highly fed and lowly taught: I

4know my business is but to the court.

5To the court! why, what place make you special,

6when you put off that with such contempt? But to the court!

7Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he

8may easily put it off at court: he that cannot make

9a leg, put off's cap, kiss his hand and say nothing,

10has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap; and indeed

11such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the

12court; but for me, I have an answer will serve all

13men.

14Marry, that's a bountiful answer that fits all

15questions.

16It is like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks,

17the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn

18buttock, or any buttock.

19Will your answer serve fit to all questions?

20As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney,

21as your French crown for your taffeta punk, as Tib's

22rush for Tom's forefinger, as a pancake for Shrove

23Tuesday, a morris for May-day, as the nail to his

24hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding queen

25to a wrangling knave, as the nun's lip to the

26friar's mouth, nay, as the pudding to his skin.

27Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness for all

28questions?

29From below your duke to beneath your constable, it

30will fit any question.

31It must be an answer of most monstrous size that

32must fit all demands.

33But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned

34should speak truth of it: here it is, and all that

35belongs to't. Ask me if I am a courtier: it shall

36do you no harm to learn.

37To be young again, if we could: I will be a fool in

38question, hoping to be the wiser by your answer. I

39pray you, sir, are you a courtier?

40O Lord, sir! There's a simple putting off. More,

41more, a hundred of them.

42Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves you.

43O Lord, sir! Thick, thick, spare not me.

44I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely meat.

45O Lord, sir! Nay, put me to't, I warrant you.

46You were lately whipped, sir, as I think.

47O Lord, sir! spare not me.

48Do you cry, 'O Lord, sir!' at your whipping, and

49'spare not me?' Indeed your 'O Lord, sir!' is very

50sequent to your whipping: you would answer very well

51to a whipping, if you were but bound to't.

52I ne'er had worse luck in my life in my 'O Lord,

53sir!' I see things may serve long, but not serve ever.

54I play the noble housewife with the time

55To entertain't so merrily with a fool.

56O Lord, sir! why, there't serves well again.

57An end, sir; to your business. Give Helen this,

58And urge her to a present answer back:

59Commend me to my kinsmen and my son:

60This is not much.

61Not much commendation to them.

62Not much employment for you: you understand me?

63Most fruitfully: I am there before my legs.

64Haste you again.

1They say miracles are past; and we have our

2philosophical persons, to make modern and familiar,

3things supernatural and causeless. Hence is it that

4we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves

5into seeming knowledge, when we should submit

6ourselves to an unknown fear.

7Why, 'tis the rarest argument of wonder that hath

8shot out in our latter times.

9And so 'tis.

10To be relinquish'd of the artists,--

11So I say.

12Both of Galen and Paracelsus.

13So I say.

14Of all the learned and authentic fellows,--

15Right; so I say.

16That gave him out incurable,--

17Why, there 'tis; so say I too.

18Not to be helped,--

19Right; as 'twere, a man assured of a--

20Uncertain life, and sure death.

21Just, you say well; so would I have said.

22I may truly say, it is a novelty to the world.

23It is, indeed: if you will have it in showing, you

24shall read it in--what do you call there?

25A showing of a heavenly effect in an earthly actor.

26That's it; I would have said the very same.

27Why, your dolphin is not lustier: 'fore me,

28I speak in respect--

29Nay, 'tis strange, 'tis very strange, that is the

30brief and the tedious of it; and he's of a most

31facinerious spirit that will not acknowledge it to be the--

32Very hand of heaven.

33Ay, so I say.

34In a most weak--

35and debile minister, great power, great

36transcendence: which should, indeed, give us a

37further use to be made than alone the recovery of

38the king, as to be--

39generally thankful.

40I would have said it; you say well. Here comes the king.

41Lustig, as the Dutchman says: I'll like a maid the

42better, whilst I have a tooth in my head: why, he's

43able to lead her a coranto.

44Mort du vinaigre! is not this Helen?

45'Fore God, I think so.

46Go, call before me all the lords in court.

47Sit, my preserver, by thy patient's side;

48And with this healthful hand, whose banish'd sense

49Thou hast repeal'd, a second time receive

50The confirmation of my promised gift,

51Which but attends thy naming.

52Fair maid, send forth thine eye: this youthful parcel

53Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing,

54O'er whom both sovereign power and father's voice

55I have to use: thy frank election make;

56Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake.

57To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress

58Fall, when Love please! marry, to each, but one!

59I'ld give bay Curtal and his furniture,

60My mouth no more were broken than these boys',

61And writ as little beard.

62Peruse them well:

63Not one of those but had a noble father.

64Gentlemen,

65Heaven hath through me restored the king to health.

66We understand it, and thank heaven for you.

67I am a simple maid, and therein wealthiest,

68That I protest I simply am a maid.

69Please it your majesty, I have done already:

70The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me,

71'We blush that thou shouldst choose; but, be refused,

72Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever;

73We'll ne'er come there again.'

74Make choice; and, see,

75Who shuns thy love shuns all his love in me.

76Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly,

77And to imperial Love, that god most high,

78Do my sighs stream. Sir, will you hear my suit?

79And grant it.

80Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

81I had rather be in this choice than throw ames-ace

82for my life.

83The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes,

84Before I speak, too threateningly replies:

85Love make your fortunes twenty times above

86Her that so wishes and her humble love!

87No better, if you please.

88My wish receive,

89Which great Love grant! and so, I take my leave.

90Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine,

91I'd have them whipped; or I would send them to the

92Turk, to make eunuchs of.

93Be not afraid that I your hand should take;

94I'll never do you wrong for your own sake:

95Blessing upon your vows! and in your bed

96Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed!

97These boys are boys of ice, they'll none have her:

98sure, they are bastards to the English; the French

99ne'er got 'em.

100You are too young, too happy, and too good,

101To make yourself a son out of my blood.

102Fair one, I think not so.

103There's one grape yet; I am sure thy father drunk

104wine: but if thou be'st not an ass, I am a youth

105of fourteen; I have known thee already.

106[To BERTRAM] I dare not say I take you; but I give

107Me and my service, ever whilst I live,

108Into your guiding power. This is the man.

109Why, then, young Bertram, take her; she's thy wife.

110My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your highness,

111In such a business give me leave to use

112The help of mine own eyes.

113Know'st thou not, Bertram,

114What she has done for me?

115Yes, my good lord;

116But never hope to know why I should marry her.

117Thou know'st she has raised me from my sickly bed.

118But follows it, my lord, to bring me down

119Must answer for your raising? I know her well:

120She had her breeding at my father's charge.

121A poor physician's daughter my wife! Disdain

122Rather corrupt me ever!

123'Tis only title thou disdain'st in her, the which

124I can build up. Strange is it that our bloods,

125Of colour, weight, and heat, pour'd all together,

126Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off

127In differences so mighty. If she be

128All that is virtuous, save what thou dislikest,

129A poor physician's daughter, thou dislikest

130Of virtue for the name: but do not so:

131From lowest place when virtuous things proceed,

132The place is dignified by the doer's deed:

133Where great additions swell's, and virtue none,

134It is a dropsied honour. Good alone

135Is good without a name. Vileness is so:

136The property by what it is should go,

137Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair;

138In these to nature she's immediate heir,

139And these breed honour: that is honour's scorn,

140Which challenges itself as honour's born

141And is not like the sire: honours thrive,

142When rather from our acts we them derive

143Than our foregoers: the mere word's a slave

144Debosh'd on every tomb, on every grave

145A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb

146Where dust and damn'd oblivion is the tomb

147Of honour'd bones indeed. What should be said?

148If thou canst like this creature as a maid,

149I can create the rest: virtue and she

150Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me.

151I cannot love her, nor will strive to do't.

152Thou wrong'st thyself, if thou shouldst strive to choose.

153That you are well restored, my lord, I'm glad:

154Let the rest go.

155My honour's at the stake; which to defeat,

156I must produce my power. Here, take her hand,

157Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift;

158That dost in vile misprision shackle up

159My love and her desert; that canst not dream,

160We, poising us in her defective scale,

161Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know,

162It is in us to plant thine honour where

163We please to have it grow. Cheque thy contempt:

164Obey our will, which travails in thy good:

165Believe not thy disdain, but presently

166Do thine own fortunes that obedient right

167Which both thy duty owes and our power claims;

168Or I will throw thee from my care for ever

169Into the staggers and the careless lapse

170Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate

171Loosing upon thee, in the name of justice,

172Without all terms of pity. Speak; thine answer.

173Pardon, my gracious lord; for I submit

174My fancy to your eyes: when I consider

175What great creation and what dole of honour

176Flies where you bid it, I find that she, which late

177Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now

178The praised of the king; who, so ennobled,

179Is as 'twere born so.

180Take her by the hand,

181And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise

182A counterpoise, if not to thy estate

183A balance more replete.

184I take her hand.

185Good fortune and the favour of the king

186Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony

187Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief,

188And be perform'd to-night: the solemn feast

189Shall more attend upon the coming space,

190Expecting absent friends. As thou lovest her,

191Thy love's to me religious; else, does err.

192[Advancing] Do you hear, monsieur? a word with you.

193Your pleasure, sir?

194Your lord and master did well to make his

195recantation.

196Recantation! My lord! my master!

197Ay; is it not a language I speak?

198A most harsh one, and not to be understood without

199bloody succeeding. My master!

200Are you companion to the Count Rousillon?

201To any count, to all counts, to what is man.

202To what is count's man: count's master is of

203another style.

204You are too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are too old.

205I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to which

206title age cannot bring thee.

207What I dare too well do, I dare not do.

208I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty

209wise fellow; thou didst make tolerable vent of thy

210travel; it might pass: yet the scarfs and the

211bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from

212believing thee a vessel of too great a burthen. I

213have now found thee; when I lose thee again, I care

214not: yet art thou good for nothing but taking up; and

215that thou't scarce worth.

216Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee,--

217Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest thou

218hasten thy trial; which if--Lord have mercy on thee

219for a hen! So, my good window of lattice, fare thee

220well: thy casement I need not open, for I look

221through thee. Give me thy hand.

222My lord, you give me most egregious indignity.

223Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy of it.

224I have not, my lord, deserved it.

225Yes, good faith, every dram of it; and I will not

226bate thee a scruple.

227Well, I shall be wiser.

228Even as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at

229a smack o' the contrary. If ever thou be'st bound

230in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is

231to be proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to hold

232my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge,

233that I may say in the default, he is a man I know.

234My lord, you do me most insupportable vexation.

235I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, and my poor

236doing eternal: for doing I am past: as I will by

237thee, in what motion age will give me leave.

238Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace off

239me; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord! Well, I must

240be patient; there is no fettering of authority.

241I'll beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with

242any convenience, an he were double and double a

243lord. I'll have no more pity of his age than I

244would of--I'll beat him, an if I could but meet him again.

245Sirrah, your lord and master's married; there's news

246for you: you have a new mistress.

247I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship to make

248some reservation of your wrongs: he is my good

249lord: whom I serve above is my master.

250Who? God?

251Ay, sir.

252The devil it is that's thy master. Why dost thou

253garter up thy arms o' this fashion? dost make hose of

254sleeves? do other servants so? Thou wert best set

255thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine

256honour, if I were but two hours younger, I'ld beat

257thee: methinks, thou art a general offence, and

258every man should beat thee: I think thou wast

259created for men to breathe themselves upon thee.

260This is hard and undeserved measure, my lord.

261Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a

262kernel out of a pomegranate; you are a vagabond and

263no true traveller: you are more saucy with lords

264and honourable personages than the commission of your

265birth and virtue gives you heraldry. You are not

266worth another word, else I'ld call you knave. I leave you.

267Good, very good; it is so then: good, very good;

268let it be concealed awhile.

269Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!

270What's the matter, sweet-heart?

271Although before the solemn priest I have sworn,

272I will not bed her.

273What, what, sweet-heart?

274O my Parolles, they have married me!

275I'll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.

276France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits

277The tread of a man's foot: to the wars!

278There's letters from my mother: what the import is,

279I know not yet.

280Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my boy, to the wars!

281He wears his honour in a box unseen,

282That hugs his kicky-wicky here at home,

283Spending his manly marrow in her arms,

284Which should sustain the bound and high curvet

285Of Mars's fiery steed. To other regions

286France is a stable; we that dwell in't jades;

287Therefore, to the war!

288It shall be so: I'll send her to my house,

289Acquaint my mother with my hate to her,

290And wherefore I am fled; write to the king

291That which I durst not speak; his present gift

292Shall furnish me to those Italian fields,

293Where noble fellows strike: war is no strife

294To the dark house and the detested wife.

295Will this capriccio hold in thee? art sure?

296Go with me to my chamber, and advise me.

297I'll send her straight away: to-morrow

298I'll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.

299Why, these balls bound; there's noise in it. 'Tis hard:

300A young man married is a man that's marr'd:

301Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go:

302The king has done you wrong: but, hush, 'tis so.

1My mother greets me kindly; is she well?

2She is not well; but yet she has her health: she's

3very merry; but yet she is not well: but thanks be

4given, she's very well and wants nothing i', the

5world; but yet she is not well.

6If she be very well, what does she ail, that she's

7not very well?

8Truly, she's very well indeed, but for two things.

9What two things?

10One, that she's not in heaven, whither God send her

11quickly! the other that she's in earth, from whence

12God send her quickly!

13Bless you, my fortunate lady!

14I hope, sir, I have your good will to have mine own

15good fortunes.

16You had my prayers to lead them on; and to keep them

17on, have them still. O, my knave, how does my old lady?

18So that you had her wrinkles and I her money,

19I would she did as you say.

20Why, I say nothing.

21Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a man's

22tongue shakes out his master's undoing: to say

23nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to have

24nothing, is to be a great part of your title; which

25is within a very little of nothing.

26Away! thou'rt a knave.

27You should have said, sir, before a knave thou'rt a

28knave; that's, before me thou'rt a knave: this had

29been truth, sir.

30Go to, thou art a witty fool; I have found thee.

31Did you find me in yourself, sir? or were you

32taught to find me? The search, sir, was profitable;

33and much fool may you find in you, even to the

34world's pleasure and the increase of laughter.

35A good knave, i' faith, and well fed.

36Madam, my lord will go away to-night;

37A very serious business calls on him.

38The great prerogative and rite of love,

39Which, as your due, time claims, he does acknowledge;

40But puts it off to a compell'd restraint;

41Whose want, and whose delay, is strew'd with sweets,

42Which they distil now in the curbed time,

43To make the coming hour o'erflow with joy

44And pleasure drown the brim.

45What's his will else?

46That you will take your instant leave o' the king

47And make this haste as your own good proceeding,

48Strengthen'd with what apology you think

49May make it probable need.

50What more commands he?

51That, having this obtain'd, you presently

52Attend his further pleasure.

53In every thing I wait upon his will.

54I shall report it so.

55I pray you.

56Come, sirrah.

1But I hope your lordship thinks not him a soldier.

2Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof.

3You have it from his own deliverance.

4And by other warranted testimony.

5Then my dial goes not true: I took this lark for a bunting.

6I do assure you, my lord, he is very great in

7knowledge and accordingly valiant.

8I have then sinned against his experience and

9transgressed against his valour; and my state that

10way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my

11heart to repent. Here he comes: I pray you, make

12us friends; I will pursue the amity.

13[To BERTRAM] These things shall be done, sir.

14Pray you, sir, who's his tailor?

15Sir?

16O, I know him well, I, sir; he, sir, 's a good

17workman, a very good tailor.

18[Aside to PAROLLES] Is she gone to the king?

19She is.

20Will she away to-night?

21As you'll have her.

22I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure,

23Given order for our horses; and to-night,

24When I should take possession of the bride,

25End ere I do begin.

26A good traveller is something at the latter end of a

27dinner; but one that lies three thirds and uses a

28known truth to pass a thousand nothings with, should

29be once heard and thrice beaten. God save you, captain.

30Is there any unkindness between my lord and you, monsieur?

31I know not how I have deserved to run into my lord's

32displeasure.

33You have made shift to run into 't, boots and spurs

34and all, like him that leaped into the custard; and

35out of it you'll run again, rather than suffer

36question for your residence.

37It may be you have mistaken him, my lord.

38And shall do so ever, though I took him at 's

39prayers. Fare you well, my lord; and believe this

40of me, there can be no kernel in this light nut; the

41soul of this man is his clothes. Trust him not in

42matter of heavy consequence; I have kept of them

43tame, and know their natures. Farewell, monsieur:

44I have spoken better of you than you have or will to

45deserve at my hand; but we must do good against evil.

46An idle lord. I swear.

47I think so.

48Why, do you not know him?

49Yes, I do know him well, and common speech

50Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.

51I have, sir, as I was commanded from you,

52Spoke with the king and have procured his leave

53For present parting; only he desires

54Some private speech with you.

55I shall obey his will.

56You must not marvel, Helen, at my course,

57Which holds not colour with the time, nor does

58The ministration and required office

59On my particular. Prepared I was not

60For such a business; therefore am I found

61So much unsettled: this drives me to entreat you

62That presently you take our way for home;

63And rather muse than ask why I entreat you,

64For my respects are better than they seem

65And my appointments have in them a need

66Greater than shows itself at the first view

67To you that know them not. This to my mother:

68'Twill be two days ere I shall see you, so

69I leave you to your wisdom.

70Sir, I can nothing say,

71But that I am your most obedient servant.

72Come, come, no more of that.

73And ever shall

74With true observance seek to eke out that

75Wherein toward me my homely stars have fail'd

76To equal my great fortune.

77Let that go:

78My haste is very great: farewell; hie home.

79Pray, sir, your pardon.

80Well, what would you say?

81I am not worthy of the wealth I owe,

82Nor dare I say 'tis mine, and yet it is;

83But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal

84What law does vouch mine own.

85What would you have?

86Something; and scarce so much: nothing, indeed.

87I would not tell you what I would, my lord:

88Faith yes;

89Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss.

90I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse.

91I shall not break your bidding, good my lord.

92Where are my other men, monsieur? Farewell.

93Go thou toward home; where I will never come

94Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum.

95Away, and for our flight.

96Bravely, coragio!

1So that from point to point now have you heard

2The fundamental reasons of this war,

3Whose great decision hath much blood let forth

4And more thirsts after.

5Holy seems the quarrel

6Upon your grace's part; black and fearful

7On the opposer.

8Therefore we marvel much our cousin France

9Would in so just a business shut his bosom

10Against our borrowing prayers.

11Good my lord,

12The reasons of our state I cannot yield,

13But like a common and an outward man,

14That the great figure of a council frames

15By self-unable motion: therefore dare not

16Say what I think of it, since I have found

17Myself in my incertain grounds to fail

18As often as I guess'd.

19Be it his pleasure.

20But I am sure the younger of our nature,

21That surfeit on their ease, will day by day

22Come here for physic.

23Welcome shall they be;

24And all the honours that can fly from us

25Shall on them settle. You know your places well;

26When better fall, for your avails they fell:

27To-morrow to the field.

1It hath happened all as I would have had it, save

2that he comes not along with her.

3By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very

4melancholy man.

5By what observance, I pray you?

6Why, he will look upon his boot and sing; mend the

7ruff and sing; ask questions and sing; pick his

8teeth and sing. I know a man that had this trick of

9melancholy sold a goodly manor for a song.

10Let me see what he writes, and when he means to come.

11I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court: our

12old ling and our Isbels o' the country are nothing

13like your old ling and your Isbels o' the court:

14the brains of my Cupid's knocked out, and I begin to

15love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.

16What have we here?

17E'en that you have there.

18[Reads] I have sent you a daughter-in-law: she hath

19recovered the king, and undone me. I have wedded

20her, not bedded her; and sworn to make the 'not'

21eternal. You shall hear I am run away: know it

22before the report come. If there be breadth enough

23in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty

24to you. Your unfortunate son,

25BERTRAM.

26This is not well, rash and unbridled boy.

27To fly the favours of so good a king;

28To pluck his indignation on thy head

29By the misprising of a maid too virtuous

30For the contempt of empire.

31O madam, yonder is heavy news within between two

32soldiers and my young lady!

33What is the matter?

34Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some

35comfort; your son will not be killed so soon as I

36thought he would.

37Why should he be killed?

38So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does:

39the danger is in standing to't; that's the loss of

40men, though it be the getting of children. Here

41they come will tell you more: for my part, I only

42hear your son was run away.

43Save you, good madam.

44Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.

45Do not say so.

46Think upon patience. Pray you, gentlemen,

47I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief,

48That the first face of neither, on the start,

49Can woman me unto't: where is my son, I pray you?

50Madam, he's gone to serve the duke of Florence:

51We met him thitherward; for thence we came,

52And, after some dispatch in hand at court,

53Thither we bend again.

54Look on his letter, madam; here's my passport.

55When thou canst get the ring upon my finger which

56never shall come off, and show me a child begotten

57of thy body that I am father to, then call me

58husband: but in such a 'then' I write a 'never.'

59This is a dreadful sentence.

60Brought you this letter, gentlemen?

61Ay, madam;

62And for the contents' sake are sorry for our pain.

63I prithee, lady, have a better cheer;

64If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,

65Thou robb'st me of a moiety: he was my son;

66But I do wash his name out of my blood,

67And thou art all my child. Towards Florence is he?

68Ay, madam.

69And to be a soldier?

70Such is his noble purpose; and believe 't,

71The duke will lay upon him all the honour

72That good convenience claims.

73Return you thither?

74Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed.

75[Reads] Till I have no wife I have nothing in France.

76'Tis bitter.

77Find you that there?

78Ay, madam.

79'Tis but the boldness of his hand, haply, which his

80heart was not consenting to.

81Nothing in France, until he have no wife!

82There's nothing here that is too good for him

83But only she; and she deserves a lord

84That twenty such rude boys might tend upon

85And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?

86A servant only, and a gentleman

87Which I have sometime known.

88Parolles, was it not?

89Ay, my good lady, he.

90A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.

91My son corrupts a well-derived nature

92With his inducement.

93Indeed, good lady,

94The fellow has a deal of that too much,

95Which holds him much to have.

96You're welcome, gentlemen.

97I will entreat you, when you see my son,

98To tell him that his sword can never win

99The honour that he loses: more I'll entreat you

100Written to bear along.

101We serve you, madam,

102In that and all your worthiest affairs.

103Not so, but as we change our courtesies.

104Will you draw near!

105'Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.'

106Nothing in France, until he has no wife!

107Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France;

108Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is't I

109That chase thee from thy country and expose

110Those tender limbs of thine to the event

111Of the none-sparing war? and is it I

112That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou

113Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark

114Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,

115That ride upon the violent speed of fire,

116Fly with false aim; move the still-peering air,

117That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord.

118Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;

119Whoever charges on his forward breast,

120I am the caitiff that do hold him to't;

121And, though I kill him not, I am the cause

122His death was so effected: better 'twere

123I met the ravin lion when he roar'd

124With sharp constraint of hunger; better 'twere

125That all the miseries which nature owes

126Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Rousillon,

127Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,

128As oft it loses all: I will be gone;

129My being here it is that holds thee hence:

130Shall I stay here to do't? no, no, although

131The air of paradise did fan the house

132And angels officed all: I will be gone,

133That pitiful rumour may report my flight,

134To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day!

135For with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away.

1The general of our horse thou art; and we,

2Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence

3Upon thy promising fortune.

4Sir, it is

5A charge too heavy for my strength, but yet

6We'll strive to bear it for your worthy sake

7To the extreme edge of hazard.

8Then go thou forth;

9And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm,

10As thy auspicious mistress!

11This very day,

12Great Mars, I put myself into thy file:

13Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove

14A lover of thy drum, hater of love.

1Alas! and would you take the letter of her?

2Might you not know she would do as she has done,

3By sending me a letter? Read it again.

4[Reads]

5I am Saint Jaques' pilgrim, thither gone:

6Ambitious love hath so in me offended,

7That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon,

8With sainted vow my faults to have amended.

9Write, write, that from the bloody course of war

10My dearest master, your dear son, may hie:

11Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far

12His name with zealous fervor sanctify:

13His taken labours bid him me forgive;

14I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth

15From courtly friends, with camping foes to live,

16Where death and danger dogs the heels of worth:

17He is too good and fair for death and me:

18Whom I myself embrace, to set him free.

19Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!

20Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much,

21As letting her pass so: had I spoke with her,

22I could have well diverted her intents,

23Which thus she hath prevented.

24Pardon me, madam:

25If I had given you this at over-night,

26She might have been o'erta'en; and yet she writes,

27Pursuit would be but vain.

28What angel shall

29Bless this unworthy husband? he cannot thrive,

30Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear

31And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath

32Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rinaldo,

33To this unworthy husband of his wife;

34Let every word weigh heavy of her worth

35That he does weigh too light: my greatest grief.

36Though little he do feel it, set down sharply.

37Dispatch the most convenient messenger:

38When haply he shall hear that she is gone,

39He will return; and hope I may that she,

40Hearing so much, will speed her foot again,

41Led hither by pure love: which of them both

42Is dearest to me. I have no skill in sense

43To make distinction: provide this messenger:

44My heart is heavy and mine age is weak;

45Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak.

1Nay, come; for if they do approach the city, we

2shall lose all the sight.

3They say the French count has done most honourable service.

4It is reported that he has taken their greatest

5commander; and that with his own hand he slew the

6duke's brother.

7We have lost our labour; they are gone a contrary

8way: hark! you may know by their trumpets.

9Come, let's return again, and suffice ourselves with

10the report of it. Well, Diana, take heed of this

11French earl: the honour of a maid is her name; and

12no legacy is so rich as honesty.

13I have told my neighbour how you have been solicited

14by a gentleman his companion.

15I know that knave; hang him! one Parolles: a

16filthy officer he is in those suggestions for the

17young earl. Beware of them, Diana; their promises,

18enticements, oaths, tokens, and all these engines of

19lust, are not the things they go under: many a maid

20hath been seduced by them; and the misery is,

21example, that so terrible shows in the wreck of

22maidenhood, cannot for all that dissuade succession,

23but that they are limed with the twigs that threaten

24them. I hope I need not to advise you further; but

25I hope your own grace will keep you where you are,

26though there were no further danger known but the

27modesty which is so lost.

28You shall not need to fear me.

29I hope so.

30Look, here comes a pilgrim: I know she will lie at

31my house; thither they send one another: I'll

32question her. God save you, pilgrim! whither are you bound?

33To Saint Jaques le Grand.

34Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?

35At the Saint Francis here beside the port.

36Is this the way?

37Ay, marry, is't.

38Hark you! they come this way.

39If you will tarry, holy pilgrim,

40But till the troops come by,

41I will conduct you where you shall be lodged;

42The rather, for I think I know your hostess

43As ample as myself.

44Is it yourself?

45If you shall please so, pilgrim.

46I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure.

47You came, I think, from France?

48I did so.

49Here you shall see a countryman of yours

50That has done worthy service.

51His name, I pray you.

52The Count Rousillon: know you such a one?

53But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him:

54His face I know not.

55Whatsome'er he is,

56He's bravely taken here. He stole from France,

57As 'tis reported, for the king had married him

58Against his liking: think you it is so?

59Ay, surely, mere the truth: I know his lady.

60There is a gentleman that serves the count

61Reports but coarsely of her.

62What's his name?

63Monsieur Parolles.

64O, I believe with him,

65In argument of praise, or to the worth

66Of the great count himself, she is too mean

67To have her name repeated: all her deserving

68Is a reserved honesty, and that

69I have not heard examined.

70Alas, poor lady!

71'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife

72Of a detesting lord.

73I warrant, good creature, wheresoe'er she is,

74Her heart weighs sadly: this young maid might do her

75A shrewd turn, if she pleased.

76How do you mean?

77May be the amorous count solicits her

78In the unlawful purpose.

79He does indeed;

80And brokes with all that can in such a suit

81Corrupt the tender honour of a maid:

82But she is arm'd for him and keeps her guard

83In honestest defence.

84The gods forbid else!

85So, now they come:

86That is Antonio, the duke's eldest son;

87That, Escalus.

88Which is the Frenchman?

89He;

90That with the plume: 'tis a most gallant fellow.

91I would he loved his wife: if he were honester

92He were much goodlier: is't not a handsome gentleman?

93I like him well.

94'Tis pity he is not honest: yond's that same knave

95That leads him to these places: were I his lady,

96I would Poison that vile rascal.

97Which is he?

98That jack-an-apes with scarfs: why is he melancholy?

99Perchance he's hurt i' the battle.

100Lose our drum! well.

101He's shrewdly vexed at something: look, he has spied us.

102Marry, hang you!

103And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier!

104The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I will bring you

105Where you shall host: of enjoin'd penitents

106There's four or five, to great Saint Jaques bound,

107Already at my house.

108I humbly thank you:

109Please it this matron and this gentle maid

110To eat with us to-night, the charge and thanking

111Shall be for me; and, to requite you further,

112I will bestow some precepts of this virgin

113Worthy the note.

114We'll take your offer kindly.

1Nay, good my lord, put him to't; let him have his

2way.

3If your lordship find him not a hilding, hold me no

4more in your respect.

5On my life, my lord, a bubble.

6Do you think I am so far deceived in him?

7Believe it, my lord, in mine own direct knowledge,

8without any malice, but to speak of him as my

9kinsman, he's a most notable coward, an infinite and

10endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the owner

11of no one good quality worthy your lordship's

12entertainment.

13It were fit you knew him; lest, reposing too far in

14his virtue, which he hath not, he might at some

15great and trusty business in a main danger fail you.

16I would I knew in what particular action to try him.

17None better than to let him fetch off his drum,

18which you hear him so confidently undertake to do.

19I, with a troop of Florentines, will suddenly

20surprise him; such I will have, whom I am sure he

21knows not from the enemy: we will bind and hoodwink

22him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he

23is carried into the leaguer of the adversaries, when

24we bring him to our own tents. Be but your lordship

25present at his examination: if he do not, for the

26promise of his life and in the highest compulsion of

27base fear, offer to betray you and deliver all the

28intelligence in his power against you, and that with

29the divine forfeit of his soul upon oath, never

30trust my judgment in any thing.

31O, for the love of laughter, let him fetch his drum;

32he says he has a stratagem for't: when your

33lordship sees the bottom of his success in't, and to

34what metal this counterfeit lump of ore will be

35melted, if you give him not John Drum's

36entertainment, your inclining cannot be removed.

37Here he comes.

38[Aside to BERTRAM] O, for the love of laughter,

39hinder not the honour of his design: let him fetch

40off his drum in any hand.

41How now, monsieur! this drum sticks sorely in your

42disposition.

43A pox on't, let it go; 'tis but a drum.

44'But a drum'! is't 'but a drum'? A drum so lost!

45There was excellent command,--to charge in with our

46horse upon our own wings, and to rend our own soldiers!

47That was not to be blamed in the command of the

48service: it was a disaster of war that Caesar

49himself could not have prevented, if he had been

50there to command.

51Well, we cannot greatly condemn our success: some

52dishonour we had in the loss of that drum; but it is

53not to be recovered.

54It might have been recovered.

55It might; but it is not now.

56It is to be recovered: but that the merit of

57service is seldom attributed to the true and exact

58performer, I would have that drum or another, or

59'hic jacet.'

60Why, if you have a stomach, to't, monsieur: if you

61think your mystery in stratagem can bring this

62instrument of honour again into his native quarter,

63be magnanimous in the enterprise and go on; I will

64grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you

65speed well in it, the duke shall both speak of it.

66and extend to you what further becomes his

67greatness, even to the utmost syllable of your

68worthiness.

69By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it.

70But you must not now slumber in it.

71I'll about it this evening: and I will presently

72pen down my dilemmas, encourage myself in my

73certainty, put myself into my mortal preparation;

74and by midnight look to hear further from me.

75May I be bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it?

76I know not what the success will be, my lord; but

77the attempt I vow.

78I know thou'rt valiant; and, to the possibility of

79thy soldiership, will subscribe for thee. Farewell.

80I love not many words.

81No more than a fish loves water. Is not this a

82strange fellow, my lord, that so confidently seems

83to undertake this business, which he knows is not to

84be done; damns himself to do and dares better be

85damned than to do't?

86You do not know him, my lord, as we do: certain it

87is that he will steal himself into a man's favour and

88for a week escape a great deal of discoveries; but

89when you find him out, you have him ever after.

90Why, do you think he will make no deed at all of

91this that so seriously he does address himself unto?

92None in the world; but return with an invention and

93clap upon you two or three probable lies: but we

94have almost embossed him; you shall see his fall

95to-night; for indeed he is not for your lordship's respect.

96We'll make you some sport with the fox ere we case

97him. He was first smoked by the old lord Lafeu:

98when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a

99sprat you shall find him; which you shall see this

100very night.

101I must go look my twigs: he shall be caught.

102Your brother he shall go along with me.

103As't please your lordship: I'll leave you.

104Now will I lead you to the house, and show you

105The lass I spoke of.

106But you say she's honest.

107That's all the fault: I spoke with her but once

108And found her wondrous cold; but I sent to her,

109By this same coxcomb that we have i' the wind,

110Tokens and letters which she did re-send;

111And this is all I have done. She's a fair creature:

112Will you go see her?

113With all my heart, my lord.

1If you misdoubt me that I am not she,

2I know not how I shall assure you further,

3But I shall lose the grounds I work upon.

4Though my estate be fallen, I was well born,

5Nothing acquainted with these businesses;

6And would not put my reputation now

7In any staining act.

8Nor would I wish you.

9First, give me trust, the count he is my husband,

10And what to your sworn counsel I have spoken

11Is so from word to word; and then you cannot,

12By the good aid that I of you shall borrow,

13Err in bestowing it.

14I should believe you:

15For you have show'd me that which well approves

16You're great in fortune.

17Take this purse of gold,

18And let me buy your friendly help thus far,

19Which I will over-pay and pay again

20When I have found it. The count he wooes your daughter,

21Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty,

22Resolved to carry her: let her in fine consent,

23As we'll direct her how 'tis best to bear it.

24Now his important blood will nought deny

25That she'll demand: a ring the county wears,

26That downward hath succeeded in his house

27From son to son, some four or five descents

28Since the first father wore it: this ring he holds

29In most rich choice; yet in his idle fire,

30To buy his will, it would not seem too dear,

31Howe'er repented after.

32Now I see

33The bottom of your purpose.

34You see it lawful, then: it is no more,

35But that your daughter, ere she seems as won,

36Desires this ring; appoints him an encounter;

37In fine, delivers me to fill the time,

38Herself most chastely absent: after this,

39To marry her, I'll add three thousand crowns

40To what is passed already.

41I have yielded:

42Instruct my daughter how she shall persever,

43That time and place with this deceit so lawful

44May prove coherent. Every night he comes

45With musics of all sorts and songs composed

46To her unworthiness: it nothing steads us

47To chide him from our eaves; for he persists

48As if his life lay on't.

49Why then to-night

50Let us assay our plot; which, if it speed,

51Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed

52And lawful meaning in a lawful act,

53Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact:

54But let's about it.

1He can come no other way but by this hedge-corner.

2When you sally upon him, speak what terrible

3language you will: though you understand it not

4yourselves, no matter; for we must not seem to

5understand him, unless some one among us whom we

6must produce for an interpreter.

7Good captain, let me be the interpreter.

8Art not acquainted with him? knows he not thy voice?

9No, sir, I warrant you.

10But what linsey-woolsey hast thou to speak to us again?

11E'en such as you speak to me.

12He must think us some band of strangers i' the

13adversary's entertainment. Now he hath a smack of

14all neighbouring languages; therefore we must every

15one be a man of his own fancy, not to know what we

16speak one to another; so we seem to know, is to

17know straight our purpose: choughs' language,

18gabble enough, and good enough. As for you,

19interpreter, you must seem very politic. But couch,

20ho! here he comes, to beguile two hours in a sleep,

21and then to return and swear the lies he forges.

22Ten o'clock: within these three hours 'twill be

23time enough to go home. What shall I say I have

24done? It must be a very plausive invention that

25carries it: they begin to smoke me; and disgraces

26have of late knocked too often at my door. I find

27my tongue is too foolhardy; but my heart hath the

28fear of Mars before it and of his creatures, not

29daring the reports of my tongue.

30This is the first truth that e'er thine own tongue

31was guilty of.

32What the devil should move me to undertake the

33recovery of this drum, being not ignorant of the

34impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I

35must give myself some hurts, and say I got them in

36exploit: yet slight ones will not carry it; they

37will say, 'Came you off with so little?' and great

38ones I dare not give. Wherefore, what's the

39instance? Tongue, I must put you into a

40butter-woman's mouth and buy myself another of

41Bajazet's mule, if you prattle me into these perils.

42Is it possible he should know what he is, and be

43that he is?

44I would the cutting of my garments would serve the

45turn, or the breaking of my Spanish sword.

46We cannot afford you so.

47Or the baring of my beard; and to say it was in

48stratagem.

49'Twould not do.

50Or to drown my clothes, and say I was stripped.

51Hardly serve.

52Though I swore I leaped from the window of the citadel.

53How deep?

54Thirty fathom.

55Three great oaths would scarce make that be believed.

56I would I had any drum of the enemy's: I would swear

57I recovered it.

58You shall hear one anon.

59A drum now of the enemy's,--

60Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo.

61Cargo, cargo, cargo, villiando par corbo, cargo.

62O, ransom, ransom! do not hide mine eyes.

63Boskos thromuldo boskos.

64I know you are the Muskos' regiment:

65And I shall lose my life for want of language;

66If there be here German, or Dane, low Dutch,

67Italian, or French, let him speak to me; I'll

68Discover that which shall undo the Florentine.

69Boskos vauvado: I understand thee, and can speak

70thy tongue. Kerely bonto, sir, betake thee to thy

71faith, for seventeen poniards are at thy bosom.

72O!

73O, pray, pray, pray! Manka revania dulche.

74Oscorbidulchos volivorco.

75The general is content to spare thee yet;

76And, hoodwink'd as thou art, will lead thee on

77To gather from thee: haply thou mayst inform

78Something to save thy life.

79O, let me live!

80And all the secrets of our camp I'll show,

81Their force, their purposes; nay, I'll speak that

82Which you will wonder at.

83But wilt thou faithfully?

84If I do not, damn me.

85Acordo linta.

86Come on; thou art granted space.

87Go, tell the Count Rousillon, and my brother,

88We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him muffled

89Till we do hear from them.

90Captain, I will.

91A' will betray us all unto ourselves:

92Inform on that.

93So I will, sir.

94Till then I'll keep him dark and safely lock'd.

1They told me that your name was Fontibell.

2No, my good lord, Diana.

3Titled goddess;

4And worth it, with addition! But, fair soul,

5In your fine frame hath love no quality?

6If quick fire of youth light not your mind,

7You are no maiden, but a monument:

8When you are dead, you should be such a one

9As you are now, for you are cold and stem;

10And now you should be as your mother was

11When your sweet self was got.

12She then was honest.

13So should you be.

14No:

15My mother did but duty; such, my lord,

16As you owe to your wife.

17No more o' that;

18I prithee, do not strive against my vows:

19I was compell'd to her; but I love thee

20By love's own sweet constraint, and will for ever

21Do thee all rights of service.

22Ay, so you serve us

23Till we serve you; but when you have our roses,

24You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves

25And mock us with our bareness.

26How have I sworn!

27'Tis not the many oaths that makes the truth,

28But the plain single vow that is vow'd true.

29What is not holy, that we swear not by,

30But take the High'st to witness: then, pray you, tell me,

31If I should swear by God's great attributes,

32I loved you dearly, would you believe my oaths,

33When I did love you ill? This has no holding,

34To swear by him whom I protest to love,

35That I will work against him: therefore your oaths

36Are words and poor conditions, but unseal'd,

37At least in my opinion.

38Change it, change it;

39Be not so holy-cruel: love is holy;

40And my integrity ne'er knew the crafts

41That you do charge men with. Stand no more off,

42But give thyself unto my sick desires,

43Who then recover: say thou art mine, and ever

44My love as it begins shall so persever.

45I see that men make ropes in such a scarre

46That we'll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.