Alls Wel that ends Well Read online

  KING. If he were living, I would try him yet-

  Lend me an arm-the rest have worn me out

  With several applications. Nature and sickness

  Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, Count;

  My son's no dearer.

  BERTRAM. Thank your Majesty. Exeunt [Flourish]

  SCENE 3.

  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. 'T
is often seen

  Adoption strives with nature, and choice breeds

  A native slip to us from foreign seeds.

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

  Yet I express to you a mother's care.

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

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

  That this distempered messenger of wet,

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

  Why, that you are my daughter?

  HELENA. That I am not.

  COUNTESS. I say I am your mother.

  HELENA. Pardon, madam.

  The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:

  I am from humble, he from honoured name;

  No note upon my parents, his all noble.

  My master, my dear lord he is; and I

  His servant live, and will his vassal die.

  He must not be my brother.

  COUNTESS. Nor I your mother?

  HELENA. You are my mother, madam; would you were-

  So that my lord your son were not my brother-

  Indeed my mother! Or were you both our mothers,

  I care no more for than I do for heaven,

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

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

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

  God shield you mean it not! 'daughter' and 'mother'

  So strive upon your pulse. What! pale again?

  My fear hath catch'd your fondness. Now I see

  The myst'ry of your loneliness, and find

  Your salt tears' head. Now to all sense 'tis gross

  You love my son; invention is asham'd,

  Against the proclamation of thy passion,

  To say thou dost not. Therefore tell me true;

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

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

  See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours

  That in their kind they speak it; only sin

  And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,

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

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

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

  As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,

  To tell me truly.

  HELENA. Good madam, pardon me.

  COUNTESS. Do you love my son?

  HELENA. Your pardon, noble mistress.

  COUNTESS. Love you my son?

  HELENA. Do not you love him, madam?

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

  Whereof the world takes note. Come, come, disclose

  The state of your affection; for your passions

  Have to the full appeach'd.

  HELENA. Then I confess,

  Here on my knee, before high heaven and you,

  That before you, and next unto high heaven,

  I love your son.

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

  Be not offended, for it hurts not him

  That he is lov'd of me; I follow him not

  By any token of presumptuous suit,

  Nor would I have him till I do deserve him;

  Yet never know how that desert should be.

  I know I love in vain, strive against hope;

  Yet in this captious and intenible sieve

  I still pour in the waters of my love,

  And lack not to lose still. Thus, Indian-like,

  Religious in mine error, I adore

  The sun that looks upon his worshipper

  But knows of him no more. My dearest madam,

  Let not your hate encounter with my love,

  For loving where you do; but if yourself,

  Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,

  Did ever in so true a flame of liking

  Wish chastely and love dearly that your Dian

  Was both herself and Love; O, then, give pity

  To her whose state is such that cannot choose

  But lend and give where she is sure to lose;

  That seeks not to find that her search implies,

  But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies!

  COUNTESS. Had you not lately an intent-speak truly-

  To go to Paris?

  HELENA. Madam, I had.

  COUNTESS. Wherefore? Tell true.

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

  You know my father left me some prescriptions

  Of rare and prov'd effects, such as his reading

  And manifest experience had collected

  For general sovereignty; and that he will'd me

  In heedfull'st reservation to bestow them,

  As notes whose faculties inclusive were

  More than they were in note. Amongst the rest

  There is a remedy, approv'd, set down,

  To cure the desperate languishings whereof

  The King is render'd lost.

  COUNTESS. This was your motive

  For Paris, was it? Speak.

  HELENA. My lord your son made me to think of this,

  Else Paris, and the medicine, and the King,

  Had from the conversation of my thoughts

  Haply been absent then.

  COUNTESS. But think you, Helen,

  If you should tender your supposed aid,

  He would receive it? He and his physicians

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

  They, that they cannot help. How shall they credit

  A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,

  Embowell'd of their doctrine, have let off

  The danger to itself?

  HELENA. There's something in't

  More than my father's skill, which was the great'st

  Of his profession, that his good receipt

  Shall for my legacy be sanctified

  By th' luckiest stars in heaven; and, would your honour

  But give me leave to try success, I'd venture

  The well-lost life of mine on his Grace's cure.

  By such a day and hour.

  COUNTESS. Dost thou believe't?

  HELENA. Ay, madam, knowingly.

  COUNTESS. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love,

  Means and attendants, and my loving greetings

  To those of mine in court. I'll stay at home,

  And pray God's blessing into thy attempt.

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

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

  ACT II.

  SCENE 1.

  Paris. The KING'S palace

  Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING with divers young LORDS taking leave

  for the Florentine war; BERTRAM and PAROLLES; ATTENDANTS

  KING. Farewell, young lords; these war-like principles

  Do not throw from you. And you, my lords, farewell;

  Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all,

  The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis receiv'd,

  And is enough for both.

  FIRST LORD. 'Tis our hope, sir,

  After well-ent'red soldiers, to return

  And find your Grace in health.

  KING. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart

  Will not confess he owes the malady

  That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords;

  Whether I live or die, be you the sons

  Of worthy Frenchmen; let higher Italy-

  Those bated that inherit but the fall

  Of the last monarchy-see that you come

  Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when

  The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek,

  That fame may cry you aloud. I say farewell.

  SECOND LORD. Health, at your bidding, serve your Majesty!

  KING. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them;

  They say our French la
ck language to deny,

  If they demand; beware of being captives

  Before you serve.

  BOTH. Our hearts receive your warnings.

  KING. Farewell. [To ATTENDANTS] Come hither to me.

  The KING retires attended

  FIRST LORD. O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us!

  PAROLLES. 'Tis not his fault, the spark.

  SECOND LORD. O, 'tis brave wars!

  PAROLLES. Most admirable! I have seen those wars.

  BERTRAM. I am commanded here and kept a coil with

  'Too young' and next year' and "Tis too early.'

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

  BERTRAM. I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock,

  Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry,

  Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn

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

  FIRST LORD. There's honour in the theft.

  PAROLLES. Commit it, Count.

  SECOND LORD. I am your accessary; and so farewell.

  BERTRAM. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortur'd body.

  FIRST LORD. Farewell, Captain.

  SECOND LORD. Sweet Monsieur Parolles!

  PAROLLES. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good sparks and

  lustrous, a word, good metals: you shall find in the regiment of

  the Spinii one Captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of

  war, here on his sinister cheek; it was this very sword

  entrench'd it. Say to him I live; and observe his reports for me.

  FIRST LORD. We shall, noble Captain.

  PAROLLES. Mars dote on you for his novices! Exeunt LORDS

  What will ye do?

  Re-enter the KING

  BERTRAM. Stay; the King!

  PAROLLES. Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have

  restrain'd yourself within the list of too cold an adieu. Be more

  expressive to them; for they wear themselves in the cap of the

  time; there do muster true gait; eat, speak, and move, under the

  influence of the most receiv'd star; and though the devil lead

  the measure, such are to be followed. After them, and take a more

  dilated farewell.

  BERTRAM. And I will do so.

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

  Exeunt BERTRAM and PAROLLES

  Enter LAFEU

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

  KING. I'll fee thee to stand up.

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

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