Parolles
Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be blown up: marry, in blowing him down again, with the breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational increase and there was never virgin got till virginity was first lost. That you were made of is metal to make virgins. Virginity by being once lost may be ten times found; by being ever kept, it is ever lost: ’tis too cold a companion; away with ’t!
Helena
I will stand for ’t a little, though therefore I die a virgin.
Parolles
There’s little can be said in ’t; ’tis against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity, is to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin: virginity murders itself and should be buried in highways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese; consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but loose by’t: out with ’t! within ten year it will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase; and the principal itself not much the worse: away with ’t!
Helena
How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?
Parolles
Let me see: marry, ill, to like him that ne’er it likes. ’Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less worth: off with ’t while ’tis vendible; answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion: richly suited, but unsuitable: just like the brooch and the tooth-pick, which wear not now. Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek; and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French withered pears, it looks ill, it eats drily; marry, ’tis a withered pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet ’tis a withered pear: will you anything with it?
Helena
Not my virginity yet.
There shall your master have a thousand loves,
A mother and a mistress and a friend,
A phoenix, captain and an enemy,
A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,
A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear;
His humble ambition, proud humility,
His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet,
His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world
Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms,
That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he —
I know not what he shall. God send him well!
The court’s a learning place, and he is one —
Parolles
What one, i’ faith?
Helena
That I wish well. ’Tis pity —
Parolles
What’s pity?
Helena
That wishing well had not a body in’t,
Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born,
Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,
Might with effects of them follow our friends,
And show what we alone must think, which never
Return us thanks.
Enter Page
Page
Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.
Exit
Parolles
Little Helen, farewell; if I can remember thee, I will think of thee at court.
Helena
Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.
Parolles
Under Mars, I.
Helena
I especially think, under Mars.
Parolles
Why under Mars?
Helena
The wars have so kept you under that you must needs be born under Mars.
Parolles
When he was predominant.
Helena
When he was retrograde, I think, rather.
Parolles
Why think you so?
Helena
You go so much backward when you fight.
Parolles
That’s for advantage.
Helena
So is running away, when fear proposes the safety; but the composition that your valour and fear makes in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well.
Parolles
I am so full of businesses, I cannot answer thee acutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the which, my instruction shall serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier’s counsel and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away: farewell. When thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember thy friends; get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee; so, farewell.
Exit
Helena
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky
Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.
What power is it which mounts my love so high,
That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?
The mightiest space in fortune nature brings
To join like likes and kiss like native things.
Impossible be strange attempts to those
That weigh their pains in sense and do suppose
What hath been cannot be: who ever strove
So show her merit, that did miss her love?
The king’s disease — my project may deceive me,
But my intents are fix’d and will not leave me.
Exit
SCENE II. PARIS. THE KING’S PALACE.
Flourish of cornets. Enter the King of France, with letters, and divers Attendants
King
The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears;
Have fought with equal fortune and continue
A braving war.
First Lord
So ’tis reported, sir.
King
Nay, ’tis most credible; we here received it
A certainty, vouch’d from our cousin Austria,
With caution that the Florentine will move us
For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend
Prejudicates the business and would seem
To have us make denial.
First Lord
His love and wisdom,
Approved so to your majesty, may plead
For amplest credence.
King
He hath arm’d our answer,
And Florence is denied before he comes:
Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see
The Tuscan service, freely have they leave
To stand on either part.
Second Lord
It well may serve
A nursery to our gentry, who are sick
For breathing and exploit.
King
What’s he comes here?
Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles
First Lord
It is the Count Rousillon, my good lord,
Young Bertram.
King
Youth, thou bear’st thy father’s face;
Frank nature, rather curious than in haste,
Hath well composed thee. Thy father’s moral parts
Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.
Bertram
My thanks and duty are your majesty’s.
King
I would I had that corporal soundness now,
As when thy father and myself in friendship
First tried our soldiership! He did look far
Into the service of the time and was
Discipled of the bravest: he lasted long;
But on us both did haggish age steal on
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me
To talk of your good father.
In his youth
He had the wit which I can well observe
To-day in our young lords; but they may jest
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted
Ere they can hide their levity in honour;
So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness
Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,
His equal had awaked them, and his honour,
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when
Exception bid him speak, and at this time
His tongue obey’d his hand: who were below him
He used as creatures of another place
And bow’d his eminent top to their low ranks,
Making them proud of his humility,
In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man
Might be a copy to these younger times;
Which, follow’d well, would demonstrate them now
But goers backward.
Bertram
His good remembrance, sir,
Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb;
So in approof lives not his epitaph
As in your royal speech.
King
Would I were with him! He would always say —
Methinks I hear him now; his plausive words
He scatter’d not in ears, but grafted them,
To grow there and to bear,—‘Let me not live,’—
This his good melancholy oft began,
On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,
When it was out,—‘Let me not live,’ quoth he,
‘After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff
Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses
All but new things disdain; whose judgments are
Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies
Expire before their fashions.’ This he wish’d;
I after him do after him wish too,
Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home,
I quickly were dissolved from my hive,
To give some labourers room.
Second Lord
You are loved, sir:
They that least lend it you shall lack you first.
King
I fill a place, I know’t. How long is’t, count,
Since the physician at your father’s died?
He was much famed.
Bertram
Some six months since, my lord.
King
If he were living, I would try him yet.
Lend me an arm; the rest have worn me out
With several applications; nature and sickness
Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count;
My son’s no dearer.
Bertram
Thank your majesty.
Exeunt. Flourish
SCENE III. 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 damned: 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 barnes 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
You’re 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 severed in religion, their heads are both one; they may jowl horns together, like any deer i’ the herd.
Countess
Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed 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
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’ the song: would God would serve the world so all the year! we’ld 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 but one 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 bequeathed 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 wished me: alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched 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; Dian no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surprised, without rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. This she delivered 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 discharged this honestly; keep it to yourself: many likelihoods informed me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you, leave me: stall this in your bosom; and I thank you for your honest care: I will speak with you further anon.
Exit Steward
Enter Helena
Even so it was with me when I was young:
If ever we are nature’s, these are ours; this thorn
Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;
Our blood to us, this to our blood is born;
It is the show and seal of nature’s truth,
Where love’s strong passion is impress’d in youth:
By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults, or then we thought them none.
Her eye is sick on’t: I observe her now.
Helena
What is your pleasure, madam?
Countess
You know, Helen, I am a mother to you.
Helena
Mine honourable mistress.
Countess
Nay, a mother:
Why not a mother? When I said ‘a mother,’
Methought you saw a serpent: what’s in ’mother,’
That you start at it? I say, I am your mother;
And put you in the catalogue of those
That were enwombed mine: ’tis often seen
Adoption strives with nature and choice breeds
A native slip to us from foreign seeds:
You ne’er oppress’d me with a mother’s groan,
Yet I express to you a mother’s care:
God’s mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood
To say I am thy mother? What’s the matter,
That this distemper’d 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.
Complete Plays, The Page 250