Complete Plays, The

by William Shakespeare

  Lafeu

  So you were a knave at his service, indeed.

  Clown

  And I would give his wife my bauble, sir, to do her service.

  Lafeu

  I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knave and fool.

  Clown

  At your service.

  Lafeu

  No, no, no.

  Clown

  Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serve as great a prince as you are.

  Lafeu

  Who’s that? a Frenchman?

  Clown

  Faith, sir, a’ has an English name; but his fisnomy is more hotter in France than there.

  Lafeu

  What prince is that?

  Clown

  The black prince, sir; alias, the prince of darkness; alias, the devil.

  Lafeu

  Hold thee, there’s my purse: I give thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talkest of; serve him still.

  Clown

  I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a great fire; and the master I speak of ever keeps a good fire. But, sure, he is the prince of the world; let his nobility remain in’s court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter: some that humble themselves may; but the many will be too chill and tender, and they’ll be for the flowery way that leads to the broad gate and the great fire.

  Lafeu

  Go thy ways, I begin to be aweary of thee; and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy ways: let my horses be well looked to, without any tricks.

  Clown

  If I put any tricks upon ’em, sir, they shall be jades’ tricks; which are their own right by the law of nature.

  Exit

  Lafeu

  A shrewd knave and an unhappy.

  Countess

  So he is. My lord that’s gone made himself much sport out of him: by his authority he remains here, which he thinks is a patent for his sauciness; and, indeed, he has no pace, but runs where he will.

  Lafeu

  I like him well; ’tis not amiss. And I was about to tell you, since I heard of the good lady’s death and that my lord your son was upon his return home, I moved the king my master to speak in the behalf of my daughter; which, in the minority of them both, his majesty, out of a self-gracious remembrance, did first propose: his highness hath promised me to do it: and, to stop up the displeasure he hath conceived against your son, there is no fitter matter. How does your ladyship like it?

  Countess

  With very much content, my lord; and I wish it happily effected.

  Lafeu

  His highness comes post from Marseilles, of as able body as when he numbered thirty: he will be here to-morrow, or I am deceived by him that in such intelligence hath seldom failed.

  Countess

  It rejoices me, that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I have letters that my son will be here to-night: I shall beseech your lordship to remain with me till they meet together.

  Lafeu

  Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted.

  Countess

  You need but plead your honourable privilege.

  Lafeu

  Lady, of that I have made a bold charter; but I thank my God it holds yet.

  Re-enter Clown

  Clown

  O madam, yonder’s my lord your son with a patch of velvet on’s face: whether there be a scar under’t or no, the velvet knows; but ’tis a goodly patch of velvet: his left cheek is a cheek of two pile and a half, but his right cheek is worn bare.

  Lafeu

  A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good livery of honour; so belike is that.

  Clown

  But it is your carbonadoed face.

  Lafeu

  Let us go see your son, I pray you: I long to talk with the young noble soldier.

  Clown

  Faith there’s a dozen of ’em, with delicate fine hats and most courteous feathers, which bow the head and nod at every man.

  Exeunt

  ACT V

  SCENE I. MARSEILLES. A STREET.

  Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana, with two Attendants

  Helena

  But this exceeding posting day and night

  Must wear your spirits low; we cannot help it:

  But since you have made the days and nights as one,

  To wear your gentle limbs in my affairs,

  Be bold you do so grow in my requital

  As nothing can unroot you. In happy time;

  Enter a Gentleman

  This man may help me to his majesty’s ear,

  If he would spend his power. God save you, sir.

  Gentleman

  And you.

  Helena

  Sir, I have seen you in the court of France.

  Gentleman

  I have been sometimes there.

  Helena

  I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen

  From the report that goes upon your goodness;

  An therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions,

  Which lay nice manners by, I put you to

  The use of your own virtues, for the which

  I shall continue thankful.

  Gentleman

  What’s your will?

  Helena

  That it will please you

  To give this poor petition to the king,

  And aid me with that store of power you have

  To come into his presence.

  Gentleman

  The king’s not here.

  Helena

  Not here, sir!

  Gentleman

  Not, indeed:

  He hence removed last night and with more haste

  Than is his use.

  Widow

  Lord, how we lose our pains!

  Helena

  All’s well that ends well yet,

  Though time seem so adverse and means unfit.

  I do beseech you, whither is he gone?

  Gentleman

  Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon;

  Whither I am going.

  Helena

  I do beseech you, sir,

  Since you are like to see the king before me,

  Commend the paper to his gracious hand,

  Which I presume shall render you no blame

  But rather make you thank your pains for it.

  I will come after you with what good speed

  Our means will make us means.

  Gentleman

  This I’ll do for you.

  Helena

  And you shall find yourself to be well thank’d,

  Whate’er falls more. We must to horse again.

  Go, go, provide.

  Exeunt

  SCENE II. ROUSILLON. BEFORE THE COUNT’S PALACE.

  Enter Clown, and Parolles, following

  Parolles

  Good Monsieur Lavache, give my Lord Lafeu this letter: I have ere now, sir, been better known to you, when I have held familiarity with fresher clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in fortune’s mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure.

  Clown

  Truly, fortune’s displeasure is but sluttish, if it smell so strongly as thou speakest of: I will henceforth eat no fish of fortune’s buttering. Prithee, allow the wind.

  Parolles

  Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir; I spake but by a metaphor.

  Clown

  Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose; or against any man’s metaphor. Prithee, get thee further.

  Parolles

  Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper.

  Clown

  Foh! prithee, stand away: a paper from fortune’s close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look, here he comes himself.

  Enter Lafeu

  Here is a purr of fortune’s, sir, or of fortune’s cat,— but not a musk-cat,— that has fallen into the unclean fishpond of her displeasure, and, as he says
, is muddied withal: pray you, sir, use the carp as you may; for he looks like a poor, decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his distress in my similes of comfort and leave him to your lordship.

  Exit

  Parolles

  My lord, I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratched.

  Lafeu

  And what would you have me to do? ’Tis too late to pare her nails now. Wherein have you played the knave with fortune, that she should scratch you, who of herself is a good lady and would not have knaves thrive long under her? There’s a quart d’ecu for you: let the justices make you and fortune friends: I am for other business.

  Parolles

  I beseech your honour to hear me one single word.

  Lafeu

  You beg a single penny more: come, you shall ha’t; save your word.

  Parolles

  My name, my good lord, is Parolles.

  Lafeu

  You beg more than ‘word,’ then. Cox my passion! give me your hand. How does your drum?

  Parolles

  O my good lord, you were the first that found me!

  Lafeu

  Was I, in sooth? and I was the first that lost thee.

  Parolles

  It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some grace, for you did bring me out.

  Lafeu

  Out upon thee, knave! dost thou put upon me at once both the office of God and the devil? One brings thee in grace and the other brings thee out.

  Trumpets sound

  The king’s coming; I know by his trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me; I had talk of you last night: though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat; go to, follow.

  Parolles

  I praise God for you.

  Exeunt

  SCENE III. ROUSILLON. THE COUNT’S PALACE.

  Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafeu, the two French Lords, with Attendants

  King

  We lost a jewel of her; and our esteem

  Was made much poorer by it: but your son,

  As mad in folly, lack’d the sense to know

  Her estimation home.

  Countess

  ’Tis past, my liege;

  And I beseech your majesty to make it

  Natural rebellion, done i’ the blaze of youth;

  When oil and fire, too strong for reason’s force,

  O’erbears it and burns on.

  King

  My honour’d lady,

  I have forgiven and forgotten all;

  Though my revenges were high bent upon him,

  And watch’d the time to shoot.

  Lafeu

  This I must say,

  But first I beg my pardon, the young lord

  Did to his majesty, his mother and his lady

  Offence of mighty note; but to himself

  The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife

  Whose beauty did astonish the survey

  Of richest eyes, whose words all ears took captive,

  Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn’d to serve

  Humbly call’d mistress.

  King

  Praising what is lost

  Makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him hither;

  We are reconciled, and the first view shall kill

  All repetition: let him not ask our pardon;

  The nature of his great offence is dead,

  And deeper than oblivion we do bury

  The incensing relics of it: let him approach,

  A stranger, no offender; and inform him

  So ’tis our will he should.

  Gentleman

  I shall, my liege.

  Exit

  King

  What says he to your daughter? have you spoke?

  Lafeu

  All that he is hath reference to your highness.

  King

  Then shall we have a match. I have letters sent me

  That set him high in fame.

  Enter Bertram

  Lafeu

  He looks well on’t.

  King

  I am not a day of season,

  For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail

  In me at once: but to the brightest beams

  Distracted clouds give way; so stand thou forth;

  The time is fair again.

  Bertram

  My high-repented blames,

  Dear sovereign, pardon to me.

  King

  All is whole;

  Not one word more of the consumed time.

  Let’s take the instant by the forward top;

  For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees

  The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time

  Steals ere we can effect them. You remember

  The daughter of this lord?

  Bertram

  Admiringly, my liege, at first

  I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart

  Durst make too bold a herald of my tongue

  Where the impression of mine eye infixing,

  Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me,

  Which warp’d the line of every other favour;

  Scorn’d a fair colour, or express’d it stolen;

  Extended or contracted all proportions

  To a most hideous object: thence it came

  That she whom all men praised and whom myself,

  Since I have lost, have loved, was in mine eye

  The dust that did offend it.

  King

  Well excused:

  That thou didst love her, strikes some scores away

  From the great compt: but love that comes too late,

  Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried,

  To the great sender turns a sour offence,

  Crying, ‘That’s good that’s gone.’ Our rash faults

  Make trivial price of serious things we have,

  Not knowing them until we know their grave:

  Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust,

  Destroy our friends and after weep their dust

  Our own love waking cries to see what’s done,

  While shame full late sleeps out the afternoon.

  Be this sweet Helen’s knell, and now forget her.

  Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin:

  The main consents are had; and here we’ll stay

  To see our widower’s second marriage-day.

  Countess

  Which better than the first, O dear heaven, bless!

  Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cesse!

  Lafeu

  Come on, my son, in whom my house’s name

  Must be digested, give a favour from you

  To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter,

  That she may quickly come.

  Bertram gives a ring

  By my old beard,

  And every hair that’s on’t, Helen, that’s dead,

  Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this,

  The last that e’er I took her at court,

  I saw upon her finger.

  Bertram

  Hers it was not.

  King

  Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine eye,

  While I was speaking, oft was fasten’d to’t.

  This ring was mine; and, when I gave it Helen,

  I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood

  Necessitied to help, that by this token

  I would relieve her. Had you that craft, to reave

  her

  Of what should stead her most?

  Bertram

  My gracious sovereign,

  Howe’er it pleases you to take it so,

  The ring was never hers.

  Countess

  Son, on my life,

  I have seen her wear it; and she reckon’d it

  At her life’s rate.

  Lafeu

  I am sure I saw her wear it.

  Bertram

  You are deceived, my lord; she never saw it:

  In Florenc
e was it from a casement thrown me,

  Wrapp’d in a paper, which contain’d the name

  Of her that threw it: noble she was, and thought

  I stood engaged: but when I had subscribed

  To mine own fortune and inform’d her fully

  I could not answer in that course of honour

  As she had made the overture, she ceased

  In heavy satisfaction and would never

  Receive the ring again.

  King

  Plutus himself,

  That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine,

  Hath not in nature’s mystery more science

  Than I have in this ring: ’twas mine, ’twas Helen’s,

  Whoever gave it you. Then, if you know

  That you are well acquainted with yourself,

  Confess ’twas hers, and by what rough enforcement

  You got it from her: she call’d the saints to surety

  That she would never put it from her finger,

  Unless she gave it to yourself in bed,

  Where you have never come, or sent it us

  Upon her great disaster.

  Bertram

  She never saw it.

  King

  Thou speak’st it falsely, as I love mine honour;

  And makest conjectural fears to come into me

  Which I would fain shut out. If it should prove

  That thou art so inhuman,—’twill not prove so;—

  And yet I know not: thou didst hate her deadly,

  And she is dead; which nothing, but to close

  Her eyes myself, could win me to believe,

  More than to see this ring. Take him away.

  Guards seize Bertram

  My fore-past proofs, howe’er the matter fall,

  Shall tax my fears of little vanity,

  Having vainly fear’d too little. Away with him!

  We’ll sift this matter further.

  Bertram

  If you shall prove

  This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy

  Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence,

  Where yet she never was.

  Exit, guarded

  King

  I am wrapp’d in dismal thinkings.

  Enter a Gentleman

  Gentleman

  Gracious sovereign,

  Whether I have been to blame or no, I know not:

  Here’s a petition from a Florentine,

  Who hath for four or five removes come short

  To tender it herself. I undertook it,

  Vanquish’d thereto by the fair grace and speech

  Of the poor suppliant, who by this I know

  Is here attending: her business looks in her

  With an importing visage; and she told me,

  In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern

  Your highness with herself.

  King

  [Reads] Upon his many protestations to marry me when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Now is the Count Rousillon a widower: his vows are forfeited to me, and my honour’s paid to him. He stole from Florence, taking no leave, and I follow him to his country for justice: grant it me, O king! in you it best lies; otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poor maid is undone.