Wid.

Lord, how we lose our pains!

Hel. All's well that ends well yet,

Though time seem so adverse, and means unfit.—
I do beseech you, whither is he gone?
Gent. Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon;
Whither I am going.

Hel.

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.
Gent.
This I'll do for you.
Hel. 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. The inner Court of the COUNTESS'S

Mansion.

Enter Clown and PAROLLES..

Par. Good monsieur Lavatch, 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.

Clo. 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. Pr'ythee, allow the wind.

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

Clo. Indeed, Sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose; or against any man's metaphor. Pr'ythee, get thee farther.

Par. Pray you, Sir, deliver me this paper.

Clo. Foh! pr'ythee, stand away; a paper from fortune's close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look, here he comes himself.

Enter LAFEU.

Here is a pur of fortune's, Sir, or of fortune's cat, (but not a muskcat,) 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 smiles of comfort, and leave him to your lordship. [Exit

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

Laf. 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.

Par. I beseech your honour to hear me one single word.

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

Par. My name, my good lord, is Parolles.

Laf. You beg more than one word, then.-Cox' my passion! give me your hand :-how does your drum?

Par. O, my good lord! you were the first that found me.
Laf. Was I, in sooth and I was the first that lost thee.

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

Laf. 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. [Trumpet sounds.] The king's coming; I know by his trumpets.-Sirrah, enquire farther after me; I had talk of you last night though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat ; go to, follow.

Par. I praise God for you.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III. ROUSILLON. A Room in the COUNTESS'S Mansion. Flourish. Enter King, Countess, LAFEU, Lords, Gentlemen, Guards, &c.

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.

Count.

King.

Laf.

'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.

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.

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 reconcil'd, 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.

I shall, my liege.

Gent.
King. What says he to your daughter? have you spoke?
Laf. All that he is hath reference to your highness.
King. Then shall we have a match.

That set him high in fame.

Laf.

[Exit.

I have letters sent me,

Enter BERTRAM.

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.

Ber.

My high repented blames,

Dear sovereign, pardon to me.

All is whole;

King.
Not one word more of the consumèd time.
Let's take the instant by the forward top;
For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees
Th' inaudible and noiseless foot of time
Steals ere we can effect them.

The daughter of this lord?

You remember

Ber. 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 prais'd, and whom myself,
Since I have lost, have lov'd, was in mine eye

The dust that did offend it.

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 shameful hate 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.

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

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

Laf. 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.-[BER. gives LAF, 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 leave at court,

I saw upon her finger.

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?

Ber.

My gracious sovereign,

Howe'er it pleases you to take it so,

The ring was never hers.

Count.

Son, on my life,

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

At her life's rate.

Laf.

I am sure I saw her wear it.

Ber. You are deceiv'd, my lord; she never saw it:
In Florence 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 ingag'd: but when I had subscrib'd
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 ceas'd,
In heavy satisfaction, and would never
Receive the ring again.

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.

King. Thou speak'st it falsely, as I love mine honour;
And mak'st 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 farther.

Ber.

This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy
Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence,
Where yet she never was.

If you shall prove

[Exit guarded.

Gracious sovereign,

King. I am wrapp'd in dismal thinkings.

Gent.

Enter the gentle Astringer.