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• All’s Well That Ends Well: Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Scene I.—: Rousillon. a Room In Thecountess’spalace.
• Scene II.—: Paris. a Room In Theking’spalace.
• Scene III.—: Rousillon. a Room In Thecountess’spalace.
• Act II.
• Scene I.—: Paris. a Room In Theking’spalace.
• Scene II.—: Rousillon. a Room In Thecountess’spalace.
• Scene III.—: Paris. a Room In Theking’spalace.
• Scene IV.—: Same. Another Room In the Palace.
• Scene V.—: Another Room In the Same.
• Act III.
• Scene I.—: Florence. a Room In Theduke’spalace.
• Scene II.—: Rousillon. a Room In Thecountess’spalace.
• Scene III.—: Florence. Before Theduke’spalace.
• Scene IV.—: Rousillon. a Room In Thecountess’spalace.
• Scene V.—: Without the Walls of Florence.
• Scene VI.—: Camp Before Florence.
• Scene VII.—: Florence. a Room In the Widow’s House.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.—: Without the Florentine Camp.
• Scene II.—: Florence. a Room In the Widow’s House.
• Scene III.—: The Florentine Camp.
• Scene IV.—: Florence. a Room In the Widow’s House.
• Scene V.—: Rousillon. a Room In Thecountess’spalace.
• Act V.
• Scene I.—: Marseilles. a Street.
• Scene II.—: Rousillon. the Inner Court of Thecountess’spalace.
• Scene III.—: The Same. a Room In Thecountess’spalace.

ACT IV.

Scene I.—

Without the Florentine Camp.

Enter First French Lord, with five or six Soldiers in ambush.

First Lord.

He can come no other way but by this hedge-corner. When you sally upon him, speak what terrible language you will: though you understand it not yourselves, no matter; for we must not seem to understand him, unless some one among us, whom we must produce for an interpreter.

First Sold.

Good captain, let me be the interpreter.

First Lord.

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

First Sold.

No, sir, I warrant you.

First Lord.

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

First Sold.

Even such as you speak to me.

First Lord.

He must think us some band of strangers i’ the adversary’s entertainment. Now, he hath a smack of all neighbouring languages; therefore we must every one be a man of his own fancy, not to know what we speak one to another; so we seem to know, is to know straight our purpose: chough’s language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you, interpreter, you must seem very politic. But couch, ho! here he comes, to beguile two hours in a sleep, and then to return and swear the lies he forges.

EnterParolles.

Par.

Ten o’clock: within these three hours ’twill be time enough to go home. What shall I say I have done? It must be a very plausive invention that carries it. They begin to smoke me, and disgraces have of late knocked too often at my door. I find my tongue is too foolhardy; but my heart hath the fear of Mars before it and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my tongue.

First Lord.

This is the first truth that e’er thine own tongue was guilty of.

Par.

What the devil should move me to undertake the recovery of this drum, being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I must give myself some hurts and say I got them in exploit. Yet slight ones will not carry it: they will say, ‘Came you off with so little?’ and great ones I dare not give. Wherefore, what’s the instance? Tongue, I must put you into a butter-woman’s mouth, and buy myself another of Bajazet’s mute, if you prattle me into these perils.

First Lord.

Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is?

Par.

I would the cutting of my garments would serve the turn or the breaking of my Spanish sword.

First Lord.

We cannot afford you so.

Par.

Or the baring of my beard, and to say it was in stratagem.

First Lord.

’Twould not do.

Par.

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

First Lord.

Hardly serve.

Par.

Though I swore I leaped from the window of the citadel—

First Lord.

How deep?

Par.

Thirty fathom.

First Lord.

Three great oaths would scarce make that be believed.

Par.

I would I had any drum of the enemy’s:

I would swear I recovered it.

First Lord.

Thou shalt hear one anon.

Par.

A drum now of the enemy’s!

[Alarum within.

First Lord.

Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo.

All.

Cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo.

[They seize and blindfold him.

Par.

O! ransom, ransom! Do not hide mine eyes.

First Sold.

Boskos thromuldo boskos.

Par.

I know you are the Muskos’ regiment;

And I shall lose my life for want of language.

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

Italian, or French, let him speak to me:

I will discover that which shall undo

The Florentine.

First Sold.

Boskos vauvado:

I understand thee, and can speak thy tongue:

Kerelybonto: Sir,

Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards

Are at thy bosom.

Par.

O!

First Sold.

O! pray, pray, pray.

Manka revania dulche.

First Lord.

Oscorbidulchos volivorco.

First Sold.

The general is content to spare thee yet;

And, hoodwink’d as thou art, will lead thee on

To gather from thee: haply thou may’st inform

Something to save thy life.

Par.

O! let me live,

And all the secrets of our camp I’ll show,

Their force, their purposes; nay, I’ll speak that

Which you will wonder at.

First Sold.

But wilt thou faithfully?

Par.

If I do not, damn me.

First Sold.

Acordo linta.

Come on; thou art granted space.

[Exit, withParollesguarded. A short alarum within.

First Lord.

Go, tell the Count Rousillon, and my brother,

We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him muffled

Till we do hear from them.

Sec. Sold.

Captain, I will.

First Lord.

A’ will betray us all unto ourselves:

Inform on that.

Sec. Sold.

So I will, sir.

First Lord.

Till then, I’ll keep him dark and safely lock’d.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—

Florence. A Room in the Widow’s House.

EnterBertramandDiana.

Ber.

They told me that your name was Fontibell.

Dia.

No, my good lord, Diana.

Ber.

Titled goddess;

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

In your fine frame hath love no quality?

If the quick fire of youth light not your mind,

You are no maiden, but a monument:

When you are dead, you should be such a one

As you are now, for you are cold and stern;

And now you should be as your mother was

When your sweet self was got.

Dia.

She then was honest.

Ber.

So should you be.

Dia.

No:

My mother did but duty; such, my lord,

As you owe to your wife.

Ber.

No more o’ that!

I prithee do not strive against my vows.

I was compell’d to her; but I love thee

By love’s own sweet constraint, and will for ever

Do thee all rights of service.

Dia.

Ay, so you serve us

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

You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves

And mock us with our bareness.

Ber.

How have I sworn!

Dia.

’Tis not the many oaths that make the truth,

But the plain single vow that is vow’d true.

What is not holy, that we swear not by,

But take the Highest to witness: then, pray you, tell me,

If I should swear by God’s great attributes

I lov’d you dearly, would you believe my oaths,

When I did love you ill? this has no holding,

To swear by him whom I protest to love,

That I will work against him: therefore your oaths

Are words and poor conditions, but unseal’d;

At least in my opinion.

Ber.

Change it, change it.

Be not so holy-cruel: love is holy;

And my integrity ne’er knew the crafts

That you do charge men with. Stand no more off,

But give thyself unto my sick desires,

Who then recover: say thou art mine, and ever

My love as it begins shall so persever.

Dia.

I see that men make ropes in such a scarr

That we’ll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.

Ber.

I’ll lend it thee, my dear; but have no power

To give it from me.

Dia.

Will you not, my lord?

Ber.

It is an honour ’longing to our house,

Bequeathed down from many ancestors,

Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world

In me to lose.

Dia.

Mine honour’s such a ring:

My chastity’s the jewel of our house,

Bequeathed down from many ancestors,

Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world

In me to lose. Thus your own proper wisdom

Brings in the champion honour on my part

Against your vain assault.

Ber.

Here, take my ring:

My house, mine honour, yea, my life, be thine,

And I’ll be bid by thee.

Dia.

When midnight comes, knock at my chamber-window:

I’ll order take my mother shall not hear.

Now will I charge you in the band of truth,

When you have conquer’d my yet maiden bed,

Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me.

My reasons are most strong; and you shall know them

When back again this ring shall be deliver’d:

And on your finger in the night I’ll put

Another ring, that what in time proceeds

May token to the future our past deeds.

Adieu, till then; then, fail not. You have won

A wife of me, though there my hope be done.

Ber.

A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.

[Exit.

Dia.

For which live long to thank both heaven and me!

You may so in the end.

My mother told me just how he would woo

As if she sat in ’s heart; she says all men

Have the like oaths: he had sworn to marry me

When his wife’s dead; therefore I’ll lie with him

When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid,

Marry that will, I live and die a maid:

Only in this disguise I think’t no sin

To cozen him that would unjustly win.

[Exit.

Scene III.—

The Florentine Camp.

Enter the two French Lords, and two or three Soldiers.

First Lord.

You have not given him his mother’s letter?

Sec. Lord.

I have delivered it an hour since: there is something in’t that stings his nature, for on the reading it he changed almost into another man.

First Lord.

He has much worthy blame laid upon him for shaking off so good a wife and so sweet a lady.

Sec. Lord.

Especially he hath incurred the everlasting displeasure of the king, who had even tuned his bounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you.

First Lord.

When you have spoken it, ’tis dead, and I am the grave of it.

Sec. Lord.

He hath perverted a young gentlewoman here in Florence, of a most chaste renown; and this night he fleshes his will in the spoil of her honour: he hath given her his monumental ring, and thinks himself made in the unchaste composition.

First Lord.

Now, God delay our rebellion! as we are ourselves, what things are we!

Sec. Lord.

Merely our own traitors: and as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reveal themselves, till they attain to their abhorred ends, so he that in this action contrives against his own nobility, in his proper stream o’erflows himself.

First Lord.

Is it not most damnable in us, to be trumpeters of our unlawful intents? We shall not then have his company to-night?

Sec. Lord.

Not till after midnight, for he is dieted to his hour.

First Lord.

That approaches apace: I would gladly have him see his company anatomized, that he might take a measure of his own judgments, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit.

Sec. Lord.

We will not meddle with him till he come, for his presence must be the whip of the other.

First Lord.

In the meantime what near you of these wars?

Sec. Lord.

I hear there is an overture of peace.

First Lord.

Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded.

Sec. Lord.

What will Count Rousillon do then? will he travel higher, or return again into France?

First Lord.

I perceive by this demand, you are not altogether of his council.

Sec. Lord.

Let it be forbid, sir; so should I be a great deal of his act.

First Lord.

Sir, his wife some two months since fled from his house: her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques le Grand; which holy undertaking with most austere sanctimony she accomplished; and, there residing, the tenderness of her nature became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last breath, and now she sings in heaven.

Sec. Lord.

How is this justified?

First Lord.

The stronger part of it by her own letters, which make her story true, even to the point of her death: her death itself, which could not be her office to say is come, was faithfully confirmed by the rector of the place.

Sec. Lord.

Hath the count all this intelligence?

First Lord.

Ay, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the verity.

Sec. Lord.

I am heartily sorry that he’ll be glad of this.

First Lord.

How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our losses!

Sec. Lord.

And how mightily some other times we drown our gain in tears! The great dignity that his valour hath here acquired for him shall at home be encountered with a shame as ample.

First Lord.

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues.

Enter a Servant.

How now! where’s your master?

Serv.

He met the duke in the street, sir, of whom he hath taken a solemn leave: his lordship will next morning for France. The duke hath offered him letters of commendations to the king.

Sec. Lord.

They shall be no more than needful there, if they were more than they can commend.

First Lord.

They cannot be too sweet for the king’s tartness. Here’s his lordship now.

EnterBertram.

How now, my lord! is’t not after midnight?

Ber.

I have to-night dispatched sixteen businesses, a month’s length a-piece, by an abstract of success: I have conge’d with the duke, done my adieu with his nearest, buried a wife, mourned for her, writ to my lady mother I am returning, entertained my convoy; and between these main parcels of dispatch effected many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that I have not ended yet.

Sec. Lord.

If the business be of any difficulty, and this morning your departure hence, it requires haste of your lordship.

Ber.

I mean, the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of it hereafter. But shall we have this dialogue between the fool and the soldier? Come, bring forth this counterfeit model: he has deceived me, like a double-meaning prophesier.

Sec. Lord.

Bring him forth. [Exeunt Soldiers.] Has sat i’ the stocks all night, poor gallant knave.

Ber.

No matter; his heels have deserved it, in usurping his spurs so long. How does he carry himself?

First Lord.

I have told your lordship already, the stocks carry him. But to answer you as you would be understood; he weeps like a wench that had shed her milk: he hath confessed himself to Morgan,—whom he supposes to be a friar,—from the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i’ the stocks: and what think you he hath confessed?

Ber.

Nothing of me, has a’?

Sec. Lord.

His confession is taken, and it shall be read to his face: if your lordship be in’t, as I believe you are, you must have the patience to hear it.

Re-enter Soldiers withParolles.

Ber.

A plague upon him! muffled! he can say nothing of me: hush! hush!

First Lord.

Hoodman comes! Porto tartarossa.

First Sold.

He calls for the tortures: what will you say without ’em?

Par.

I will confess what I know without constraint: if ye pinch me like a pasty, I can say no more.

First Sold.

Bosko chimurcho.

First Lord.

Boblibindo chicurmurco.

First Sold.

You are a merciful general. Our general bids you answer to what I shall ask you out of a note.

Par.

And truly, as I hope to live.

First Sold.

First, demand of him how many horse the duke is strong. What say you to that?

Par.

Five or six thousand; but very weak and unserviceable: the troops are all scattered, and the commanders very poor rogues, upon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to live.

First Sold.

Shall I set down your answer so?

Par.

Do: I’ll take the sacrament on’t, how and which way you will.

Ber.

All’s one to him. What a past-saving slave is this!

First Lord.

You are deceived, my lord: this is Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist,—that was his own phrase,—that had the whole theorick of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the chape of his dagger.

Sec. Lord.

I will never trust a man again for keeping his sword clean; nor believe he can have everything in him by wearing his apparel neatly.

First Sold.

Well, that’s set down.

Par.

Five or six thousand horse, I said,—I will say true,—or thereabouts, set down, for I’ll speak truth.

First Lord.

He’s very near the truth in this.

Ber.

But I con him no thanks for’t, in the nature he delivers it.

Par.

Poor rogues, I pray you, say.

First Sold.

Well, that’s set down.

Par.

I humbly thank you, sir. A truth’s a truth; the rogues are marvellous poor.

First Sold.

Demand of him, of what strength they are a-foot. What say you to that?

Par.

By my troth, sir, if I were to live this present hour, I will tell true. Let me see: Spurio, a hundred and fifty; Sebastian, so many; Corambus, so many; Jaques, so many; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick, and Gratii, two hundred fifty each; mine own company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred fifty each: so that the muster-file, rotten and sound, upon my life, amounts not to fifteen thousand poll; half of the which dare not shake the snow from off their cassocks, lest they shake themselves to pieces.

Ber.

What shall be done to him?

First Lord.

Nothing, but let him have thanks. Demand of him my condition, and what credit I have with the duke.

First Sold.

Well, that’s set down. You shall demand of him, whether one Captain Dumain be i’ the camp, a Frenchman; what his reputation is with the duke; what his valour, honesty, and expertness in wars; or whether he thinks it were not possible, with well-weighing sums of gold, to corrupt him to a revolt. What say you to this? what do you know of it?

Par.

I beseech you, let me answer to the particular of the inter’gatories: demand them singly.

First Sold.

Do you know this Captain Dumain?

Par.

I know him: a’ was a botcher’s ’prentice in Paris, from whence he was whipped for getting the shrieve’s fool with child; a dumb innocent, that could not say him nay.

[Dumainlifts up his hand in anger.

Ber.

Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though I know his brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls.

First Sold.

Well, is this captain in the Duke of Florence’s camp?

Par.

Upon my knowledge he is, and lousy.

First Lord.

Nay, look not so upon me; we shall hear of your lordship anon.

First Sold.

What is his reputation with the duke?

Par.

The duke knows him for no other but a poor officer of mine, and writ to me this other day to turn him out o’ the band: I think I have his letter in my pocket.

First Sold.

Marry, we’ll search.

Par.

In good sadness, I do not know: either it is there, or it is upon a file with the duke’s other letters in my tent.

First Sold.

Here ’tis; here’s a paper; shall I read it to you?

Par.

I do not know if it be it or no.

Ber.

Our interpreter does it well.

First Lord.

Excellently.

First Sold.

Dian, the count’s a fool, and full of gold—

Par.

That is not the duke’s letter, sir; that is an advertisement to a proper maid in Florence, one Diana, to take heed of the allurement of one Count Rousillon, a foolish idle boy, but for all that very ruttish. I pray you, sir, put it up again.

First Sold.

Nay, I’ll read it first, by your favour.

Par.

My meaning in’t, I protest, was very honest in the behalf of the maid; for I knew the young count to be a dangerous and lascivious boy, who is a whale to virginity, and devours up all the fry it finds.

Ber.

Damnable both-sides rogue!

First Sold.

When he swears oaths, bid him drop gold, and take it;

After he scores, he never pays the score:

Half won is match well made; match, and well make it;

He ne’er pays after-debts; take it before,

And say a soldier, Dian, told thee this,

Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss;

For count of this, the count’s a fool, I know it,

Who pays before, but not when he does owe it.

Thine, as he vow’d to thee in thine ear,

Parolles.

Ber.

He shall be whipped through the army with this rime in’s forehead.

First Lord.

This is your devoted friend, sir; the manifold linguist and the armipotent soldier.

Ber.

I could endure anything before but a cat, and now he’s a cat to me.

First Sold.

I perceive, sir, by our general’s looks, we shall be fain to hang you.

Par.

My life, sir, in any case! not that I am afraid to die; but that, my offences being many, I would repent out the remainder of nature. Let me live, sir, in a dungeon, i’ the stocks, or anywhere, so I may live.

First Sold.

We’ll see what may be done, so you confess freely: therefore, once more to this Captain Dumain. You have answered to his reputation with the duke and to his valour: what is his honesty?

Par.

He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister; for rapes and ravishments he parallels Nessus; he professes not keeping of oaths; in breaking ’em he is stronger than Hercules; he will lie, sir, with such volubility, that you would think truth were a fool; drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will be swine-drunk, and in his sleep he does little harm, save to his bed-clothes about him; but they know his conditions, and lay him in straw. I have but little more to say, sir, of his honesty: he has everything that an honest man should not have; what an honest man should have, he has nothing.

First Lord.

I begin to love him for this.

Ber.

For this description of thine honesty? A pox upon him for me! he is more and more a cat.

First Sold.

What say you to his expertness in war?

Par.

Faith, sir, he has led the drum before the English tragedians,—to belie him I will not,—and more of his soldiership I know not; except, in that country, he had the honour to be the officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files: I would do the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certain.

First Lord.

He hath out-villained villany so far, that the rarity redeems him.

Ber.

A pox on him! he’s a cat still.

First Sold.

His qualities being at this poor price, I need not ask you, if gold will corrupt him to revolt.

Par.

Sir, for a cardecu he will sell the fee-simple of his salvation, the inheritance of it; and cut the entail from all remainders, and a perpetual succession for it perpetually.

First Sold.

What’s his brother, the other Captain Dumain?

Sec. Lord.

Why does he ask him or me?

First Sold.

What’s he?

Par.

E’en a crow o’ the same nest; not altogether so great as the first in goodness, but greater a great deal in evil. He excels his brother for a coward, yet his brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a retreat he out-runs any lackey; marry, in coming on he has the cramp.

First Sold.

If your life be saved, will you undertake to betray the Florentine?

Par.

Ay, and the captain of his horse, Count Rousillon.

First Sold.

I’ll whisper with the general, and know his pleasure.

Par.

[Aside.] I’ll no more drumming; a plague of all drums! Only to seem to deserve well, and to beguile the supposition of that lascivious young boy the count, have I run into this danger. Yet who would have suspected an ambush where I was taken?

First Sold.

There is no remedy, sir, but you must die. The general says, you, that have so traitorously discovered the secrets of your army, and made such pestiferous reports of men very nobly held, can serve the world for no honest use; therefore you must die. Come, headsman, off with his head.

Par.

O Lord, sir, let me live, or let me see my death!

First Sold.

That shall you, and take your leave of all your friends.

[Unmuffling him.

So, look about you: know you any here?

Ber.

Good morrow, noble captain.

Sec. Lord.

God bless you, Captain Parolles.

First Lord.

God save you, noble captain.

Sec. Lord.

Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafeu? I am for France.

First Lord.

Good captain, will you give me a copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf of the Count Rousillon? an I were not a very coward I’d compel it of you; but fare you well.

[ExeuntBertramand Lords.

First Sold.

You are undone, captain; all but your scarf; that has a knot on’t yet.

Par.

Who cannot be crushed with a plot?

First Sold.

If you could find out a country where but women were that had received so much shame, you might begin an impudent nation. Fare ye well, sir; I am for France too: we shall speak of you there.

[Exit.

Par.

Yet am I thankful: if my heart were great

’Twould burst at this. Captain I’ll be no more;

But I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft

As captain shall: simply the thing I am

Shall make me live. Who knows himself a braggart,

Let him fear this; for it will come to pass

That every braggart shall be found an ass.

Rust, sword! cool, blushes! and Parolles, live

Safest in shame! being fool’d, by foolery thrive!

There’s place and means for every man alive.

I’ll after them.

[Exit.

Scene IV.—

Florence. A Room in the Widow’s House.

EnterHelena, Widow, andDiana.

Hel.

That you may well perceive I have not wrong’d you,

One of the greatest in the Christian world

Shall be my surety; ’fore whose throne ’tis needful,

Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel.

Time was I did him a desired office,

Dear almost as his life; which gratitude

Through flinty Tartar’s bosom would peep forth,

And answer, thanks. I duly am inform’d

His Grace is at Marseilles; to which place

We have convenient convoy. You must know,

I am supposed dead: the army breaking,

My husband hies him home; where, heaven aiding,

And by the leave of my good lord the king,

We’ll be before our welcome.

Wid.

Gentle madam,

You never had a servant to whose trust

Your business was more welcome.

Hel.

Nor you, mistress,

Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour

To recompense your love. Doubt not but heaven

Hath brought me up to be your daughter’s dower,

As it hath fated her to be my motive

And helper to a husband. But, O strange men!

That can such sweet use make of what they hate,

When saucy trusting of the cozen’d thoughts

Defiles the pitchy night: so lust doth play

With what it loathes for that which is away.

But more of this hereafter. You, Diana,

Under my poor instructions yet must suffer

Something in my behalf.

Dia.

Let death and honesty

Go with your impositions, I am yours

Upon your will to suffer.

Hel.

Yet, I pray you:

But with the word the time will bring on summer,

When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns,

And be as sweet as sharp. We must away;

Our waggon is prepar’d, and time revives us:

All’s well that ends well: still the fine’s the crown;

Whate’er the course, the end is the renown.

[Exeunt.

Scene V.—

Rousillon. A Room in theCountess’sPalace.

EnterCountess, Lafeu,and Clown.

Laf.

No, no, no; your son was misled with a snipt-taffeta fellow there, whose villanous saffron would have made all the unbaked and doughy youth of a nation in his colour: your daughter-in-law had been alive at this hour, and your son here at home, more advanced by the king than by that red-tailed humble-bee I speak of.

Count.

I would I had not known him; it was the death of the most virtuous gentlewoman that ever nature had praise for creating. If she had partaken of my flesh, and cost me the dearest groans of a mother, I could not have owed her a more rooted love.

Laf.

’Twas a good lady, ’twas a good lady: we may pick a thousand salads ere we light on such another herb.

Clo.

Indeed, sir, she was the sweet-marjoram of the salad, or, rather the herb of grace.

Laf.

They are not salad-herbs, you knave; they are nose-herbs.

Clo.

I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I have not much skill in grass.

Laf.

Whether dost thou profess thyself, a knave, or a fool?

Clo.

A fool, sir, at a woman’s service, and a knave at a man’s.

Laf.

Your distinction?

Clo.

I would cozen the man of his wife, and do his service.

Laf.

So you were a knave at his service, indeed.

Clo.

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

Laf.

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

Clo.

At your service.

Laf.

No, no, no.

Clo.

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

Laf.

Who’s that? a Frenchman?

Clo.

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

Laf.

What prince is that?

Clo.

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

Laf.

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

Clo.

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.

Laf.

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.

Clo.

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

[Exit.

Laf.

A shrewd knave and an unhappy.

Count.

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.

Laf.

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?

Count.

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

Laf.

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.

Count.

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.

Laf.

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

Count.

You need but plead your honourable privilege.

Laf.

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

Re-enter Clown.

Clo.

O madam! yonder’s my lord your son with a patch of velvet on’s face: whether there be a scar under it 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.

Laf.

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

Clo.

But it is your carbonadoed face.

Laf.

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

Clo.

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.