William Shakespeare - The Complete Works of William Shakespeare

[Exeunt.]

ACT III.

SCENE 1. Florence. A room in the DUKE’s palace.

[Flourish. Enter the DUKE OF FLORENCE, attended; two French

Lords, and Soldiers.]

DUKE.

So that, from point to point, now have you heard

The fundamental reasons of this war;

Whose great decision hath much blood let forth,

And more thirsts after.

FIRST LORD.

Holy seems the quarrel

Upon your grace’s part; black and fearful

On the opposer.

DUKE.

Therefore we marvel much our cousin France

Would, in so just a business, shut his bosom

Against our borrowing prayers.

SECOND LORD.

Good my lord,

The reasons of our state I cannot yield,

But like a common and an outward man

That the great figure of a council frames

By self-unable motion; therefore dare not

Say what I think of it, since I have found

Myself in my incertain grounds to fail

As often as I guess’d.

DUKE.

Be it his pleasure.

FIRST LORD.

But I am sure the younger of our nature,

That surfeit on their ease, will day by day

Come here for physic.

DUKE.

Welcome shall they be;

And all the honours that can fly from us

Shall on them settle. You know your places well;

When better fall, for your avails they fell:

Tomorrow to th’ field.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

SCENE 2. Rousillon. A room in the COUNTESS’S palace.

[Enter COUNTESS and CLOWN.]

COUNTESS. It hath happened all as I would have had it, save that he comes not along with her.

CLOWN.

By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very melancholy man.

COUNTESS.

By what observance, I pray you?

CLOWN. Why, he will look upon his boot and sing; mend the ruff and sing; ask questions and sing; pick his teeth and sing. I know a man that had this trick of melancholy sold a goodly manor for a song.

COUNTESS.

Let me see what he writes, and when he means to come.

[Opening a letter.]

CLOWN. I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court. Our old ling and our Isbels o’ the country are nothing like your old ling and your Isbels o’ the court. The brains of my Cupid’s knocked out; and I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.

COUNTESS.

What have we here?

CLOWN.

E’en that you have there.

[Exit.]

COUNTESS. [Reads.] ‘I have sent you a daughter-in-law; she hath recovered the king and undone me. I have wedded her, not bedded her; and sworn to make the “not” eternal. You shall hear I am run away: know it before the report come. If there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you. Your unfortunate son, BERTRAM.’

This is not well, rash and unbridled boy,

To fly the favours of so good a king;

To pluck his indignation on thy head

By the misprizing of a maid too virtuous

For the contempt of empire.

[Re-enter CLOWN.]

CLOWN. O madam, yonder is heavy news within between two soldiers and my young lady.

COUNTESS.

What is the matter?

CLOWN. Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some comfort; your son will not be killed so soon as I thought he would.

COUNTESS.

Why should he be killed?

CLOWN. So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does: the danger is in standing to ‘t; that’s the loss of men, though it be the getting of children. Here they come will tell you more: for my part, I only hear your son was run away.

[Exit.]

[Enter HELENA and the two Gentlemen.]

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Save you, good madam.

HELENA.

Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Do not say so.

COUNTESS.

Think upon patience.—Pray you, gentlemen,—

I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief

That the first face of neither, on the start,

Can woman me unto ‘t.—Where is my son, I pray you?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Madam, he’s gone to serve the Duke of Florence:

We met him thitherward; for thence we came,

And, after some despatch in hand at court,

Thither we bend again.

HELENA.

Look on this letter, madam; here’s my passport.

[Reads.] ‘When thou canst get the ring upon my finger, which never shall come off, and show me a child begotten of thy body that I am father to, then call me husband; but in such a “then” I write a “never.” This is a dreadful sentence.

COUNTESS.

Brought you this letter, gentlemen?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Ay, madam;

And for the contents’ sake, are sorry for our pains.

COUNTESS.

I pr’ythee, lady, have a better cheer;

If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,

Thou robb’st me of a moiety. He was my son:

But I do wash his name out of my blood,

And thou art all my child.—Towards Florence is he?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Ay, madam.

COUNTESS.

And to be a soldier?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Such is his noble purpose: and, believe ‘t,

The duke will lay upon him all the honour

That good convenience claims.

COUNTESS.

Return you thither?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed.

HELENA.

[Reads.] ‘Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.’

‘Tis bitter.

COUNTESS.

Find you that there?

HELENA.

Ay, madam.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

‘Tis but the boldness of his hand haply,

Which his heart was not consenting to.

COUNTESS.

Nothing in France until he have no wife!

There’s nothing here that is too good for him

But only she; and she deserves a lord

That twenty such rude boys might tend upon,

And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

A servant only, and a gentleman

Which I have sometime known.

COUNTESS.

Parolles, was it not?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Ay, my good lady, he.

COUNTESS.

A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.

My son corrupts a well-derived nature

With his inducement.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Indeed, good lady,

The fellow has a deal of that too much

Which holds him much to have.

COUNTESS.

You are welcome, gentlemen.

I will entreat you, when you see my son,

To tell him that his sword can never win

The honour that he loses: more I’ll entreat you

Written to bear along.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

We serve you, madam,

In that and all your worthiest affairs.

COUNTESS.

Not so, but as we change our courtesies.

Will you draw near?

[Exeunt COUNTESS and Gentlemen.]

HELENA.

‘Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.’

Nothing in France until he has no wife!

Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France;

Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is’t I

That chase thee from thy country, and expose

Those tender limbs of thine to the event

Of the none-sparing war? and is it I

That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou

Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark

Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,

That ride upon the violent speed of fire,

Fly with false aim: move the still-peering air,

That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord!

Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;

Whoever charges on his forward breast,

I am the caitiff that do hold him to it;

And though I kill him not, I am the cause

His death was so effected: better ‘twere

I met the ravin lion when he roar’d

With sharp constraint of hunger; better ‘twere

That all the miseries which nature owes

Were mine at once. No; come thou home, Rousillon,

Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,