LITMIR.BIZ

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ten years it will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase; and the principal itself not much the worse: away with it!

       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 toothpick, 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 wither’d pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet ‘tis a wither’d 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

       Returns us thanks.

       [Enter a PAGE.]

       PAGE.

       Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.

       [Exit PAGE.]

       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 hath 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 business 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

       To 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 2. Paris. A room in the King’s palace.

       [Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING OF FRANCE, with letters;

       Lords and others attending.]

       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 receive 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,

       Approv’d 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 compos’d thee. Thy father’s moral parts

       Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.

      

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