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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, 't is a withered pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet, 'tis a withered pear: Will you anything with it?" Hel. 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!-

Par. Little Helen, farewell: if I can remember thee, I will think of thee at court.

Hel. Monsier Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.

Par. Under Mars, I.

Hel. I especially think, under Mars.

Par. Why under Mars?

Hel. The wars have so kept you under, that you must needs be born under Mars.

Par. When he was predominant.
Hel. When he was retrograde, I think, rather.
Par. Why think you so?

Hel. You go so much backward when you fight.

Par. That's for advantage.

Hel. 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.

Par. I am so full of businesses I cannot answer thee acutely: I will return perfect courtier; in the which, my instruction shall serve to naturalise 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

The court's a learning-place; and he is thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember

one

Par. What one, i' faith?

-

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There is evidently something wanting here-and it is possible that "will you anything with it?" is a misprint for "will you anything wi' the court?" or "to the court." Hanmer makes Helena say, "You 're for the court," before she goes on. "There, shall your master," &c. Her meaning, however obscure the connexion with the speech of Parolles, is, that Bertram will find at the court (which she afterwards describes as the court 's a learning place") some love, which will have all the opposite qualities united which belong to "a thousand loves." The

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thy friends: get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee: so farewell.

[Exit.

Hel. 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 II.-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;

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As when thy father and myself, in friendship,
First tried our soldiership! He did look far
Into the service of the time, and was
Discipled of the bravest: he lasted long;
But on us both did haggish age steal on,
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me
To talk of your good father: In his youth
He had the wit, which I can well observe
To-day in our young lords; but they may jest
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted,
Ere they can hide their levity in honour.
So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness
Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,
His equal had awak'd them; and his honour,
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when
Exception bid him speak, and, at this time,
His tongue obey'd his hand:" who were below

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He us'd as creatures of another place;
And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks,
Making them proud of his humility,

In their poor praise he humbled: Such a man
Might be a copy to these younger times;
Which, follow'd well, would demonstrate them

now

But goers backward.

Ber.

His good remembrance, sir, Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb; So in approof lives not his epitaph, As in your royal speech.

King. 'Would I were with him! He would always say,

(Methinks I hear him now: his plausive words He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them,

To grow there, and to bear,2)—'Let me not live,'

This his good melancholy oft began,
On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,
When it was out,-'Let me not live,' quoth he,
'After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff
Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses
All but new things disdain; whose judgments

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Enter COUNTESS, Steward, and Clown.

Count. I will now hear: what say you of this gentlewoman?

• Malone deems the construction to be, "in their poor praise he being humbled."

Stew. Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my past endeavours: for then we wound our modesty, and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.

Count. What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah: The complaints I have heard of you I do not all believe; 'tis my slowness that I do not: for I know you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours.3

Clo. "T is not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.

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Clo. My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives.

Count. Is this all your worship's reason? Clo. Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are.

Count. May the world know them?

Clo. I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry, that I may repent.

Count. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.

Clo. I am out of friends, madam; and I hope to have friends for my wife's sake.

Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave. Clo. You are shallow, madam, in great friends;b

In Much Ado about Nothing (Act II. Sc. 1.), Beatrice says, "Thus goes every one to the world but I." The commentators explain the phrase of Beatrice by the Clown's speech in the text, and say that "to go to the world" is to be married. It appears to us that the Clown asks his freedom when he begs her ladyship's "good-will to go to the world." The domestic fool was ordinarily in the condition of a slave, and was sold or given away. The Clown here adds, "Service is no heritage." And yet, "to go to the world also mean to marry-as we still say, to settle in the world. A son or daughter, having the paternal leave to marry, goes to the world, in the sense of encountering its responsibilities. In great friends-so the original. The modern reading is e'en great friends. Surely no alteration is necessary; the

may

for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am a-weary of. He that ears my land spares my team, and gives me leave to in the crop: If I be his cuckold, he's my drudge: He that comforts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my flesh and blood is my friend; ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage: for young Charbon the puritan, and old Poysam the papist, howsoe'er their hearts are severed in religion, their heads are both one,—they may jowl horns together, like any deer i' the herd.

Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth'd and calumnious knave?

Clo. A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way:a

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Count. What, one good in ten? you corrupt the song, sirrah.

Clo. One good woman in ten, madam, which is a purifying o'the song: 'Would God would serve the world so all the year! we'd find no fault with the tithe woman, if I were the parson: One in ten, quoth a'! and we might have a good woman born but for every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 't would mend the lottery well; a man may draw his heart out, ere he pluck one.

meaning clearly being-You are shallow in the matter of great friends.

The next way-the nearest way.

The mention of Helen is associated in the mind of the Clown with some popular ballad on the war of Troy.

For the original reads ore. Steevens omits the word altogether. The slight correction of for appears to us to give

a sense.

Count. You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong : command you!

Clo. That man should be at woman's command, and yet no hurt done!—Though honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart.-I am going, forsooth; the business is for Helen to come hither. [Exit. Count. Well, now.

Stew. I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.

Count. Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to me; and she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds there is more owing her than is paid; and more shall be paid her than she'll demand.

Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her than, I think, she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son: Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love, no god, that would not extend his might only where qualities were level; Diana, no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight to be surprised, without rescue in the first assault, or ransom afterward: This she delivered in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e'er I heard virgin exclaim in: which I held my duty, speedily to acquaint you withal; sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it.

Count. You have discharged this honestly; keep it to yourself: many likelihoods informed me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance, that I could neither believe, nor misdoubt: Pray you, leave me: stall this in your bosom, and I thank you for your honest care: I will speak with you further anon. [Exit Steward.

Enter HELENA.

Count. Even so it was with me when I was

young:

If we are nature's, these are ours; this thorn

• The passage in the original stands thus:-"Love, no god, that would not extend his might only where qualities were level; queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surprised without rescue," &c. The introduction of "Diana a," and to be," was made by Theobald. We adopt such changes with great reluctance; but, as the text in the original is certainly corrupt, we prefer a reading that has been generally received to any new conjecture. It would certainly be a less violent alteration to let the description of Fortune and Love terminate without the introduction of Diana; and to suppose the Steward to be translating into narrative an apostrophe of Helena to the Queen of Virgins.

Our blood to us, this to our blood is born;
It is the show and seal of nature's truth,
Where love's strong passion is impress'd in
youth:

By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults;-or then we thought them

none.

Her eye is sick on 't; I observe her now.
Hel. What is your pleasure, madam ?
Count.
You know, Helen,

I am a mother to you.

Hel. Mine honourable mistress.
Count.

Nay, a mother;
Why not a mother? When I said, a mother,
Methought you saw a serpent: What's in mo-

ther

That you start at it? I say, I am your mother;
And put you in the catalogue of those
That were enwombed mine: 'Tis often seen,
Adoption strives with nature; and choice breeds
A native slip to us from foreign seeds:
You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's
groan,

Yet I express to you a mother's care :-
God's mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood
To say, I am thy mother? What's the
matter,

That this distemper'd messenger of wet,
The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye?
Why?-that you are my daughter?
Hel.

That I am not.

Count. I say, I am your mother.
Hel.
Pardon, madam;
The count Rousillon cannot be my brother:
I am from humble, he from honour'd name;
No note upon my parents, his all noble :
My master, my dear lord he is: and I
His servant live, and will his vassal die :
He must not be my brother.
Count.
Nor I your mother?
Hel. You are my mother, madam. ('Would

you were

So that my lord, your son, were not my brother.)
Indeed, my mother!-(Or were you both our

mothers,

I care no more for than I do for heaven,
So I were not his sister.") Can't be other
But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?
Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-
in-law:

We venture to point this very difficult passage differently from the received mode. It appears to us that the passages which we give between parentheses are spoken half aside. Farmer explains that I care no more for" means " I care as much for."

God shield, you mean it not! daughter, and mother,

So strive upon your pulse: What, pale again? My fear hath catch'd your fondness: Now I see

The mystery of your loneliness," and find

Your salt tears' head. Now to all sense 't is gross.

You love my son; invention is asham'd,
Against the proclamation of thy passion,
To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true;
But tell me then, 't is so: for, look, thy
cheeks

Confess it, th' one to th' other; and thine eyes
See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours,
That in their kind they speak it: only sin
And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,
That truth should be suspected: Speak, is 't so?
If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue;
If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge
thee,

As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,
To tell me truly.

Hel.

Count. Do you Hel.

Good madam, pardon me. love my

son?

Your pardon, noble mistress!

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But knows of him no more. My dearest madam,
Let not your hate encounter with my love,
For loving where you do: but, if yourself,
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,
Did ever,
in so true a flame of liking,
Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your
Dian

Was both herself and love; O then, give pity
To her, whose state is such, that cannot choose
But lend and give, where she is sure to lose;
That seeks not to find that her search implies,
But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies.
Count. Had you not lately an intent, speak

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