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ACT

III.

SCENE, the Duke's Court in Florence.

Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, two French

Lords, with Soldiers.

S

DU K E.
O 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.

i Lord. Holy seems the quarrel Upon your Grace's part; but black and fearful On the opposer.

Duke. Therefore we marvel much, our cousin France
Would, in so just a business, fhut his bosom
Against our borrowing prayers.

2 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
My self in my incertain grounds to fail
As often as I guest.

Duke. Be it his pleasure.

2 Lord. But I am sure, the younger of our Nation,
That surfeit on their ease, will day by day
Come here for Physick.

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;
To morrow, to the field.

[Exeunt.
1 SCENE

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SCENE changes to Rousillon, in France.

Enter Countess, and Clown.
Count.

IT
T hath happen'd, all as I would have had it ;

save, that he comes not along with her. Clo. By my troth, I take my young Lord to be a very melancholy man.

Count. By what observance, I pray you?

Clo. Why, he will look upon his boot, and fing; mend his ruff, and fing; ask questions, and sing; pick his teeth, and fing. knew a man that had this trick of melancholy, fold a goodly Manor for a song:

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

[Reads the Letter. Clo. I have no mind to Isbel, Gince I was at Court. Qur old ling, and our Isbels o'th' Country, are nothing like your old ling, and your Isbels o'th Court : the þrain of my Cupid's knock'd out; and I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.

Count. What have we here?
Clo. E'en That you have there.

[Exit. Countess reads a Letter. I have sent you a Daughter-in-law : she bath recovered the King, and undone me. I have wedded her, not bedded her; and sworn to make the not eternal. You mall bear, I am run away ; know it, before the report come. If there be breadth enough in the World, I will bold 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 conteinpt of empire,

Re-enter Clown. Clo. O Madam, yonder is heavy news within bctween two Soldiers and my young Lady.

Count. What is the matter?

Clo. Nay, there 'is fome comfort in the news, Yome comfort ; your Son will not be kill'a fo soon as I thought he would

Count. Why should he be kill'd?

Clo. So say 1, Madam, if he run away, as I hear he does '; the danger is in ftanding to't ; that's the Joss of Men, though it be the getting of Children. Here they come, will tell you more. For my part,

1 only hear, your Son was run away.

Enter Helena and two Gentlemen. Gen. Save you, good Madam. Hel. Madam, my Lord is gone, for ever gone. * 2 Gen. Do not say so.

Count. Think upon patience : 'pray you, Gentlemeh, I've felt so many quirks of joy and grief, That the first face of neither, on the start, Cañ 'woman me untoʻt. Where is my Son?

? Gen. Madam, he's gone to serve the Duke of Flo

rence.

port.

We met him thitherward, for thence we came;
And after fome dispatch in hand at Court,
Thither we bend again.
Hel. Look on his Letter, Madam; here's my Pas-
When thou canst get the ring upon my finger, which ne-

ver shall come off and Jew 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.

Count, Brought you this fetter, Gentlemen?

! Gen. Ay, Madam, and, for the contents fake, are sorry for our pains.

Count. I priythee, Lady, have a berter cheer. If thou engrosseft all the griefs as thine,

Thou

Thou robb'ft 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?

2 Gen. Ay, Madam.
Count. And to be a Soldier ?

2 Gen. Such is his noble purpose; and, believe't,
The Duķe will lay upon him all the Honour
That good convenience claims.

Count. Return you thither ? i Gen. Ay, Madam, with the swiftest wing of speed, Hel. 'Till I haveng Wife, I have nothing in France. Tis bitter.

[Reading Count. Find you That there? Hel. Yes, Madam.

1 Gen. "fis but the boldness of his hand, happ'ly, which his heart was not consenting to.

Count. Nothing in France, until he have no Wife? There's nothing here, that is too good for him, But only fhe; and the deserves a Lord, That twenty such rude boys might tend upon, And call her hourly Mistress. Who was with him?

I Gen. A Servant only, and a Gentleman
Which I have some time known,

Count. Parolles, was't not?
i Gen. Ay, my good Lady, he.

Count. A very tainted Fellow, and full of wickedness:
My Son corrupts a well-derived nature
With his inducement.

I Gen. (27) Indeed, good Lady, the Fellow has a deal of That too much, which holds him much to have.

Count. Y'arc welcome, Gentlemen; I will intreat you, when you see my Son, to tell him, that his sword

(27) , Indeed, good Lady, the Fellow has a deal of That too much, which holds bim much to have.] This is somewhat obscure in the Expreffion;, but the Meaning muft be this. The Fellow, indeed, has a deal too much Vanity, Lying, boasting ; but it holds him mych to have such Qualities; i. e. it ftands him in great Stead, is of great Service to him, and what he cannot do without. For these were the Arts that Parolles used to get into Bertram's Favour; and when Once they were discoverid, He was fet a-drift, and undone.

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can never win the honour that he loses : more I'll in. treat you written to bear along. 2 Gen. We serve you, Madam, in That and all

your worthiest affairs.

Count. Not so, but as we change our courtefies. Will you draw near? [Exeunt Count. and Gentlemen.

Hel. '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 Waft shot at with fair eyes; to be the mark Of smoaky muskets? O you leaden messengers, That ride upon the violent speed of fire, Fly with falle aim; move the still-piercing air, That sings with piercing, do not touch

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 tho' I kill him not, I am the Cause His death was so effected. Better 'twere, Į met the rav’ning Lion when he roar'a With sħarp 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; As oft it loses all. I will be

gone: My being here it is, that holds thee hence. Shall I stay here to do't? no, no, although The air of Paradise did fan the House, And Angels offic'd áll; Į will be gone; That pitiful Rumour may report my flight, To consolate thine ear. Come, night ; end, day! For with the dark, poor Thief I'll steal away. (Exit.

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