Love make your Fortunes twenty times above
Her that fo wifhes, and her humble Love.
2 Lord. No better, if you please.

Hel. My with receive,

Which great Jove grant, and fo I take my leave.

Laf. Do all they deny her? And they were Sons of mine, I'd have them whip'd, or I would fend them to th' Turk to make Eunuchs of.

Hel. Be not afraid that I your hand fhould take,
I'll never do you wrong for your own fake:
Bleffing upon your Vows, and in your Bed,
Find fairer Fortune, if you ever wed.

Laf. Thefe Boys are Boys of Ice, they'll none of her: Sure they are Baftards to the English, the French ne'er got

'em.

Hel. You are too young, too happy, and too good To make your felf a Son out of my Blood.

4 Lord. Fair one, I think not fo.

Laf. There's one Grape yet, I am fure my Father drunk Wine; but if thou be'ft not an Afs, I am a Youth of fourteen: I have known thee already.

Hel. I dare not fay I take you, but I give Me and my Service, ever whilft I live, Into your guiding Power: This is the Man. [To Bertram. King. Why then young Bertram take her, he's thy Wife. Ber. My Wife, my Liege? I fhall befeech your Highness, In fuch a Bufinefs, give me leave to use

The help of mine own Eyes.

King. Know'ft thou not, Bertram, what he hath done for me?

Ber. Yes, my good Lord, but never hope to know why Ifhould marry her.

King Thou know'ft fhe has rais'd me from my fickly Beds

Bey. But follows it, my Lord, to bring me down
Muft anfwer for your raifing: I know her well?
She had her breeding at my Father's charge:
A poor Phyfician's Daughter my Wife? Difdain
Rather corrupt me ever.

King. Tis only Title thou difdain'ft in her, the which I can build up: Strange is it that our Bloods

Of

Of colour, weight, and heat, pour'd all together,
Would quite confound diftinction; yet ftands off
In differences of mighty. If the be

All that is virtuous, fave what thou diflik'ft,
A poor Phyfician's Daughter, thou dislik'st
Of Virtue for the Name: But do not fo.
From lowest place, whence virtuous things proceed,
The Place is dignify'd by th' Doer's Deed.
Where great Addition fwells, and Virtue none,
It is a dropfied Honour; Good alone,
Is good without a Name. Vileness is fo:
The Property by what it is, fhould go,
Not by the Title. She is young, wife, fair,
In thefe, to Nature fhe's immediate Heir;
And thefe breed Honour: That is Honour's fcorn,
Which challenges it felf as Honours born,
And is not like the Sire. Honours beft thrive,
When rather from our A&s we them derive
Than our Fore-goers: The meer word's a flave
Debofh'd on every Tomb, on every Grave;
A lying Trophy, and as oft is dumb,

Where Duft, and damn'd Oblivion is the Tomb.
Of honour'd Bones indeed, what should be faid?
If thou canst like this Creature as a Maid,

I can create the reft: Virtue and fhe

Is her own Dower; Honour and Wealth from me.
Ber. I cannot love her, nor will strive to do't.

King. Thou wrong'ft thy felf, if thou should' ftrive to chufe.

Hel. That you are well reftor'd, my Lord, I'm glad : Let the reft go.

King. My Honour's at the stake, which to defeat
I must produce my Power. Here, take her Hand,
Proud fcornful Boy, unworthy this good Gift,
That doft in vile Mifprifion fhackle up

My Love, and her Defert; that canft not dream,
We peizing us in her defective Scale,

Shall weigh thee to the Beam, that wilt not ow,
It is in us to plant thine Honour, where

We please to have it grow. Check thy Contempt:
Obey our Will, which travels in thy good.

Believe

Believe not thy Difdain, but presently

Do thine own Fortunes that obedient right

Which both thy Duty owes, and our Power claims:
Or I will throw thee from my cares for ever,
Into the Staggers and the careless Lapse

Of Youth and Ignorance; both my Revenge and Hate
Loofing upon thee in the Name of Juftice,
Without all terms of pity. Speak thine answer.
Ber. Pardon, my gracious Lord; for I fubmit
My Fancy to your Eyes. When I confider
What great Creation, and what dole of Honour
Flies where you bid : I find that the which late
Was in my nobler Thoughts most base, is now
The praised of the King; who fo enobled,
Is as 'twere born fo.

King. Take her by the hand.

And tell her she is thine: To whom I promise
A Counterpoize; if not in thy Estate,
A Ballance more repleat.

Ber. I take her hand.

King. Good Fortune, and the Favour of the King
Smile upon the Contract; whofe Ceremony
Shall feem expedient on the now-born Brief,
And be perform'd to Night; the folemn Feast
Shall more attend upon the coming space,
Expecting abfent Friends. As thou lov'ft her,
Thy Love's to me religious; elfe do's err.

Manent Parolles and Lafeu.

Laf. Do you hear, Monfieur? a word with you.
Par. Your pleasure, Sir.

[Exeunt.

Laf. Your Lord and Master did well to make his Recantation.

Par. Recantation? my Lord? my Mafter?

Laf. Ay, is it not a Language I fpeak?

Par. A moft harfh one, and not to be understood with

out bloody fucceeding. My Master?

Laf. Are you Companion to the Count Roffilien?

Par. To any Count? to all Counts; to what is Man. Laf. To what is Count's Man; Count's Mafter is of another Stile.

Par. You are too old, Sir; let it fatisfie you, you are too old.

Laf. I must tell thee, Sirrah, I write Man; to which title Age cannot bring thee.

Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do.

Laf. I did think thee for two Ordinaries to be a pretty wife Fellow. If thou didft make tolerable vent of thy Travel, it might pafs; yet the Scarfs and the Banners about thee, did manifoldly diffuade me from believing thee a Veffel of too great a Burthen. I have now found thee; when I lofe thee again, I care not: Yet art thou good for nothing but taking up, and that thou'rt scarce worth.

Par. Hadft thou not the Privilege of Antiquity upon thee

Laf. Do not plunge thy felf too far in Anger, left thou haften thy trial; which is, Lord have Mercy on thee for a Hen; fo, my good Window of Lattice, fare thee well, thy Cafement I need not open, I look through thee. Give me thy Hand.

Par. My Lord, you give most egregious Indignity.

Laf. Ay, withal my Heart, and thou art worthy of it.
Par. I have not, my Lord, deferv'd it.

Laf. Yes, good faith, ev'ry dram of it; and I will not bate thee a fcruple.

Par. Well, I fhall be wifer

Laf. Ev'n as foon as thou can'st, for thou haft to pull at a fmack a'th' contrary. If ever thou beeft bound in thy Scarf and beaten, thou fhalt find what it is to be proud of thy Bondage. I have a defire to hold my Acquaintance with thee, or rather my Knowledge, that I may fay in the default, he is a Man I know.

Par. My Lord, you do me most insupportable Vexation.

Laf. I would it were Hell Pains for thy fake, and my poor doing eternal: For doing I am paft, as I will by thee, in what motion Age will give me leave. [Exit.

Par. Well, thou haft a Son fhall take this Difgrace off me; fcurvy, old, filthy, fcurvy Lord: Well, I must be patient, there is no fettering of Authority. I'll beat him, by my Life, if I can meet him with any convenience, and he were double and double a Lord. I'll have no more pity of

1

his Age than I would have ofI'll beat him, and if I could but meet him again.

Enter Lafeu.

Laf. Sirrah, your Lord and Master's married, there's New's for you: You have a new Mistress.

Par. I moft unfeignedly befeech your Lordship to make fome Reservation of your Wrongs. He is my good Lord, whom I ferve above is my Mafter.

Laf. Who? God?

Par. Ay, Sir.

Laf. The Devil it is, that's thy Mafter. Why doft thou garter up thy Arms a this fashion? Doft make Hose of thy Sleeves? Do other Servants fo? Thou wert best set thy lower Part where thy Nofe ftands. By mine Honour, if I were but two hours younger, I'd beat thee: Methink'ft thou art a general Offence, and every Man fhould beat thee. I think thou waft created for Men to breath themselves upon thee.

Par. This is hard and undeserved measure, my Lord.

Laf. Go to, Sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a Kernel out of a Pomegranat; you are a Vagabond, and no true Traveller: You are more fawcy with Lords and honourable Perfonages, than the commiffion of your Birth and Virtue gives you Heraldry. You are not worth another word, elfe I'd call you Knave. I leave you.

Enter Bertram.

[Exit.

Par. Good, very good, it is fo then. Good, very good, let it be conceal'd a while.

Ber. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever.

Par. What is the matter, fweet Heart?

Ber. Although before the folemn Prieft I have fworn, I will not bed her.

Par. What? what, fweet Heart?

Ber. O my Parolles, they have married me:

I'll to the Tuscan Wars, and never bed her.

Par. France is a Dog-hole, and it no more merits

The tread of a Man's Foot: To th' Wars.

Ber. There's Letters from my Mother: What th'import is, I know not yet.

Par. Ay, that would be known: To th' Wars my Boy, to th' Wars.