Love make your Fortunes twenty times above 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, 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 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, All that is virtuous, fave what thou diflik'ft, Where Duft, and damn'd Oblivion is the Tomb. I can create the reft: Virtue and fhe Is her own Dower; Honour and Wealth from me. 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 My Love, and her Defert; that canft not dream, Shall weigh thee to the Beam, that wilt not ow, We please to have it grow. Check thy Contempt: Believe Believe not thy Difdain, but presently Do thine own Fortunes that obedient right Which both thy Duty owes, and our Power claims: Of Youth and Ignorance; both my Revenge and Hate King. Take her by the hand. And tell her she is thine: To whom I promise Ber. I take her hand. King. Good Fortune, and the Favour of the King Manent Parolles and Lafeu. Laf. Do you hear, Monfieur? a word with you. [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. 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. |