All’s Well That Ends Well

Rousillon. The Count’s palace.

Enter Bertram, the Countess of Rousillon, Helena, and Lafeu, all in black.

Countess

In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.

Bertram

And I in going, madam, weep o’er my father’s death anew: but I must attend his majesty’s command, to whom I am now in ward, evermore in subjection.

Lafeu

You shall find of the king a husband, madam; you, sir, a father: he that so generally is at all times good must of necessity hold his virtue to you; whose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted rather than lack it where there is such abundance.

Countess

What hope is there of his majesty’s amendment?

Lafeu

He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; under whose practices he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other advantage in the process but only the losing of hope by time.

Countess

This young gentlewoman had a father⁠—O, that “had”! how sad a passage ’tis!⁠—whose skill was almost as great as his honesty; had it stretched so far, would have made nature immortal, and death should have play for lack of work. Would, for the king’s sake, he were living! I think it would be the death of the king’s disease.

Lafeu

How called you the man you speak of, madam?

Countess

Helena

O, were that all! I think not on my father; And these great tears grace his remembrance more Than those I shed for him. What was he like? I have forgot him: my imagination Carries no favour in’t but Bertram’s. I am undone: there is no living, none, If Bertram be away. ’Twere all one That I should love a bright particular star And think to wed it, he is so above me: In his bright radiance and collateral light Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. The ambition in my love thus plagues itself: The hind that would be mated by the lion Must die for love. ’Twas pretty, though a plague, To see him every hour; to sit and draw His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls, In our heart’s table; heart too capable Of every line and trick of his sweet favour: But now he’s gone, and my idolatrous fancy Must sanctify his relics. Who comes here?

Enter Parolles.

Aside. One that goes with him: I love him for his sake; And yet I know him a notorious liar, Think him a great way fool, solely a coward; Yet these fixed evils sit so fit in him, That they take place, when virtue’s steely bones Look bleak i’ the cold wind: withal, full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.

Steward

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; Dian no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight 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.

Countess

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.

Even so it was with me when I was young: If ever we are nature’s, these are ours; this thorn Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong; 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.

Helena

To Bertram. I dare not say I take you; but I give Me and my service, ever whilst I live, Into your guiding power. This is the man.

King

Why, then, young Bertram, take her; she’s thy wife.

Bertram

My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your highness, In such a business give me leave to use The help of mine own eyes.

King

Know’st thou not, Bertram, What she has done for me?

Bertram

Yes, my good lord; But never hope to know why I should marry her.

King

Thou know’st she has raised me from my sickly bed.

Bertram

But follows it, my lord, to bring me down Must answer for your raising? I know her well: She had her breeding at my father’s charge. A poor physician’s daughter my wife! Disdain Rather corrupt me ever!

What, what, sweet-heart?

Bertram

O my Parolles, they have married me! I’ll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.

Parolles

France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits The tread of a man’s foot: to the wars!

Bertram

There’s letters from my mother: what the import is, I know not yet.

Parolles

Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my boy, to the wars! He wears his honour in a box unseen, That hugs his kicky-wicky here at home, Spending his manly marrow in her arms, Which should sustain the bound and high curvet Of Mars’s fiery steed. To other regions France is a stable; we that dwell in’t jades; Therefore, to the war!

Bertram

It shall be so: I’ll send her to my house, Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, And wherefore I am fled; write to the king That which I durst not speak; his present gift Shall furnish me to those Italian fields, Where noble fellows strike: war is no strife To the dark house and the detested wife.

Parolles