The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare (moboreader .TXT) 📕

HELENA. Then I confess,

Here on my knee, before high heaven and you, That before you, and next unto high heaven, I love your son.

My friends were poor, but honest; so’s my love.

Be not offended, for it hurts not him That he is lov’d of me; I follow him not By any token of presumptuous suit,

Nor would I have him till I do deserve him; Yet never know how that desert should be.

I know I love in vain, strive against hope; Yet in this captious and intenible sieve I still pour in the waters of my love, And lack not to lose still. Thus, Indian-like, Religious in mine error, I adore

The sun that looks upon his worshipper 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!

COUNTESS. Had you not lately an intent-speak truly-To go to Paris?

HELENA. Madam, I had.

COUNTESS. Wherefore? Tell true.

HELENA. I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.

You know my father left me some prescriptions Of rare and prov’d effects, such as his reading And manifest experience had collected For general sovereignty; and that he will’d me In heedfull’st reservation to bestow them, As notes whose faculties inclusive were More than they were in note. Amongst the rest There is a remedy, approv’d, set down, To cure the desperate languishings whereof The King is render’d lost.

COUNTESS. This was your motive

For Paris, was it? Speak.

HELENA. My lord your son made me to think of this, Else Paris, and the medicine, and the King, Had from the conversation of my thoughts Haply been absent then.

COUNTESS. But think you, Helen,

If you should tender your supposed aid, He would receive it? He and his physicians Are of a mind: he, that they cannot help him; They, that they cannot help. How shall they credit A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools, Embowell’d of their doctrine, have let off The danger to itself?

HELENA. There’s something in’t

More than my father’s skill, which was the great’st Of his profession, that his good receipt Shall for my legacy be sanctified

By th’ luckiest stars in heaven; and, would your honour But give me leave to try success, I’d venture The well-lost life of mine on his Grace’s cure.

By such a day and hour.

COUNTESS. Dost thou believe’t?

HELENA. Ay, madam, knowingly.

COUNTESS. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love, Means and attendants, and my loving greetings To those of mine in court. I’ll stay at home, And pray God’s blessing into thy attempt.

Be gone tomorrow; and be sure of this, What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss. Exeunt <<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM

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ACT II. SCENE 1.

Paris. The KING’S palace

Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING with divers young LORDS taking leave for the Florentine war; BERTRAM and PAROLLES; ATTENDANTS

KING. Farewell, young lords; these warlike principles Do not throw from you. And you, my lords, farewell; Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all, The gift doth stretch itself as ‘tis receiv’d, And is enough for both.

FIRST LORD. ‘Tis our hope, sir,

After well-ent’red soldiers, to return And find your Grace in health.

KING. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart Will not confess he owes the malady

That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords; Whether I live or die, be you the sons Of worthy Frenchmen; let higher Italy-Those bated that inherit but the fall Of the last monarchy-see that you come Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek, That fame may cry you aloud. I say farewell.

SECOND LORD. Health, at your bidding, serve your Majesty!

KING. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them; They say our French lack language to deny, If they demand; beware of being captives Before you serve.

BOTH. Our hearts receive your warnings.

KING. Farewell. [To ATTENDANTS] Come hither to me.

The KING retires attended FIRST LORD. O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us!

PAROLLES. ‘Tis not his fault, the spark.

SECOND LORD. O, ‘tis brave wars!

PAROLLES. Most admirable! I have seen those wars.

BERTRAM. I am commanded here and kept a coil with ‘Too young’ and next year’ and “Tis too early.’

PAROLLES. An thy mind stand to ‘t, boy, steal away bravely.

BERTRAM. I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock, Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry, Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn But one to dance with. By heaven, I’ll steal away.

FIRST LORD. There’s honour in the theft.

PAROLLES. Commit it, Count.

SECOND LORD. I am your accessary; and so farewell.

BERTRAM. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortur’d body.

FIRST LORD. Farewell, Captain.

SECOND LORD. Sweet Monsieur Parolles!

PAROLLES. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good metals: you shall find in the regiment of the Spinii one Captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here on his sinister cheek; it was this very sword entrench’d it. Say to him I live; and observe his reports for me.

FIRST LORD. We shall, noble Captain.

PAROLLES. Mars dote on you for his novices! Exeunt LORDS

What will ye do?

Re-enter the KING

BERTRAM. Stay; the King!

PAROLLES. Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have restrain’d yourself within the list of too cold an adieu. Be more expressive to them; for they wear themselves in the cap of the time; there do muster true gait; eat, speak, and move, under the influence of the most receiv’d star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed. After them, and take a more dilated farewell.

BERTRAM. And I will do so.

PAROLLES. Worthy fellows; and like to prove most sinewy sword-men.

Exeunt BERTRAM and PAROLLES

Enter LAFEU

LAFEU. [Kneeling] Pardon, my lord, for me and for my tidings.

KING. I’ll fee thee to stand up.

LAFEU. Then here’s a man stands that has brought his pardon.

I would you had kneel’d, my lord, to ask me mercy; And that at my bidding you could so stand up.

KING. I would I had; so I had broke thy pate, And ask’d thee mercy for’t.

LAFEU. Good faith, across!

But, my good lord, ‘tis thus: will you be cur’d Of your infirmity?

KING. No.

LAFEU. O, will you eat

No grapes, my royal fox? Yes, but you will My noble grapes, an if my royal fox

Could reach them: I have seen a medicine That’s able to breathe life into a stone, Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary With spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay, To give great Charlemain a pen in’s hand And write to her a loveline.

KING. What her is this?

LAFEU. Why, Doctor She! My lord, there’s one arriv’d, If you will see her. Now, by my faith and honour, If seriously I may convey my thoughts In this my light deliverance, I have spoke With one that in her sex, her years, profession, Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz’d me more Than I dare blame my weakness. Will you see her, For that is her demand, and know her business?

That done, laugh well at me.

KING. Now, good Lafeu,

Bring in the admiration, that we with the May spend our wonder too, or take off thine By wond’ring how thou took’st it.

LAFEU. Nay, I’ll fit you,

And not be all day neither. Exit LAFEU

KING. Thus he his special nothing ever prologues.

Re-enter LAFEU with HELENA LAFEU. Nay, come your ways.

KING. This haste hath wings indeed.

LAFEU. Nay, come your ways;

This is his Majesty; say your mind to him.

A traitor you do look like; but such traitors His Majesty seldom fears. I am Cressid’s uncle, That dare leave two together. Fare you well. Exit KING. Now, fair one, does your business follow us?

HELENA. Ay, my good lord.

Gerard de Narbon was my father,

In what he did profess, well found.

KING. I knew him.

HELENA. The rather will I spare my praises towards him; Knowing him is enough. On’s bed of death Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one, Which, as the dearest issue of his practice, And of his old experience th’ only darling, He bade me store up as a triple eye,

Safer than mine own two, more dear. I have so: And, hearing your high Majesty is touch’d With that malignant cause wherein the honour Of my dear father’s gift stands chief in power, I come to tender it, and my appliance, With all bound humbleness.

KING. We thank you, maiden;

But may not be so credulous of cure,

When our most learned doctors leave us, and The congregated college have concluded That labouring art can never ransom nature From her inaidable estate-I say we must not So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope, To prostitute our past-cure malady

To empirics; or to dissever so

Our great self and our credit to esteem A senseless help, when help past sense we deem.

HELENA. My duty then shall pay me for my pains.

I will no more enforce mine office on you; Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts A modest one to bear me back again.

KING. I cannot give thee less, to be call’d grateful.

Thou thought’st to help me; and such thanks I give As one near death to those that wish him live.

But what at full I know, thou know’st no part; I knowing all my peril, thou no art.

HELENA. What I can do can do no hurt to try, Since you set up your rest ‘gainst remedy.

He that of greatest works is finisher Oft does them by the weakest minister.

So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown, When judges have been babes. Great floods have flown From simple sources, and great seas have dried When miracles have by the greatest been denied.

Oft expectation fails, and most oft there Where most it promises; and oft it hits Where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.

KING. I must not hear thee. Fare thee well, kind maid; Thy pains, not us’d, must by thyself be paid; Proffers not took reap thanks for their reward.

HELENA. Inspired merit so by breath is barr’d.

It is not so with Him that all things knows, As ‘tis with us that square our guess by shows; But most it is presumption in us when The help of heaven we count the act of men.

Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent; Of heaven, not me, make an experiment.

I am not an impostor, that proclaim

Myself against the level of mine aim; But know I think, and think I know