All’s Well That Ends Well

stink, I will stop my nose; or against any man’s metaphor. Prithee, get thee further. Parolles Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper. Clown Foh! prithee, stand away: a paper from fortune’s close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look, here he comes himself. Enter Lafeu. Here is a purr of fortune’s, sir, or of fortune’s cat⁠—but not a musk-cat⁠—that has fallen into the unclean fishpond of her displeasure, and, as he says, is muddied withal: pray you, sir, use the carp as you may; for he looks like a poor, decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his distress in my similes of comfort and leave him to your lordship. Exit. Parolles My lord, I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratched. Lafeu And what would you have me to do? ’Tis too late to pare her nails now. Wherein have you played the knave with fortune, that she should scratch you, who of herself is a good lady and would not have knaves thrive long under her? There’s a quart d’écu for you: let the justices make you and fortune friends: I am for other business. Parolles I beseech your honour to hear me one single word. Lafeu You beg a single penny more: come, you shall ha’t; save your word. Parolles My name, my good lord, is Parolles. Lafeu You beg more than “word,” then. Cox my passion! give me your hand. How does your drum? Parolles O my good lord, you were the first that found me! Lafeu Was I, in sooth? and I was the first that lost thee. Parolles It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some grace, for you did bring me out. Lafeu Out upon thee, knave! dost thou put upon me at once both the office of God and the devil? One brings thee in grace and the other brings thee out. Trumpets sound. The king’s coming; I know by his trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me; I had talk of you last night: though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat; go to, follow. Parolles I praise God for you. Exeunt.

Scene III

Rousillon. The Count’s palace.

	Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafeu, the two French Lords, with Attendants.
King	We lost a jewel of her; and our esteem Was made much poorer by it: but your son, As mad in folly, lack’d the sense to know Her estimation home.
Countess	’Tis past, my liege; And I beseech your majesty to make it Natural rebellion, done i’ the blaze of youth; When oil and fire, too strong for reason’s force, O’erbears it and burns on.
King	My honour’d lady, I have forgiven and forgotten all; Though my revenges were high bent upon him, And watch’d the time to shoot.
Lafeu	This I must say, But first I beg my pardon, the young lord Did to his majesty, his mother and his lady Offence of mighty note; but to himself The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife Whose beauty did astonish the survey Of richest eyes, whose words all ears took captive, Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn’d to serve Humbly call’d mistress.
King	Praising what is lost Makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him hither; We are reconciled, and the first view shall kill All repetition: let him not ask our pardon; The nature of his great offence is dead, And deeper than oblivion we do bury The incensing relics of it: let him approach, A stranger, no offender; and inform him So ’tis our will he should.
Gentleman	I shall, my liege. Exit.
King	What says he to your daughter? have you spoke?
Lafeu	All that he is hath reference to your highness.
King	Then shall we have a match. I have letters sent me That set him high in fame.
	Enter Bertram.
Lafeu	He looks well on’t.
King	I am not a day of season, For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail In me at once: but to the brightest beams Distracted clouds give way; so stand thou forth; The time is fair again.
Bertram	My high-repented blames, Dear sovereign, pardon to me.
King	All is whole; Not one word more of the consumed time. Let’s take the instant by the forward top; For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time Steals ere we can effect them. You remember The daughter of this lord?
Bertram	Admiringly, my liege, at first I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart Durst make too bold a herald of my tongue Where the impression of mine eye infixing, Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me, Which warp’d the line of every other favour; Scorn’d a fair colour, or express’d it stolen; Extended or contracted all proportions To a most hideous object: thence it came That she whom all men praised and whom myself, Since I have lost, have loved, was in mine eye The dust that did offend it.
King	Well excused: That thou didst love her, strikes some scores away From the great compt: but love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offence, Crying, “That’s good that’s gone.” Our rash faults Make trivial price of serious things we have, Not knowing them until we know their grave: Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust, Destroy our friends and after weep their dust Our own love waking cries to see what’s done, While shame full late sleeps out the afternoon. Be this sweet Helen’s knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin: The main consents are had; and here we’ll stay To see our widower’s second marriage-day.
Countess	Which better than the first, O dear heaven, bless! Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cesse!
Lafeu	Come on, my son, in whom my house’s name Must be digested, give a favour from you To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, That she may quickly come. Bertram gives a ring. By my old beard, And every hair that’s on’t, Helen, that’s dead, Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this, The last that e’er I took her at court, I saw upon her finger.
Bertram	Hers it was not.
King	Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine eye, While I was speaking, oft was fasten’d to’t. This ring was