All’s Well That Ends Well

so, farewell. Exit. Helena

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky
Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.
What power is it which mounts my love so high,
That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?
The mightiest space in fortune nature brings
To join like likes and kiss like native things.
Impossible be strange attempts to those
That weigh their pains in sense and do suppose
What hath been cannot be: who ever strove
So show her merit, that did miss her love?
The king’s disease⁠—my project may deceive me,
But my intents are fix’d and will not leave me. Exit.

Scene II

Paris. The King’s palace.

	Flourish of cornets. Enter the King of France, with letters, and divers Attendants.
King	The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears; Have fought with equal fortune and continue A braving war.
First Lord	So ’tis reported, sir.
King	Nay, ’tis most credible; we here receive it A certainty, vouch’d from our cousin Austria, With caution that the Florentine will move us For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend Prejudicates the business and would seem To have us make denial.
First Lord	His love and wisdom, Approved so to your majesty, may plead For amplest credence.
King	He hath arm’d our answer, And Florence is denied before he comes: Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see The Tuscan service, freely have they leave To stand on either part.
Second Lord	It well may serve A nursery to our gentry, who are sick For breathing and exploit.
King	What’s he comes here?
	Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles.
First Lord	It is the Count Rousillon, my good lord, Young Bertram.
King	Youth, thou bear’st thy father’s face; Frank nature, rather curious than in haste, Hath well composed thee. Thy father’s moral parts Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.
Bertram	My thanks and duty are your majesty’s.
King	I would I had that corporal soundness now, As when thy father and myself in friendship First tried our soldiership! He did look far Into the service of the time and was Discipled of the bravest: he lasted long; But on us both did haggish age steal on And wore us out of act. It much repairs me To talk of your good father. In his youth He had the wit which I can well observe To-day in our young lords; but they may jest Till their own scorn return to them unnoted Ere they can hide their levity in honour: So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were, His equal had awaked them, and his honour, Clock to itself, knew the true minute when Exception bid him speak, and at this time His tongue obey’d his hand: who were below him He used as creatures of another place And bow’d his eminent top to their low ranks, Making them proud of his humility, In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man Might be a copy to these younger times; Which, follow’d well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward.
Bertram	His good remembrance, sir, Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb; So in approof lives not his epitaph As in your royal speech.
King	Would I were with him! He would always say⁠— Methinks I hear him now; his plausive words He scatter’d not in ears, but grafted them, To grow there and to bear⁠—“Let me not live,”⁠— This his good melancholy oft began, On the catastrophe and heel of pastime, When it was out⁠—“Let me not live,” quoth he, “After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses All but new things disdain; whose judgments are Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies Expire before their fashions.” This he wish’d; I after him do after him wish too, Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home, I quickly were dissolved from my hive, To give some labourers room.
Second Lord	You are loved, sir; They that least lend it you shall lack you first.
King	I fill a place, I know’t. How long is’t, count, Since the physician at your father’s died? He was much famed.
Bertram	Some six months since, my lord.
King	If he were living, I would try him yet. Lend me an arm; the rest have worn me out With several applications: nature and sickness Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count; My son’s no dearer.
Bertram	Thank your majesty. Exeunt. Flourish.

Scene III

Rousillon. The Count’s palace.

	Enter Countess, Steward, and Clown.
Countess	I will now hear; what say you of this gentlewoman?
Steward	Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.
Countess	What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah: the complaints I have heard of you I do not all believe: ’tis my slowness that I do not; for I know you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours.
Clown	’Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.
Countess	Well, sir.
Clown	No, madam, ’tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damned: but, if I may have your ladyship’s good will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.
Countess	Wilt thou needs be a beggar?
Clown	I do beg your good will in this case.
Countess	In what case?
Clown	In Isbel’s case and mine own. Service is no heritage: and I think I shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue o’ my body; for they say barnes are blessings.
Countess	Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.
Clown	My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives.
Countess	Is this all your worship’s reason?
Clown	Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons such as they are.
Countess	May the world know them?
Clown	I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry that I may repent.
Countess	Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.
Clown	I