Dramatis Perfonæ.

KING of France.

Duke of Florence.

Bertram, Count of Roufillon.

Lafeu, an old Lord.

Parolles, a parafitical follower of Bertram; a coward, but

vain, and a great pretender to valour.

Several young French Lords, that ferve with Bertram in

Steward,

Clown,

the Florentine war.

Countess of Roufillon, mother to Bertram:

Helena daughter to Gerard de Narbon, a famous phy

fician, some time fince dead.

An old widow of Florence.

Diana, daughter to the widow.

Violenta,

Mariana,

} Neighbours, and friends to the widow:

Lords, attending on the King; Officers, Soldiers, &c.

SCENE lies partly in France; and, partly in Tuscany.

ALL'S Well, that ENDS Well.

ACT

I.

SCENE, the Countess of Rousillon's House,

in France.

Enter Bertram, the Countess of Roufillon, Helena> and Lafeu, all in Mourning.

I

COUNTESS.

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

Ber. 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.

Laf. 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; (1) whose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted, rather than flack it where there is such abundance.

(1) whose Worthiness would ftir it up where it wanted, rather than lack it where there is fuch Abundance.] An Oppofition of Terms is visibly design'd in this Sentence; tho' the Opposition is not so visible, as the Terms now stand. Wanted and Abundance are the Opposites to one another; but how is lack a Contraft to ftir up? The Addition of a single Letter gives it, and the very Sense requires it. Mr. Warburton. Count.

A 3

Count. What hope is there of his Majesty's amend

ment ?

Laf. He hath abandon'd his physicians, Madam, under whose practices he hath persecuted time with hope; and finds no other advantage in the process, but only the lofing of hope by time.

Count. This young gentlewoman had a father, (O, that had! how fad a passage 'tis !) whose skill was almost as great as his honesty; had it stretch'd so far, it would have made nature immortal, and death should have play'd for lack of work. 'Would, for the King's fake, he were living! I think, it would be the death of the King's disease.

Laf. How call'd you the man you speak of, Madam? Count. He was famous, Sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon.

Laf. He was excellent, indeed, Madam; the King very lately spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly: he was skilful enough to have liv'd still, if knowledge could be fet up against mortality.

Ber. What is it, my good lord, the King languishes

of?

Laf. A fistula, my lord.
Ber. I heard not of it before.

Laf. I would, it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon ?

Count. His fole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good, that her education promises her; disposition she inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity, they are virtues and traitors too: in her they are the better for their simpleness; she derives her honesty, and atchieves her goodness.

Laf. Your commendations, Madam, get from her

tears.

Count. 'Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father never approaches her heart, but the tyranny of her forrows takes

all i

all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena, go to, no more; lest it be rather thought you affect a forrow, than to have it.

Hel. I do affect a forrow, indeed, but I have it too. Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

Count. (2) If the living be not enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal.

Ber. Madam, I desire your holy wishes.
Laf. How understand we that?

Count. Be thou blest, Bertram, and fucceed thy fa

ther

In manners as in shape! thy blood and virtue
Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness
Share with thy birth right! Love all, truft a few,
Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy
Rather in power, than use; and keep thy friend
Under thy own life's key: be check'd for filence,
But never tax'd for speech. What heav'n more will,
That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck down,
Fall on thy head! Farewel, my lord;
'Tis an unseason'd courtier, good my lord,
Advise him.

Laf. He cannot want the best,

That shall attend his love.

Count. Heav'n bless him! Farewel, Bertram.

[Exit Countess. Ber. [to Hel.] The best wishes, that can be forg'd in your thoughts, be servants to you! Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her.

Laf. Farewel, pretty lady, you must hold the credit of your father. [Exeunt Bertram and Lafeu.

(2) If the living be Enemy to the Grief, the Excess makes it foon mortal.] This seems very obscure; but the Addition of a Negative perfectly dispels all the Mist. If the Living be not Enemy, &c. Excessive Grief is an Enemy to the Living, says Lafeu: Yes, replies the Countess; and if the Living be not Enemy to the Grief, (i. e, strive to conquer it, the Excess makes it foon mortal. Mr. Warburton.

Hel. Oh, were that all! I think not on my
father;
And thefe 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 it, but my Bertram's.
I am undone; there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one,
That I should love a bright partic'lar 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.
Th' ambition in my love thus plagues itself;
The hind, that would be mated by the lion,
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, tho' a plague,
To see him every hour; to fit 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 fsweet favour! |
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relicks. Who comes here?

Enter Parolles.

One, that goes with him: I love him for his fake,
And yet I know him a notorious liar;
Think him a great way fool, folely a coward;
Yet these fix'd evils fit fo fit in him,
That they take place, when virtue's steely bones
Look bleak in the cold wind; full oft we fee
Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
Par. Save you, fair Queen.

Hel. And you, Monarch.

Par. No.

Hel. And, no.

Par. Are you meditating on virginity?

Hel. Ay: you have some stain of foldier in you; let

me ask you a question. Man is enemy to virginity, how

may we barricado it against him?

Par. Keep him out.

Hel. But he affails; and our virginity, tho' valiant,