Clo. Why, he will look upon his boot, and fing; mend the ruff, and fing; afk queftions, and fing; pick his teeth, and fing: I know a man that had this trick of melancholy, fold a goodly manor for a song. Count. Let me fee what he writes, and when he means to come. Clo. I have no mind to Ifbel, fince I was at court: our old ling and our Ifbels o'the country, are nothing like your old ling and your Ifbels o'the court: the brain of my Cupid's knock'd out; and I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach. Count. What have we here? Clo. E'en that you have there. Countess reads a letter. [Exit. I have fent you a daughter-in-law: he hath recovered the king, and undone me. I have wedded her, not bedded ber; and fworn to make the not eternal. You shall hear, I am run away; know it, before the report come. If there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you. Your unfortunate fon, This is not well, rash and unbridled boy, Re-enter Clown. BERTRAM. Clo. O madam, yonder is heavy news within, between two foldiers and my young lady. Count. What is the matter? Clo. Nay, there is fome comfort in the news, fome com fmend the ruff,]-adjuft his cravat. with no ftomach.]-to enjoy it. fort; fort; your fon will not be kill'd so soon as I thought he would. Count. Why should he be kill'd? Clo. So fay I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does the danger is in ftanding to't; that's the lofs of men, though it be the getting of children. Here they come, will tell you more: for my part, I only hear, your fon was run away. Enter Helena, and two gentlemen. I Gen. Save you, good madam. Hel. Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone. 2 Gen. Do not say so. Count. Think upon patience. men, -'Pray you, gentle I have felt fo many quirks of joy, and grief, Can woman me unto't:-Where is my fon, I pray you? 2 Gen. Madam, he's gone to ferve the duke of Florence: We met him thitherward; for thence we came, And, after fome difpatch in hand at court, Thither we bend again. Hel. Look on this letter, madam; here's my paffport. When thou canst get the ring upon my finger, which never fball come off, and shew me a child begotten of thy body, that I am father to, then call me bufband: but in fuch a Then I write a Never. This is a dreadful fentence. Count. Brought you this letter, gentlemen? 1 Gen. Ay, madam ; And, for the contents' fake, are forry for our pains. 1 Can woman me unto't :]-Produce in me fuch fudden emotions, as are usual in our sex. VOL. II. E e If If thou engroffeft all the griefs' as thine, And thou art all my child.-Towards Florence is he? 2 Gen. Ay, madam. Count. And to be a foldier? 2 Gen. Such is his noble purpose: and, believe't, The duke will lay upon him all the honour That good convenience claims. Count. Return you thither? 1 Gen. Ay, madam, with the swifteft wing of fpeed. Hel. 'Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France. 'Tis bitter. Count. Find you that there? Hel. Ay, madam. [Reading. 1 Gen. 'Tis but the boldness of his hand, haply, which His heart was not confenting to. Count. Nothing in France, until he have no wife! That twenty fuch rude boys might tend upon, Count. Parolles, was't not? I Gen. Ay, my good lady, he. Count. A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness : My fon corrupts a well-derived nature With his inducement. 1 Gen. Indeed, good lady, The fellow has a deal of that, too much, i are. k of that, too much, which holds him much to have.]-Of that villainy, which ftands him in good stead-of that ignorance, which judges him to have much in him. Which holds him much to have. Count. You are welcome, gentlemen. 2 Gen. We serve you, madam, In that and all your worthiest affairs. Count. 'Not fo, but as we change our courtefies. Thou shalt have none, Roufillon, none in France, Of the none-sparing war? and is it I That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou I met the ravin lion when he roar'd With fharp constraint of hunger; better 'twere, Not fo, but as we change our courtefies.]-No further than our mutual civilities may extend. m ftill-piecing]-clofing after feperation. E ez Were Were mine at once: No, come thou home, Roufillon; My being here it is, that holds thee hence That pitiful rumour may report my flight, [Exit. Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Bertram, drum and trumpets, foldiers, &c. Duke. The general of our horse thou art; and we, Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence, Upon thy promising fortune. Ber. Sir,, it is A charge too heavy for my strength; but yet Duke. Then go forth; And fortune play upon thy profperous helm, Ber. This very day, Great Mars, I put myself into thy file: Make me but like my thoughts; and I fhall prove A lover of thy drum, hater of love. [Exeunt. n Whence, &c.]-From the wars, that abode of danger, where the fairest trophy of honour is a scar, it's frequent fortune, death. SCENE |