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Laf. Let us go see your son, I pray you; I long to talk with the young, noble soldier.
Clo. 'Faith, there's a dozen of 'em, with delicate, fine hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the head, and nod at every man.
SCENE I. Marseilles. A Street.
Enter HELENA, Widow, and DIANA, with two Attendants.
Hel. But this exceeding posting, day and night,
Enter a gentle Astringer.
Gent. And you.
Hel. I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen
What's your will ?
Gent. The king's not here.
Not here, sir ?
Lord, how we lose our pains !
Though time seems so adverse, and means unfit.-
Gent. Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon;
I do beseech you, sir,
This I'll do for you.
SCENE II. Rousillon. The inner Court of the Countess's
Enter Clown and PAROLLES. Par. Good monsieur Lavatch, give my lord Lafeu this letter. I have ere now, sir, been better known to you, when I have held familiarity with fresher clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in fortune's mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure.
Clo. Truly, fortune's displeasure is but sluttish, if it smell so strong as thou speakest of: I will henceforth eat no fish of fortune's buttering. Pr'ythee, allow the wind.
Par. Nay, you need not stop your nose, sir ; I spake but by a metaphor.
Clo. Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose; or against any man's metaphor. Pr'ythee, get thee further.
Par. Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper.
Clo. Foh, pr’ythee, stand away. A paper from fortune's close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look, here he comes himself.
Enter LAFEU. Here is a pur of fortune's, sir, or of fortune's cat, (but not a musk-cat,) that has fallen into the unclean fish-pond 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 smiles of comfort, and leave him to your lordship.
[Exit Clown. Par. My lord, I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratched.
Laf. 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'ecu for you. Let the justices make you and fortune friends; I am for other business.
Par. I beseech your honor to hear me one single word.
Laf. You beg a single penny more: come, you shall ha't. Save your word.
Par. My name, my good lord, is Parolles.
Laf. You beg more than one word then.—Cox' my passion! give me your hand. - How does your drum ?
Par. O my good lord, you were the first that found me. Laf. Was I, in sooth ? and I was the first that lost thee.
Par. It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some grace, for you did bring me out.
Laf. 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. Par. I praise God for you.
SCENE III. The same. A Room in the Countess's
Enter King, Countess, LAFEU, Lords, Gentlemen,
'Tis past, my liege:
My honored lady,
This I must say, —
Praising what is lost,
I shall, my liege.
[Erit Gentleman. King. What says he to your daughter? Hare you
spoke? Laf. 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.
He looks well on't.
My high-repented blames,
All is whole;
Ber. Admirably, my liege: at first
Where the impression of mine eye infixing,
Since I have lost, have loved, was in mine eye
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 shameful hate 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.
Count. Which better than the first, О dear Heaven, bless ! Or, ere they meet, in me, 0 nature, cease!
Laf. Come on, my son, in whom my house's name
Hers it was not.
My gracious sovereign, Howe'er it pleases you to take it so, The ring was never hers.