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ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

THE present text is based upon that of the First Folio, no earlier edition having been found. This lack of an early quarto is the more to be regretted, since the corruptions of the existing text are unusually frequent and hopeless.

There is no certain external evidence of date. In Meres's list there occurs the title Love's Labour's Won, which on the whole fits this play better than it fits any other. The only serious rival is The Taming of the Shrew, in which, though Petruchio wins Katherine as the result of his labors, the labors are hardly to be called love's. On the other hand, Helena's efforts and success stand in sufficiently clear contrast to the ineffectiveness of the King and his lords in Love's Labour's Lost to give point to the parallelism in title. This identification would place the play before 1598; and there are parts of the play, notably the rimed passages, which suggest Shakespeare's earliest manner in comedy. As against this, there is much which points to a later date. The subtlety of the psychology, especially in the heroine, the frequency of passages of condensed expression, and the general sombreness of tone, all tend to associate the play with the productions of the early years of the seventeenth century. Such resemblances, however, as that between the Countess's advice to Bertram (1. i. 73–79) and Polonius's maxims to Laertes, and that between the devices resorted to by Helena and by Mariana in Measure for Measure, however interesting, are of little force in arguing questions of date. In view of these two sets of considerations, it is plausibly conjectured that Shakespeare may have written an early play with the title or sub-title of Love's Labour's Won, and have re-cast it in his maturity. It is to be observed that this implies a much more thorough re-writing than Love's Labour's Lost, for example, was subjected to; so that, on this hypothesis, the play as we have it belongs rather to the period about 1602 than to the early nineties of the sixteenth century.

The source of the main plot is the ninth Novel of the third Day of Boccaccio's Decameron, a story which was most probably known to Shakespeare in the translation by Painter in his Palace of Pleasure (1566). The chief features of this tale are indicated in the argument prefixed by Painter: "Giletta, a Phisicians doughter of Narbon, healed the Frenche Kyng of a Fistula, for reward wherof she demaunded Beltramo Count of Rossiglione to husband. The Counte beyng maried againste his will, for despite fled to Florence and loved an other. Giletta his wife, by pollicie founde meanes to lye with her husbande, in place of his lover; and was begotten with child of twoo soonnes: whiche knowen to her husbande, he received her againe, and afterwardes she lived in great honor and felicitie." To the characters involved here Shakespeare added the Countess, Lafeu, the clown, the steward, and Parolles; but the most essential change made by him was in the interpretation of the character of the heroine. The Countess and Lafeu, delightful and individual as they are in themselves, are dramatically important mainly for the effect produced on us by their warm appreciation of Helena. To render sympathetic a character playing such a rôle as Helena's was exceedingly difficult, and it is achieved by Shakespeare by an insistence on her poverty (Boccaccio makes her rich), her humility, and the pathos of a passion more fatal than wilful. Parolles, besides affording occasion for the low comedy scenes at the French court and in the Florentine camp- all of which are of Shakespeare's invention - helps to define the character of Bertram. The weakness of the hero implied in this undiscriminating association with a worthless braggart, and his boggling and lying in the elaborate dénouement created by Shakespeare in v. iii., result in a degradation of his character which, if meant to throw our sympathy by contrast on Helena, comes perilously near overshooting the mark.

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Laf. A fistula, my lord.

Ber. I heard not of it before.

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

Count. His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that her education pro- [45 mises. Her dispositions 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 [50 their simpleness: she derives her honesty and achieves her goodness.

Laf. Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.

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

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Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few,

Do wrong to none. Be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use, and keep thy friend 75 Under thy own life's key. Be check'd for silence,

But never tax'd for speech. What Heaven more will,

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Than those I shed for him. What was he like?
I have forgot him. My imagination
Carries no favour in 't but Bertram's.
I am undone! There is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. 'T were all one
That I should love a bright particular 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.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself.
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. 'T was pretty, though a
plague,

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To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls, 105
In our heart's table; heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour.
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his reliques. Who comes here?
Enter PAROLLES.

[Aside.] One that goes with him. I love him for his sake;

And yet I know him a notorious liar,
Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;
Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him,

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Hel. Bless our poor virginity from under miners and blowers up! Is there no military policy, how virgins might blow up men?

Par. Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be blown up. Marry, in blowing him down again, with the breach yourselves [ made, you lose your city. It is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational increase, and there was never virgin got till virginity wa first lost. That you were made of is metal [10 to make virgins. Virginity by being once lost may be ten times found; by being ever kept, it is ever lost. 'Tis too cold a companion; away with 't!

Hel. I will stand for 't a little, though therefore I die a virgin.

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He

Par. There's little can be said in 't; 't is against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity is to accuse your mothers, which is most infallible disobedience. that hangs himself is a virgin. Virginity [1 murders itself, and should be buried in highways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese; consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his [1 own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but lose by 't. Out with 't! Within ten year it will make itself two, which is a goodly increase, and the principal itself [160 not much the worse. Away with 't!

Hel. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?

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Par. Let me see. Marry, ill, to like him that ne'er it likes. "T is a commodity will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less worth. Off with 't while 't is vendibe; answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashon; richly suited, but unsuitable, —just like the [1:8 brooch and the tooth-pick, which wear not Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek; and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French wither'd pears, it looks ill, it eats drily; [175 marry, 't is a wither'd pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet 't is a wither'd pear. Will you anything with it?

now.

Hel. Not my virginity yet

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There shall your master have a thousand loves,
A mother and a mistress and a friend,
A phoenix, captain, and an enemy,
A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,
A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear;
His humble ambition, proud humility,
His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet,
His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world
Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms,
That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he
I know not what he shall. God send him well! 190
The court's a learning place, and he is one
Par. What one, i' faith?

Hel. That I wish well. 'Tis pity -
Par. What's pity?

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Hel. So is running away, when fear proposes the safety. But the composition that your valour and fear makes in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well.

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Par. I am so full of businesses, I cannot answer thee acutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the which, my instruction shall serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier's counsel and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance [225 makes thee away. Farewell! When thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember thy friends. Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee. So, farewell. [Exit.] 230

Hel. 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,

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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
To show her merit, that did miss her love?
The King's disease-my project may deceive

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Have fought with equal fortune, and continue
A braving war.
1. Lord.
So 't is reported, sir.
King. Nay, 'tis most credible. We here re-
ceive it

A certainty, vouch'd from our cousin Austria, s
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.
1. Lord.
His love and wisdom,
Approv'd 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.

2. Lord.

It well may serve A nursery to our gentry, who are sick For breathing and exploit.

:King.

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What's he comes here?

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As when thy father and myself in friendship 25
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 30
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 awak'd 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

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He us'd 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 45
Might be a copy to these younger times;
Which, followed well, would demonstrate them

now

But goers backward.

Ber.

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.

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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,

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Thus his good melancholy oft began, On the catastrophe and heel of pastime, When it was out, "Let me not live,'

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quoth

he, "After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses All but new things disdain; whose judgements

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You 're 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? 70 He was much fam'd.

Ber.

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; 75
My son 's no dearer.
Ber.

Thank your Majesty.
[Exeunt. Flourish.

[SCENE III. Rousillon. The Count's palace.] Enter COUNTESS, STEWARD, and CLOWN. Count. I will now hear. What say you of this gentlewoman?

Stew. 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.

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Count. 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.

13

Clo. 'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.

Count. Well, sir.

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Clo. I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry that I may repent.

Count. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.

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Clo. I am out o' friends, madam; and I hope to have friends for my wife's sake. Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

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Clo. Y' are shallow, madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me which Í am aweary of. He that ears my land spares my team and gives me leave to in the crop. If I be his cuckold, he 's my drudge. He that comforts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh and blood [50 loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my flesh and blood is my friend; ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage; for young Charbon the [5 puritan and old Poysam the papist, howsome'er their hearts are sever'd in religion, their heads are both one; they may joyl horns together, like any deer i' the herd.

Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth'd and calumnious knave?

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Clo. A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way:

"For I the ballad will repeat,

Which men full true shall find:
Your marriage comes by destiny,
Your cuckoo sings by kind."

Count. Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you

more anon.

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Stew. May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you. Of her I am to speak. Count. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; Helen, I mean. Clo. [Sings.]

"Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,
Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
Fond done, done fond,

Was this King Priam's joy?
With that she sighed as she stood,
With that she sighed as she stood,

And gave this sentence then;
Among nine bad if one be good,
Among nine bad if one be good,
There's yet one good in ten.'

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Count. What, one good in ten? You corrupt the song, sirrah.

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Clo. One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying o' the song. Would God would serve the world so all the year! We'd find

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