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 the Florentine war.

Steward, 2


Servants to the Countess of Roufillon.

Countess of Roufillon, mother to Bertram:

Helena daughter to Gerard de Narbon, a famous phyfician, fome time fince dead.

An old widow of Florence.

Diana, daughter to the widow.



} 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.

A C T I.

SCENE, the Countefs of Roufillon's House, in France.

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


N delivering my fon from me, I bury a fecond 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 fubjection.

Laf. You fhall find of the King a husband, Madam; you, Sir, a father. He, that fo generally is at all times good, muft of neceffity hold his virtue to you; (1) whofe worthiness would ftir it up where it wanted, rather than flack it where there is fuch abundance.

(1) whofe Wortbinefs would ftir it up where it wanted, rather than lack it where there is fuch Abundance.] An Opposition of Terms is visibly defign'd in this Sentence; tho' the Oppofition is not so visible, as the Terms now ftand. Wanted and Abundance are the Oppofites to one another; but how is lack a Contraft to flir up? The Addition of a fingle Letter gives it, and the very Senfe requires it. Mr. Warburton,

A 3


Count. What hope is there of his Majefty's amendment?

Laf. He hath abandon'd his phyficians, Madam, under whofe practices he hath perfecuted 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 bad! how fad a paffage 'tis !) whofe skill was almoft as great as his honefty; had it ftretch'd fo 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 profeffion, and it was his great right to be fo: 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 ftill, if knowledge could be fet up against mortality.

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

Laf. A fiftula, 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 thofe hopes of her good, that her education promifes her; difpofition fhe 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 fimpleness; she derives her honefty, and atchieves her goodness.

Laf. Your commendations, Madam, get from her


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


all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena, go to, no more; left 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, exceffive grief the enemy to the living.

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

Ber. Madam, I defire your holy wishes.

Laf. How understand we that?

Count. Be thou bleft, Bertram, and fucceed thy father

In manners as in fhape! 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 ufe; 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 unfeafon'd courtier, good my lord,
Advise him.

Laf He cannot want the best,

That fhall attend his love.

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

[Exit Counters. Ber. [to Hel.] The best wishes, that can be forg'd in your thoughts, be fervants to you! Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her. Laf. Farewel, pretty lady, you must hold the credit your father. [Exeunt Bertram and Lafeu.


(2) If the living be Enemy to the Grief, the Excefs makes it foon mortal.] This feems very obfcure; but the Addition of a Negative perfectly difpels all the Mift. If the Living be not Enemy, &c. Exceffive 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. ftrive to conquer it,] the Excefs makes it foon mortal. Mr. Warburton.

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Hel. Oh, were that all!


I think not on my

And thefe great tears grace his remembrance more,
Than thofe I fhed 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
Muft I be comforted, not in his fphere.
Th' ambition in my love thus plagues itself;
The hind, that would be mated by the lion,
Mult die for love. 'Twas pretty, tho' a plague,
To fee 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 fweet favour!
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Muft fanctify 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 fteely bones
Look bleak in the cold wind; full oft we fee
Cold wisdom waiting on fuperfluous 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 queftion. 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,

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