(WRITTEN ABOUT 1602.) INTRODUCTION. Among the plays or Shakespeare mentioned by Meres in his Palladis Tamia (lbs) occurs the name of Love's Labour's Won. This has been identified by some critics with The Taming of the Shrew and by others with Much Ado About Nothing; but the weight of authority inclines to the opinion that under this title Meres spoke of the play known to us as All's Well that Ends Well. It seems not improbable that All's Well, as we possess it in the First Folio-and no earlier edition exists-is a rehandling, very thoroughly carried out, of an earlier version of this comedy. Coleridge believed that two styles were discernible in it; and there is certainly a larger proportion of rhyming lines in it than in any other play written after the year 1600. It is, however, far from certain that any portion of the play is of early origin, and assigning conjecturally the date about 1602 as that of the completion of the whole, we may view it as belonging to the later group of the second cycle of Shakespeare's comedies, not so early, therefore, as Twelfth Night or As You Like It, and certainly earlier than Measure for Measure. The story of Helena and Bertram was found by Shakespeare in Paynter's Palace of Pleasure (1566), Paynter having translated it from the Decameron of Boccacio (Novel 9, Third day). Shakespeare added the characters of the Countess, Lafeu, Parolles, and the Clown. What interested the poet's imagination in Boccacio's story was evidently the position and person of the heroine. In Boccacio, Giletta, the physician's daughter, is inferior in rank to the young Count, Beltramo, but she is rich. Shakespeare's Helena is of humbler birth than his Bertram, and she is also poor. Yet poor, and comparatively low-born, she aspires to be the young Count's wife, she pursues him to Paris and wins him against his will. To show Helena thus re versing in a measure the ordinary relations of man and woman, and yet to show her neither selfseeking nor unwomanly, was the task which the dramatist attempted. On the one hand he insists much on Bertram's youth, and gives him the faults and vices of youth, making the reader or spectator of the play feel that his hero has great need of such a finely-empered, right-willed and loyal nature to stand by his side as that of Helena. On the other hand he shows us Helena's enthusiastic attachment to Bertram, her fears and cares on his behalf, her adhesion to him rather than to herself, when her husband seems to set their interests in opposition to one another, until we come to feel that the imperious need which makes Helena overstep social conventions is the need of perfect service to the man she loves. Bertram's beauty and courage must bear part of the blame for Helena's loving him better than he deserves. With the youthful desire for independence which makes him break away from her, she can intelligently sympathize. In the last Act she appearswhen he has entangled himself in falsehood and shame-to save him, and rescue him from his baser self. We feel that when he has at last really found Helena, he is safe, and all ends well. Parolles, the incarnation of bragging meanness, is the counterfoil of Helena-she, the doer of virtuous deeds; he, the utterer of vain and swelling words; she, all brave womanliness; he, too cowardly for manhood. Parolles has been compared to Falstaff, but they ought rather to be contrasted; for Sir John is a man of genius, with real wit and power of fascination, and no ridicule can destroy him, but the exposure of Parolles makes him dwindle into his native pitifulness. The Countess is a charming creation of Shakespeare; in no play, unless it be some of his latest romantic dramas, is old age made more beautiful and dignified. ACT I. SCENE I. Rousillon. The COUNT's palace. Enter BERTRAM, the COUNTESS of ROUSILLON, HELENA, and LAFEU, all in black. Count. In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband. Ber. And I in going, madam, weep c'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; whose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted rather than lack it where there is such abundance. Count. What hope is there of his majesty's amendment? Laf. He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; under whose practices he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other advantage in the process but only the losing of hope by time. Count. This young gentlewoman had a father, O, that had' how sad a passage 'tis !-whose skill was almost as great as his honesty; had it stretched so far, would have made nature immortal, and death should have play for lack of work. Would, for the king's sake, he were living! I think it would be the death of the king's disease. Laf. How called 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. 31 Laf. He was excellent indeed, madam: the king very lately spoke of him admiringly and mourningly he was skilful enough to have lived still, if knowledge could be set 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 sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that her education promises; 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 their simpleness; she derives her honesty and achieves her good her cheek. No more of this, Helena; go to, no more; lest it be rather thought you affect a sorrow than have it. 61 Hel. I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too. Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living. Count. If the living be 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 succeed thy father 70 In manners, as in shape! thy blood and virtuo 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 Under thy own life's key: be But never tax'd for speech. more will, [lence, check'd for siWhat heaven [down, That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck Laf. He cannot want the best Count. Heaven bless him! Farewell, Berttram. [Exit. Ber. [To Helena] the best wishes that can be forged in your thoughts be servants to you! Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her. Laf. Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the credit of your father. [Exeunt Bertram and Lafeu. Hel. O, were that all! I think not on my father; 90 And these great tears grace his remembrance more Than those I shed for him. What was he like? I have forgot him: my imagination Carries no favor in't but Bertram's. I am undone there is no living, none, If Bertram be away. 'Twere 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. 'Twas pretty, though a plague, 100 To see him every hour; to sit and draw [Aside] One that goes with him: I love him for his sake; 110 Hel. But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant, in the defence yet is weak: unfold to us some warlike resistance. Par. There is none: man, sitting down before you, will undermine you and blow you up. 130 Hel. Bless our poor virginity from underminers 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 was first lost. That you were made of is metal 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. Par. There's little can be said in 't; 'tis against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity, is to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin virginity 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 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 loose by't: out with 't! within ten year it will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase; and the principal itself not much the worse: away with 't! Hel. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking? Par. Let me see: marry, ill, to like him that ne'er it likes. "Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less worth off with 't while 'tis vendible; answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion : richly suited, but insuitable: just like the brooch and the tooth-pick, which wear not now. 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 withered pears, it looks ill, it eats drily; marry, 'tis a withered pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet 'tis a withered pear: will you anything with it? Hel. Not my virginity yet.... There shall your master have a thousand loves. Hel. That I wish well. 'Tis pity- Hel. That wishing well had not a body in't, Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born, Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends, And show what we alone must think, which [fight. Par. Why think you so? Hel. So is running away, when fear proposes the safety; but the composition that your valor and fear makes in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well. 219 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 capa ble of a courtier's counsel and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thon diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away: 1arewell. When thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember thy friends; get thee a good husband, and use him he uses thee; 80, farewell SCENE II. Paris. The KING's palace. Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING OF FRANCE, with letters, and divers Attendants. King. The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears; Have fought with equal fortune and continue A braving war. First Lord. So 'tis reported, sir. King. Nay, 'tis most credible; we here receive it A certainty, vouch'd from our cousin Austria, First Lord. 10 His love and wisdom, Approved 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. Sec. Lord. It well may serve A nursery to our gentry, who are sick For breathing and exploit. King. What's he comes here? Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES. First Lord. It is the Count Rousillon, my good lord, Young Bertram. But on us both did haggish age steal on He used as creatures of another place In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man Might be a copy to these younger times; Which, follow'd well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward. Ber. His good remenbrance, sir, Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb; So in approof lives not his epitaph 50 As in your royal speech. King. Would I were with him! He would always say Methinks I hear him now; his plausive words ments are 59 This his good melancholy oft began, Sec. Lord. Since the physician at your father's died? 70 He was much famed. 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 Thank your majesty. SCENE III. Rousillon. The COUNT's palace. Stew. Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my past endeavors; for then we wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them. 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. Clo. 'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow. Count. Well, sir. Clo. In Isbel's case and mine own. Service is no heritage and I think I shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue o' my body; for they say barnes are blessings. [marry Count. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt Clo. My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives. Count. Is this all your worship's reason? Clo. Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are. Count. May the world know them? 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. 41 and I Clo. I am out o' friends, madam hope to have friends for my wife's sake. Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave. Clo. You're shallow, madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me which I 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 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 Puritan and old Poysam the Papist, howsome'er their hearts are severed in religion, their heads are both one; they may joul horns together, like any deer i' the herd. Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave? 61 Clo. A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way: For I the ballad will repeat, Your marriage comes by destiny, Your cuckoo sings by kind. Count. Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you more anon. 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. Was this fair face the cause, quoth she, Was this King Priam's joy? And gave this sentence then ; 80 Count. What, one good in ten? you corrupt the song, sirrah. 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'ld find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth a'! An we might have a good woman born but one every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well: a man may draw his heart out, ere a' pluck one. Count. You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you. Clo. That man should be at woman's command, and yet no hurt done! Though honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither. [Exit. Count. Well, now. Stew. I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely. Count. Faith, I do her father bequeathed her to me; and she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds: there is more owing her than is paid; and more shall be paid her than she'll demand. Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son: Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no god, that would not extend his might, only where qualities were level; Dian no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surprised, without rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. This she delivered in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e'er I heard virgin exclaim in: which I held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it. Count. You have discharged this honestly; |