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SCENE changes to the Court of France. Flourish Cornets. Enter the King of France with letters, and divers Attendants.


HE Florentines and Senoys are by th' ears; Have fought with equal fortune, and continue A braving war.

1 Lord. So 'tis reported, Sir.

King. Nay, 'tis moft credible; we here receive it, A certainty vouch'd from our coufin Austria; With caution, that the Florentine will move us For fpeedy aid; wherein our dearest friend Prejudicates the bufinefs, and would feem To have us make denial.

1 Lord. His love and wisdom,

Approv'd fo to your Majefty, may plead
For ample credence.

King. He hath arm'd our answer;
And Florence is deny'd, before he comes:
Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to fee
The Tuscan fervice, freely have they leave
To fland on either part.

2 Lord. It may well ferve

A nursery to our gentry, who are fick
For breathing and exploit.

King. What's he comes here?

Enter Bertram, Lafeu and Parolles.

1 Lord. It is the Count Roufillon, my good Lord, Young Bertram.

King. Youth, thou bear'ft thy father's face. Frank nature, rather curious than in hafte,

Hath well compos'd thee. Thy father's moral parts May't thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.

Ber. My thanks and duty are your Majefty's. King. I would, I had that corporal foundness now, As when thy father and myself in friendship Firft try'd our foldierfhip: he did look far Into the fervice of the time, and was Difcipled of the brav'ft. He lafted long;


But on us both did haggish age steal on,
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me
To talk of your good father; in his youth
He had the wit, which I can well obferve
To day in our young Lords; but they may jeft,
Till their own fcorn return to them unnoted,
Ere they can hide their levity in honour :
So like a courtier, no contempt or bitterness (4)
Were in him; pride or sharpness, if there were,
His equal had awak'd them; and his honour,
Clock to itfelf, knew the true minute when
Exceptions bid him fpeak; and at that time
His tongue obey'd his hand. Who were below him
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 praife he humbled: Such a man
Might be a copy to these younger times;

Which, follow'd well, would now demonftrate them
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.

King. Would, I were with him! he would always fay, (Methinks, I hear him now; his plaufive words He fcatter'd not-in ears, but grafted them

To grow there and to bear ;) Let me not live,(Thus his good melancholy oft began,

On the catastrophe and heel of paftime,

14) So like a courtier, no contempt or bitterness

Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,
His equal bad awak'd them.-]

This paffage feems fo very incorrectly pointed, that the author's meaning is loft in the carelessness. As the text and ftops are reform'd, these are moft beautiful lines, and the fenfe this. He

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had no contempt or bitterness; if he had any thing that look'd like pride or fharpnes, (of which qualities contempt and bitterness are "the exceffes,) his equal had awaked them, not his inferior; to whom he feorn'd to difcover any thing that bore the fhadow of "pride or fharpness. Mr. Warburton.


When it was out,) let me not live, (quoth he,)
After my flame lacks oil; to be the fnuff
Of younger fpirits, whofe apprehenfive fenfes
All but new things difdain; whofe judgments are
Mere fathers of their garments; whofe conftancies
Expire before their fashions :-this he wish'd.
I, after him, do after him wish too,

(Since I nor wax, nor honey, can bring home,)
I quickly were diffolved from my hive,
To give fome labourers room.

2 Lord. You're loved, Sir;

They, that leaft lend it

you, fhall lack you firft. King. I fill a place, I know't. How long is't, Count, Since the phyfician at your father's died?

He was much fam'd.

Ber. Some fix months, fince, my Lord.

King. If he were living, I would try him yet;—
Lend me an arm ;-the reft have worn me out
With feveral applications; nature and fickness
Debate it at their leifure. Welcome, Count,
My fon's no dearer.

Ber. Thank your Majefty.

[Flourish, Exeunt.

SCENE changes to the Countefs's at Rousillon, Enter Countefs, Steward and Clown.



Will now hear; what fay 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; (5) for then we wound our modefty, and

(5) For then we wound our modefty, and make foul the clearness of our defervings, when of ourselves we publish them.] This fentiment our author has again inculcated in his Troilus and Creffida.

The worthinefs of praise distains his worth,

If he, that's prais'd, himself bring the praise forth.

I won't pretend, that Shakespeare is here treading in the steps of Afchylus; but that poet has fomething in his Agamemnon, which might very well be a foundation to what our author has advanced in both thefe paffages.

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and make foul the clearness of our defervings, when of ourselves we publish them.

Count. What does this knave here? get you gone, firrah: the complaints, I have heard of you, I do not all believe; 'tis my flowness that I do not, for, I know, you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make fuch knaveries yours.

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

Count. Well, Sir.

Clo. No, Madam; 'tis not fo well that I am poor, tho' many of the rich are damn'd; but if I have your Ladyfhip's good will to go to the world, bel the woman and I will do as we may.

Count. Wilt thou needs be a beggar?

Clo. I do beg your good will in this cafe.
Count. In what cafe?

Clo. In Ibel's cafe, and mine own; fervice is no heritage, and, I think, I fhall never have the bleffing of God, 'till I have iffue o' my body; for they say, bearns are bleffings.

Count. Tell me thy reafon why thou wilt marry.

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 reafons, fuch 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, fooner than thy wickedness. Clo. I am out of friends, Madam, and I hope to have friends for my wife's fake.

Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

· ἀλλ ̓ ἐναισίμως

Αἰνεῖν, παρ ̓ ἄλλων χρὴ τόδ' ἔρχεσθαι γέρας.
But to be prais'd with honour, is a tribute
That must be paid us from another's tongue.


Clo. Y'are fhallow, Madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am weary of; he, that eares my land, fpares my team, and gives me leave to inne the crop; if I be his cuckold, he's my drudge; he, that comforts my wife, is the cherifher of my flesh and blood; he, that cherisheth my flesh and blood, loves my flesh and blood; he, that loves my flesh and blood, is my friend: ergo, he, that kiffes 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 Poyfam the papift, howfoe'er their hearts are fever'd in religion, their heads are both one; they may joul horns together, like any deer i' th' herd.

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

Clo. A prophet, I, Madam; and I fpeak the truth the next way;

"For I the ballad will repeat, which men full true "fhall find;

"Your marriage comes by deftiny, your cuckow fings "by kind.

Count. Get you gone, Sir, I'll talk with you more


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 caufe, quoth fhe, (6)

[Singing. Why


(6) Was this fair face the caufe, quoth fbe, Why the Grecians fucked froy? Was this King Priam's joy?] As the ftanza, that follows, is in alternate rhyme, and as a rhyme is here wanting to fe in the 1ft verfe; 'tis evident, the 3d line is wanting. The old folio's give us a part of it; but how to fupply the lot part, was the queftion. Mr. Rowe has given us the fragment honeftly, as he found it: but Mr. Pope, rather than to feem founder'd, has funk it upon us.-I communicated to my ingenious friend Mr. Warburten how I found the paffage in the old books,

[Fond done, done, fond,

Was this King Priam's joy?]


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