Go thou toward home; where I will never come,
Whilst I can shake my sword, or hear the drum.—
Away, and for our flight.

Par.

Bravely, coragio! [Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I. Florence.

Palace.

A Room in the Duke's Flourish.

Enter the Duke of Florence, attended; two French Lords, and others.

Duke. So that, from point to point, now have you heard

The fundamental reasons of this war;

Whose great decision hath much blood let forth,

And more thirsts after.

Would, in so just a business, shut his bosom

Against our borrowing prayers.

2 Lord.

Good my lord,

2

The reasons of our state I cannot yield,1
But like a common and an outward man,
That the great figure of a council frames
By self-unable motion; therefore dare not
Say what I think of it; since I have found

1 i. e. explain.

3

2 One not in the secret of affairs; so inward in a contrary sense. 3 Warburton and Upton are of opinion that we should read, "By selfunable notion."

Myself in my uncertain grounds to fail
As often as I guessed.

Duke.

Be it his pleasure.

2 Lord. But I am sure, the younger of our nature,1 That surfeit on their ease, will, day by day,

Come here for physic.

Duke.

Welcome shall they be;

And all the honors, that can fly from us,

Shall on them settle. You know your places well;
When better fall, for your avails they fell.

To-morrow to the field.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

SCENE II. Rousillon. A Room in the Countess's

Palace.

Enter Countess and Clown.

Count. It hath happened all as I would have had it, save that he comes not along with her.

Clo. By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very melancholy man.

Count. By what observance, I pray you?

Clo. Why, he will look upon his boot, and sing; mend the ruff, and sing; ask questions, and sing; pick his teeth, and sing. I know a man that had this trick of melancholy, sold a goodly manor for a song.

Count. Let me see what he writes, and when he means to come. [Opening a letter.

Clo. I have no mind to Isbel, since I was at court; our old ling and our Isbels o' the country are nothing like your old ling and your Isbels o'the court. The brains of my Cupid's knocked out; and I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach. Count. What have we here? Clo. E'en that you have there.

1 As we say at present, our young fellows.

[Exit.

2 The tops of the boots, in Shakspeare's time, turned down, and hung loosely over the leg. The folding part, or top, was the ruff. It was of softer leather than the boot, and often fringed.

Count. [Reads.] I have sent you a daughter-in-law: she hath recovered the king, and undone me. I have wedded her, not bedded her; and sworn to make the not eternal. You shall hear I am run away; know it, before the report come. If there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you.

Your unfortunate son,

This is not well, rash and unbridled boy,
To fly the favors of so good a king;
To pluck his indignation on thy head,
By the misprizing of a maid too virtuous
For the contempt of empire.

Re-enter Clown.

BERTRAM.

Clo. O madam, yonder is heavy news within, between two soldiers and my young lady.

Count. What is the matter?

Clo. Nay, there is some comfort in the news; some comfort; your son will not be killed so soon as I thought he would.

Count. Why should he be killed?

Clo. So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does. The danger is in standing to't; that's the loss of men, though it be the getting of children. Here they come will tell you more; for my part, I only hear your son was run away. [Exit Clown.

Enter HELENA and two Gentlemen.

1 Gent. Save you, good madam.

Hel. Madam, my lord is gone, forever gone. 2 Gent. Do not say so.

Count. Think upon patience.-'Pray you, gentle

men,

I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief,
That the first face of neither, on the start,

Can woman me unto't.—Where is my son, I pray you? 2 Gent. Madam, he's gone to serve the duke of Florence.

We met him thitherward; from thence we came,
And, after some despatch in hand at court,

Thither we bend again.

Hel. Look on his letter, madam; here's my passport.

[Reads.] When thou canst get the ring upon my finger which never shall come off, and show me a child begotten of thy body, that I am father to, then call me husband; but in such a then I write a

never.

This is a dreadful sentence !

Count. Brought you this letter, gentlemen?

1 Gent. Ay, madam; And, for the contents' sake, are sorry for our pains.

Count. I pr'ythee, lady, have a better cheer;

If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,1
Thou robb'st me of a moiety. He was my son;
But I do wash his name out of my blood,

And thou art all my child.-Towards Florence is he? 2 Gent. Ay, madam.

Count.

And to be a soldier?

2 Gent. Such is his noble purpose; and, believe't, The duke will lay upon him all the honor

That good convenience claims.

Count.

Return you thither?

1 Gent. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of

speed.

Hel. [Reads.] Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.

'Tis bitter!

Count. Find you that there?

Hel.

Ay, madam.

1 Gent. 'Tis but the boldness of his hand, haply,

which

His heart was not consenting to.

Count. Nothing in France, until he have no wife! There's nothing here that is too good for him, But only she; and she deserves a lord

1 An elliptical expression for "all the griefs that are thine."

That twenty such rude boys might tend upon,
And call her, hourly, mistress. Who was with him?
1 Gent. A servant only, and a gentleman
Which I have some time known.

Count.

1 Gent. Ay, my good lady, he.

Parolles, was't not?

Count. A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.

My son corrupts a well-derived nature

With his inducement.

1 Gent.

Indeed, good lady,

The fellow has a deal of that, too much,
Which holds him much to have.1

Count. You are welcome, gentlemen.
I will entreat you, when you see my son,
To tell him that his sword can never win
The honor that he loses. More I'll entreat you
Written to bear along.

2 Gent.

We serve you, madam, In that and all your worthiest affairs.

Count. Not so, but as we change our courtesies. Will you draw near?

[Exeunt Countess and Gentlemen. Hel. Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France. Nothing in France, until he has no wife!

Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France;

Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is't I

That chase thee from thy country, and expose
Those tender limbs of thine to the event

Of the none-sparing war? And is it I

That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark
Of smoky muskets? Ŏ you leaden messengers,
That ride upon the violent speed of fire,
Fly with false aim; move the still-peering air,
That sings with piercing, do not touch my lord!

1 This passage as it stands is very obscure; something appears to be omitted after much. Warburton interprets it, "That his vices stand him in stead of virtues."

2 The countess answers-no otherwise than as she returns the same offices of civility.