All's Well That Ends Well — Act 1, Scene 3

COUNTESS

I will now hear; what say you of this gentlewoman?

Steward

Madam, the care I have had to even your content, Iwish might be found in the calendar of my pastendeavours; for then we wound our modesty and makefoul the clearness of our deservings, when ofourselves we publish them.

COUNTESS

What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah:the complaints I have heard of you I do not allbelieve: 'tis my slowness that I do not; for I knowyou lack not folly to commit them, and have abilityenough to make such knaveries yours.

Clown

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

COUNTESS

Well, sir.

Clown

No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, thoughmany of the rich are damned: but, if I may haveyour ladyship's good will to go to the world, Isbelthe woman and I will do as we may.

COUNTESS

Wilt thou needs be a beggar?

Clown

I do beg your good will in this case.

COUNTESS

In what case?

Clown

In Isbel's case and mine own. Service is noheritage: and I think I shall never have theblessing of God till I have issue o' my body; forthey say barnes are blessings.

COUNTESS

Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.

Clown

My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven onby the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives.

COUNTESS

Is this all your worship's reason?

Clown

Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons such as theyare.

COUNTESS

May the world know them?

Clown

I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you andall flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marrythat I may repent.

COUNTESS

Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.

Clown

I am out o' friends, madam; and I hope to havefriends for my wife's sake.

COUNTESS

Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

Clown

You're shallow, madam, in great friends; for theknaves come to do that for me which I am aweary of.He that ears my land spares my team and gives meleave to in the crop; if I be his cuckold, he's mydrudge: he that comforts my wife is the cherisherof my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my fleshand blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves myflesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kissesmy wife is my friend. If men could be contented tobe what they are, there were no fear in marriage;for young Charbon the Puritan and old Poysam thePapist, howsome'er their hearts are severed inreligion, their heads are both one; they may jowlhorns together, like any deer i' the herd.

COUNTESS

Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave?

Clown

A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the nextway:For I the ballad will repeat,Which men full true shall find;Your marriage comes by destiny,Your cuckoo sings by kind.

COUNTESS

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

Steward

May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come toyou: of her I am to speak.

COUNTESS

Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her;Helen, I mean.

Clown

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.

COUNTESS

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

Clown

One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifyingo' the song: would God would serve the world so allthe year! we'ld find no fault with the tithe-woman,if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth a'! An wemight have a good woman born but one every blazingstar, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lotterywell: a man may draw his heart out, ere a' pluckone.

COUNTESS

You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you.

Clown

That man should be at woman's command, and yet nohurt done! Though honesty be no puritan, yet itwill do no hurt; it will wear the surplice ofhumility over the black gown of a big heart. I amgoing, forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither.

COUNTESS

Well, now.

Steward

I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.

COUNTESS

Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to me; andshe herself, without other advantage, may lawfullymake title to as much love as she finds: there ismore owing her than is paid; and more shall be paidher than she'll demand.

Steward

Madam, I was very late more near her than I thinkshe wished me: alone she was, and did communicateto herself her own words to her own ears; shethought, I dare vow for her, they touched not anystranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son:Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had putsuch difference betwixt their two estates; Love nogod, that would not extend his might, only wherequalities were level; Dian no queen of virgins, thatwould suffer her poor knight surprised, withoutrescue in the first assault or ransom afterward.This she delivered in the most bitter touch ofsorrow that e'er I heard virgin exclaim in: which Iheld my duty speedily to acquaint you withal;sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concernsyou something to know it.

COUNTESS

You have discharged this honestly; keep it toyourself: many likelihoods informed me of thisbefore, which hung so tottering in the balance thatI could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you,leave me: stall this in your bosom; and I thank youfor your honest care: I will speak with you further anon.

COUNTESS

Even so it was with me when I was young:If ever we are nature's, these are ours; this thornDoth to our rose of youth rightly belong;Our blood to us, this to our blood is born;It is the show and seal of nature's truth,Where love's strong passion is impress'd in youth:By our remembrances of days foregone,Such were our faults, or then we thought them none.Her eye is sick on't: I observe her now.

HELENA

What is your pleasure, madam?

COUNTESS

You know, Helen,I am a mother to you.

HELENA

Mine honourable mistress.

COUNTESS

Nay, a mother:Why not a mother? When I said 'a mother,'Methought you saw a serpent: what's in 'mother,'That you start at it? I say, I am your mother;And put you in the catalogue of thoseThat were enwombed mine: 'tis often seenAdoption strives with nature and choice breedsA native slip to us from foreign seeds:You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan,Yet I express to you a mother's care:God's mercy, maiden! does it curd thy bloodTo say I am thy mother? What's the matter,That this distemper'd messenger of wet,The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye?Why? that you are my daughter?

HELENA

That I am not.

COUNTESS

I say, I am your mother.

HELENA

Pardon, madam;The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:I am from humble, he from honour'd name;No note upon my parents, his all noble:My master, my dear lord he is; and IHis servant live, and will his vassal die:He must not be my brother.

COUNTESS

Nor I your mother?

HELENA

You are my mother, madam; would you were,--So that my lord your son were not my brother,--Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers,I care no more for than I do for heaven,So I were not his sister. Can't no other,But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?

COUNTESS

Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law:God shield you mean it not! daughter and motherSo strive upon your pulse. What, pale again?My fear hath catch'd your fondness: now I seeThe mystery of your loneliness, and findYour salt tears' head: now to all sense 'tis grossYou love my son; invention is ashamed,Against the proclamation of thy passion,To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true;But tell me then, 'tis so; for, look thy cheeksConfess it, th' one to th' other; and thine eyesSee it so grossly shown in thy behaviorsThat in their kind they speak it: only sinAnd hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,That truth should be suspected. Speak, is't so?If it be so, you have wound a goodly clew;If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,Tell me truly.

HELENA

Good madam, pardon me!

COUNTESS

Do you love my son?

HELENA

Your pardon, noble mistress!

COUNTESS

Love you my son?

HELENA

Do not you love him, madam?

COUNTESS

Go not about; my love hath in't a bond,Whereof the world takes note: come, come, discloseThe state of your affection; for your passionsHave to the full appeach'd.

HELENA

Then, I confess,Here on my knee, before high heaven and you,That before you, and next unto high heaven,I love your son.My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love:Be not offended; for it hurts not himThat he is loved of me: I follow him notBy any token of presumptuous suit;Nor would I have him till I do deserve him;Yet never know how that desert should be.I know I love in vain, strive against hope;Yet in this captious and intenible sieveI still pour in the waters of my loveAnd lack not to lose still: thus, Indian-like,Religious in mine error, I adoreThe sun, that looks upon his worshipper,But knows of him no more. My dearest madam,Let not your hate encounter with my loveFor loving where you do: but if yourself,Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,Did ever in so true a flame of likingWish chastely and love dearly, that your DianWas both herself and love: O, then, give pityTo her, whose state is such that cannot chooseBut lend and give where she is sure to lose;That seeks not to find that her search implies,But riddle-like lives sweetly where she dies!

COUNTESS

Had you not lately an intent,--speak truly,--To go to Paris?

HELENA

Madam, I had.

COUNTESS

Wherefore? tell true.

HELENA

I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.You know my father left me some prescriptionsOf rare and proved effects, such as his readingAnd manifest experience had collectedFor general sovereignty; and that he will'd meIn heedfull'st reservation to bestow them,As notes whose faculties inclusive wereMore than they were in note: amongst the rest,There is a remedy, approved, set down,To cure the desperate languishings whereofThe king is render'd lost.

COUNTESS

This was your motiveFor Paris, was it? speak.

HELENA

My lord your son made me to think of this;Else Paris and the medicine and the kingHad from the conversation of my thoughtsHaply been absent then.

COUNTESS

But think you, Helen,If you should tender your supposed aid,He would receive it? he and his physiciansAre of a mind; he, that they cannot help him,They, that they cannot help: how shall they creditA poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,Embowell'd of their doctrine, have left offThe danger to itself?

HELENA

There's something in't,More than my father's skill, which was the greatestOf his profession, that his good receiptShall for my legacy be sanctifiedBy the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your honourBut give me leave to try success, I'ld ventureThe well-lost life of mine on his grace's cureBy such a day and hour.

COUNTESS

Dost thou believe't?

HELENA

Ay, madam, knowingly.

COUNTESS

Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love,Means and attendants and my loving greetingsTo those of mine in court: I'll stay at homeAnd pray God's blessing into thy attempt:Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this,What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss.