Shakespeare's First Folio Part 207

King. My Honor's at the stake, which to defeate I must produce my power. Heere, take her hand, Proud scornfull boy, vnworthie this good gift, That dost in vile misprision shackle vp My loue, and her desert: that canst not dreame, We poizing vs in her defectiue scale, Shall weigh thee to the beame: That wilt not know, It is in Vs to plant thine Honour, where We please to haue it grow. Checke thy contempt: Obey Our will, which trauailes in thy good: Beleeue not thy disdaine, but presentlie Do thine owne fortunes that obedient right Which both thy dutie owes, and Our power claimes, Or I will throw thee from my care for euer Into the staggers, and the carelesse lapse Of youth and ignorance: both my reuenge and hate Loosing vpon thee, in the name of iustice, Without all termes of pittie. Speake, thine answer

Ber. Pardon my gracious Lord: for I submit My fancie to your eies, when I consider What great creation, and what dole of honour Flies where you bid it: I finde that she which late Was in my n.o.bler thoughts, most base: is now The praised of the King, who so enn.o.bled, Is as 'twere borne so

King. Take her by the hand, And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise A counterpoize: If not to thy estate, A ballance more repleat

Ber. I take her hand

Kin. Good fortune, and the fauour of the King Smile vpon this Contract: whose Ceremonie Shall seeme expedient on the now borne briefe, And be perform'd to night: the solemne Feast Shall more attend vpon the coming s.p.a.ce, Expecting absent friends. As thou lou'st her, Thy loue's to me Religious: else, do's erre.

Exeunt.

Parolles and Lafew stay behind, commenting of this wedding.

Laf. Do you heare Monsieur? A word with you

Par. Your pleasure sir

Laf. Your Lord and Master did well to make his recantation

Par. Recantation? My Lord? my Master?

Laf. I: Is it not a Language I speake?

Par. A most harsh one, and not to bee vnderstoode without bloudie succeeding. My Master?

Laf. Are you Companion to the Count Rosillion?

Par. To any Count, to all Counts: to what is man

Laf. To what is Counts man: Counts maister is of another stile

Par. You are too old sir: Let it satisfie you, you are too old

Laf. I must tell thee sirrah, I write Man: to which t.i.tle age cannot bring thee

Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do

Laf. I did thinke thee for two ordinaries: to bee a prettie wise fellow, thou didst make tollerable vent of thy trauell, it might pa.s.se: yet the scarffes and the bannerets about thee, did manifoldlie disswade me from beleeuing thee a vessell of too great a burthen. I haue now found thee, when I loose thee againe, I care not: yet art thou good for nothing but taking vp, and that th'ourt scarce worth

Par. Hadst thou not the priuiledge of Antiquity vpon thee

Laf. Do not plundge thy selfe to farre in anger, least thou hasten thy triall: which if, Lord haue mercie on thee for a hen, so my good window of Lettice fare thee well, thy cas.e.m.e.nt I neede not open, for I look through thee. Giue me thy hand

Par. My Lord, you giue me most egregious indignity

Laf. I with all my heart, and thou art worthy of it

Par. I haue not my Lord deseru'd it

Laf. Yes good faith, eu'ry dramme of it, and I will not bate thee a scruple

Par. Well, I shall be wiser

Laf. Eu'n as soone as thou can'st, for thou hast to pull at a smacke a'th contrarie. If euer thou bee'st bound in thy skarfe and beaten, thou shall finde what it is to be proud of thy bondage, I haue a desire to holde my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default, he is a man I know

Par. My Lord you do me most insupportable vexation

Laf. I would it were h.e.l.l paines for thy sake, and my poore doing eternall: for doing I am past, as I will by thee, in what motion age will giue me leaue.

Enter.

Par. Well, thou hast a sonne shall take this disgrace off me; scuruy, old, filthy, scuruy Lord: Well, I must be patient, there is no fettering of authority. Ile beate him (by my life) if I can meete him with any conuenience, and he were double and double a Lord. Ile haue no more pittie of his age then I would haue of- Ile beate him, and if I could but meet him agen.

Enter Lafew.

Laf. Sirra, your Lord and masters married, there's newes for you: you haue a new Mistris

Par. I most vnfainedly beseech your Lordshippe to make some reseruation of your wrongs. He is my good Lord, whom I serue aboue is my master

Laf. Who? G.o.d

Par. I sir

Laf. The deuill it is, that's thy master. Why dooest thou garter vp thy armes a this fashion? Dost make hose of thy sleeues? Do other seruants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine Honor, if I were but two houres yonger, I'de beate thee: mee-think'st thou art a generall offence, and euery man shold beate thee: I thinke thou wast created for men to breath themselues vpon thee

Par. This is hard and vndeserued measure my Lord

Laf. Go too sir, you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernell out of a Pomgranat, you are a vagabond, and no true traueller: you are more sawcie with Lordes and honourable personages, then the Commission of your birth and vertue giues you Heraldry. You are not worth another word, else I'de call you knaue. I leaue you.

Exit

Enter Count Rossillion.

Par. Good, very good, it is so then: good, very good, let it be conceal'd awhile

Ros. Vndone, and forfeited to cares for euer

Par. What's the matter sweet-heart?

Rossill. Although before the solemne Priest I haue sworne, I will not bed her

Par. What? what sweet heart?

Ros. O my Parrolles, they haue married me: Ile to the Tuscan warres, and neuer bed her

Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits, The tread of a mans foot: too'th warres

Ros. There's letters from my mother: What th' import is, I know not yet

Par. I that would be knowne: too'th warrs my boy, too'th warres: He weares his honor in a boxe vnseene, That hugges his kickie wickie heare at home, Spending his manlie marrow in her armes Which should sustaine the bound and high curuet Of Ma.r.s.es fierie steed: to other Regions, France is a stable, wee that dwell in't Iades, Therefore too'th warre

Ros. It shall be so, Ile send her to my house, Acquaint my mother with my hate to her, And wherefore I am fled: Write to the King That which I durst not speake. His present gift Shall furnish me to those Italian fields Where n.o.ble fellowes strike: Warres is no strife To the darke house, and the detected wife

Par. Will this Caprichio hold in thee, art sure?

Ros. Go with me to my chamber, and aduice me.

Ile send her straight away: To morrow, Ile to the warres, she to her single sorrow