And these breed honour: That is honour's fcorn,
Which challenges itself as honour's born,
And is not like the fire. Honours beft thrive,
When rather from our acts we them derive
Than our fore-goers: the mere word's a llave
Debaucht on every tomb, on every grave ;
A lying trophy ; (14) and as oft is dumb,
Where dust and damn'd oblivion is the tomb
Of honour'd bones, indeed. What should be said ?
If thou can'st like this creature as a maid,
I can create the rest: virtue and she,
Is her own dow'r; honour and wealth from me.

Ber. I cannot love her, nor will strive to do't.
King. Thou wrongʻit thyself, if thou should's strive

to chuse. Hel. That you are well restor’d, my lord, I'm glad : Let the rest

go.
King. (15) My honour's at the stake ; which to defend,
I must produce my power. Here, take her hand,
Proud (cornful boy, unworthy this good gift!
That doft in vile misprision shackle

up
My love, and her desert; that canft not dream,
We, poizing us in her defective scale,
Shall weigh thee to the beam ; that wilt not know,
It is in us to plant thine honour, where

(14)

and as oft is dumb,
Where Dust and damn'd Oblivion is the Tomb.

of honour'd Bones, indeed, what should be said?] This is such pretty Stuff, indeed, as is only worthy of its accurate Editors! The Transposition of an innocent Stop, or two, is a Task above their Diligence : especially, if common Sense is. to be the Result of it. The Regulation, I have given, must Atrike every Reader so at first Glance, that it needs not a Word in Confirmation, (15) My Honour's at the Stake; which to defeat

I must produce my Pow'r.] The poor King of France is again made a Man of Gotham, by our unmerciful Editors: What they make him say, is mere mock-realoning: For he is not to make use of his Authority to defeat, but to defend, his Honour,

We

and our

We please to have it grow. Check thy contempt :
Obey our will, which travels in thy good;
Believe not thy disdain, but presently
Do thine own fortunes that obedient right,
Which both thy duty owes, power claims ;
Or I will throw thee from my care for ever
Into the staggers, and the careless lapse
Of youth and ignorance ; my revenge and hate
Loosing upon thee in the name of justice,
Without all terms of pity. Speak, thine answer.

Ber. Pardon, my gracious Lord ; for I submit
My fancy to your eyes. When I consider,
What great creation, and what dole of honour
Flies where you bid ; I find, that she, which late
Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now
The praised of the King; who, so enobled,
Is, as 'twere, born so.

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

Ber. I take her hand.

King. Good fortune, and the favour of the King
Smile upon this contract ; whose ceremony
Shall seem expedient on the new-born brief,
And be perform'd to night; the folemn feast
Shall more attend upon the coming space,
Expecting absent friends. As thou lov'st her,
Thy love's to me religious ; else does err. [Exeunt.

Manent Parolles and Lafeu.
Laf. Do you hear, 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. Ay, is it not a language I speak ?

Par. A moft harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody fucceeding. My master? Laf. Are you companion to the Count Roufillon?

Par.

man.

Par. To any Count ; to all Counts ; to what is

Laf. To what is Count's man ; Count's master is of another ftile.

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 title

age cannot bring thee. Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do.

Laf. I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty wise fellow

thou didst make tolerable vent of thy travel; it might pass; yet the scarfs and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from believing thee a vessel of too great a burthen. I have now found thee ; when I lose thee again, I care not : yet art thou good for nothing but taking up, and that thou'rt scarce worth.

Par. Hadft thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee

Laf. Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, left thou haften thy tryal ; which if,

Lord have mercy on thee for a hen ! so, my good window of lattice, fare thee well ; thy casement I need not open, I look thro' thee. Give me thy hand.

Par. My Lord, you give me most egregious indignity.

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

Par. I have not, my Lord, deserv'd it.

Laf. Yes, good faith, ev'ry dram of it; and I will not 'bate thee a scruple.

Par. Well, I shall be wiser

Laf. Ev'n as soon as thou can'ít, for thou hast to pull at a smack o'th' contrary. If ever thou beeft bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to hold 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.

Laf. I would, it were hell-pains for thy fake, and my poor doing eternal : for doing, I am paft ; as I will by thee, in what motion age will give me leave.

[Exit. Par. Well, thou hast a fon shall take this disgrace off me; fcurvy, old, filthy, scurvy Lord ! well, I muft be patient, there is no fettering of authority. I'll beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with any conveni. ence, an he were double and double a Lord. I'll have no more pity of his age, than I would have of -I'l beat him, an if I could but meet him again.

Re-enter Lafeu. Laf. Sirrah, your Lord and Master's married, there's news for you : you have a new mistress.

Par. I most unfeignedly beseech your Lordship to make some reservation of your wrongs. He, my good Lord, whom I serve above, is my master.

Laf. Who? God?
Par. Ay, Sir.

Laf. The devil it is, that's thy master. Why doft thou garter up thy arms o'this fashion ? doft make hose of thy sleeves ? do other servants so? thou wert beft set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine honour, if I were but two hours younger, I'd beat thee : methinks, thou art a general offence, and every man should beat thee. I think, thou wast created for men to breathe themselves upon thee.

Par. This is hard and undeserved measure, my Lord.

Laf. Go to, Sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking å kernel out of a pomegranate ; you are a vagabond, and no true traveller: you are more fawcy with lords and honourable personages, than the commission of your birth and virtue gives you heraldry. You are not worth another word, elfe I'd call you knave. I leave you.

[Exit. Enter Bertram. Par. Good, very good, it is so then. --- Good, very good, let it be conceaid a while.

Ber,

Ber. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!
Par. What is the matter, fweet heart?

Ber. Although before the folemn Priest I've sworn, I will not bed her.

Par. What? what, sweet heart?
Ber. O my Parolles, they have married me:
I'll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.

Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits the tread of a man's foot: to th' wars.

Ber. There's letters from my mother ; what the import is, I know not yet.

Par. Ay, that would be known: to th' wars, my
boy, to th' wars.
He wears his honour in a box, unseen,
That hugs his kicksy-wickly here at home ;
Spending his manly marrow in her arms,
Which should sustain the bound and high curvet
Of Mars's fiery steed: to other regions
France is a stable, we that dwell in't jades,
Therefore to th' war.

Ber. It shall be so, I'll send her to my house,
Acquaint my mother with my hate to her,
And wherefore I am fed ; write to the King
That which I durft not speak. His present gift
Shall furnish me to those Italian fields,

Where noble fellows strike. War is no ftrife * To the dark house, and the detested wife.

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

Ber. Go with me to my chamber, and advise me. I'll send her straight away : to-morrow I'll to the wars, the to her single sorrow. Par. Why, these balls bound, there's noise in it.

'Tis hard ; A

young man, married, is a man that's marr'd: Therefore away, and leave her bravely ; go, The King has done you wrong: but, hush ! 'tis fo.

[Exeunt.

Enter