Dramatis Personæ.

KING of France.
Duke of Florence.
Bertram, Count of Rousillon.
Lafeu, an old Lord.
Parolles, a parasitical follower of Bertram ; a coward, but

vain, and a great pretender to valour. Several

young French Lords, that serve with Bertram in

the Florentine war. Steward,

Servants to the Countess of Rousillon. Clown,

Countess of Rousillon, mother to Bertram..
Helena, daughter to Gerard de Narbon, a famous pby.

fician, fome time since dead.
An old widow of Florence.
Diana, daughter to the widowa
Violenta,
Mariana,

} Neighbours, and friends to the widow.

Lords, attending on the King; Officers, Soldiers, &c.

SCEN E lies partly in France; and, partly in

Tuscany.

ALL's Well, that Ends Well.

A C Τ Ι. SCENE, The Countess of Rousillon's House

in France. Enter Bertram, the Countess of Rousillon, Helena,

and Lafeu, all in Mourning.

COUNTES s. N delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.

Ber. And I in going, Madam, weep o'er my father's death anew ; but I must attend his Majesty's command, to whom I am now in ward, evermore in sub

jection Laf. You shall find of the King a husband, Madam ; you, Sir, a father. He, that so generally is at all times good, muft of necessity hold his virtue to you ; (!) whole worthiness would itir it up where it wanted, rather than Nack it where there is such abundance.

(1) whose Worthiness would stir it up where it wanted, rather than lack it where there is such Abundance.) An Oppofition of Terms is visibly design’d in this Sentence; tho' the Oppolition is not so visible, as the Terms now stand. Wanted and Abuna dance are the Opposites to one another; but how is lack a Contraft to ftir up? The Addition of a single Letter gives it, and the very Sense requires it.

Mr. Warburton. A 3

Count.

Count. What hope is there of his Majesty's amendment?

Laf. He hath abandon'd his physicians, Madam, under whose practices he hath persecuted time with hope ; and finds no other advantage in the process, but only the losing of hope by time.

Count. This young gentlewoman had a father, (0, that had! how sad a passage 'tis !) whose kill was almost as great as his honefty; had it stretch'd so far, it would have made nature immortal, and death should have play'd for lack of work. 'Would, for the King's fake, he were living ! I think, it would be the death of the King's disease.

Luf. How calld you the man you speak of, Madam?

Count. He was famous, Sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon.

Laf. He was excellent, indeed, Madam ; the King yery lately spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly : he was skilful enough to have liv'd still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality.

Ber. What is it, my good lord, the King languishes of ?

Laf. A fiftula, my lord.
Ber. I heard not of it before.
Laf. I would, it were not notorious. Was this

gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon?

Count. His fole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good, that her education promises her ; disposition the inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer ; for where an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity, they are virtues and traitors too: in her they are the better for their fimpleness ; fhe derives her honesty, and atchieves her goodness.

Laf. Your commendations, Madam, get from her tears.

Count. 'Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in.

The remembrance of her father never approaches her heart, but the tyranny of her sorrows takes

all all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena, go to, no more ; left it be rather thought you affect a forrow, than to have it. Hel. Oh, were that all !

Hel. I do affect a forrow, indeed, but I have it too.

Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excelsive grief the enemy to the living.

Count. (2) If the living be not enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal.

Ber. Madam, I desire your holy wishes.
Laf. How understand we that?
Count. Be thou bleft, Bertram, and succeed thy fa-

ther
In manners as in shape! thy blood and virtue
Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness
Share with thy birth-right! Love all, trust a few,
Do wrong to none : be able for thine enemy
Rather in power, than use; and keep thy friend
Under thy own life's key : be check’d for silence,
But never tax'd for speech. What heav'n more will,
That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck down,
Fall on thy head! Farewel, my lord ;j
'Tis an unseason'd courtier, good my lord,
Advise him.

Laf. He cannot want the best,
That shall attend his love.
Count. Heav'n bless him ! Farewel, Bertram.

[Exit Countess. Ber. [to Hel.] The best wishes, that can be forg'd in your thoughts, be servants to you ! Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her.

Laf. Farewel, pretty lady, you must hold the credit of your father.

[Excunt Bertram and Lafeu.

(2) If the living be Enemy to the Grief, the Excess makes it soon mortal.] This seems very obscure ; but the addition of a Negative perfeâly dispels all the Mift. If the Living be not Enemy, &c. Excessive Grief is an Enemy to the Living, says Lafeu : Yes, replies the Countess ; and if the Living be not Enemy to the Grief, (i, e, strive to conquer it,] the Excess makes it soon mortal.

Mr, Warburton.

I think not on my father ; And these great tears grace his remembrance more, Than those I fhed for him. What was he like? I have forgot him. My imagination Carries no favour in it, but

my

Bertram's.
I am undone ; there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all onę,
That I should love a bright partic'lar star,
And think to wed it; he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
Th' ambition in my love thus plagues itself;
The hind, that would be mated by the lion,
Muft die for love. 'Twas pretty, tho' a plague,
To see him every hour; to fit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table: heart, too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour!
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relicks. Who comes here?

Enter Parolles.
One, that

goes

with him : I love him for his fake,
And yet I know him a notorious liar ;
Think him a great way fool, solely a coward ;
Yet these fix'd evils sit fo fit in him,
That they take place, when virtue's steely bones
Look bleak in the cold wind ; full oft we fee
Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.

Par. Save you, fair Queen.
Hel. And you, Monarch.
Par. No.
Hel. And, no.
Par. Are you meditating on virginity ?

Hel. Ay : you have some stain of soldier in you ; let me ask you a question. Man is enemy to virginity, how may we barricado it against him?

Par. Keep him out.
Hel. But he assails; and our virginity, tho valiant,