« ZurückWeiter »
Of honour'd bones, indeed. What should be faid?
I can create the reft: virtue and fhe,
Is her own dow'r; honour and wealth from me.
Hel. That you are well reftor'd, my Lord, I'm glad: Let the reft go..
King. (22) My honour's at the ftake; which to defend,
My love, and her defert; that canst not dream,
Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know,
We please to have it grow. Check thy contempt:
Do thine own fortunes that obedient right,
(22) My bonour's at the fake; subich 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 fay, is mere mock-reasoning. The paffage muft either be reftor'd, as I have conjecturally corrected; or elfe the King muft be fuppos'd to break off abruptly from what he was going to say, and determine that he will interpofe his authority. As thus ;
My bonour's at the flake; which to defeat,
I must produce my pow'r.
The praised of the King; who, fo enobled,
King. Take her by the hand,
And tell her, fhe is thine: to whom I promise counterpoize; if not in thy eftate,
A ballance more repleat.
Ber. I take her hand.
King. Good fortune, and the favour of the King
Manent Parolles and Lafeu.
Laf. Do you hear, Monfieur? a word with you.
Laf. Your Lord and mafter did well to make his
Par. Recantation ?-my Lord? my maffer?
Laf. Ay, is it not a language I fpeak?
Par. A moft harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody fucceeding. My mafter?
Laf. Are you companion to the Count Roufillon?
Par. To any Count; to all Counts; to what is man. Laf. To what is Count's man; Count's mafter is of another ftile.
Par. You are too old, Sir; let it fatisfy you, you are too old..
Laf. I must tell thee, firrah, 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 wife fellow; thou didst make tolerable vent of thy travel, it might pafs; yet the scarfs and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly diffuade me from believing thee a veffel of too great a burden. I have now found thee; when I lofe thee again, I care not: yet art thou good for nothing but taking up, and that thou'rt scarce worth. Par.
Par. Hadft thou not the privilege of antiquity upon
Laf. (23) Do not plunge thyfelf too far in anger, left thou haften thy tryal; which if,-Lord have mercy on thee for a hen! fo, my good window of lattice, fare thee well; thy cafement I need not open, I look through thee. Give me thy hand.
Par. My Lord, you give me moft egregious indignity. Laf. Ay, with all my heart, and thou art worthy
Par. I have not, my Lord, deferv'd it.
Laf. Yes, good faith, ev'ry dram of it; and I will not bate thee a scruple.
Par. Well, I fhall be wifer
Laf. Ev'n as foon as thou can'ft, for thou haft to pull at a fmack o' th' contrary. If ever thou beest bound in thy fcarf and beaten, thou fhalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I have a defire to hold my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may fay in the default, he is a man I know.
Par. My Lord, you do me most insupportable
Laf. I would, it were hell-pains for thy fake, and my poor doing eternal: for doing, I am past; as I will by thee, in what motion age will give me leave. [Exit.
(23) Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, left thau baften thy tryal; which is, Lord bave mercy on thee for a ben;] Mr Roque and Mr. Pope, either by inadvertence, or fome other fatality, have blunder'd this paffage into ftark nonfenfe. I have refor'd the reading of the old folio, and by fubjoining the mark to fhew a break is necessary, have retriev'd the poet's genuine fenfe:
-which if-Lord have mercy on thee for a ben!
The fequel of the fentence is imply'd, not exprefs'd: This figure the rhetoricians have call'd ̓Αποσιώπησις. A remarkable instance we
have of it in the first book of Virgil's Æneis.
Quos Ego-fed motos præftat componere Fluctus.
So likewife in Terence;
Mala mens, malus animus; quem quidem Ego fi fenlero,-
Andr. At I. Sc. I.
But I fhall have occafion to remark again upon it, when I come to King Lear.
Par. Well, thou haft a fon fhall take this difgrace off me; fcurvy, old, filthy, fcurvy Lord!-well, I must be patient, there is no fettering of authority. I'll beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with any convenience, an he were double and double a Lord. I'll have no more pity of his age, than I would have of—I'll beat him, an if I could but meet him again.
Laf. Sirrah, your Lord and master's married, there's news for you you have a new. miftrefs.
Par. I moft unfeignedly befeech your Lordship to make some reservation of your wrongs. He, my good Lord, whom I ferve above, is my master.
Laf. Who? God?
Par. Ay, Sir.
Laf. The devil it is, that's thy mafter. Why doft thou garter up thy arms o' this fashion doft make hofe of thy fleeves? do other fervants fo? thou wert beft fet thy lower part where thy nofe ftands. By mine honour, if I were but two hours younger, I'd beat thee: methinks, thou art a general offence, and every man fhould beat thee. I think, thou waft created for men to breathe themselves upon thee.
Par. This is hard and undeferved measure, my Lord. Laf. Go to, Sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernel out of a pomegranate; you are a vagabond, and no true traveller: you are more faucy with Lords and honourable perfonages, than the commiffion of your birth and virtue gives you heraldry. You are not worth another word, elfe I'd call you knave. I leave you. [Exit.
Par. Good, very good, it is fo then.-Good, very good, let it be conceal'd awhile.
Ber. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever?
Ber. Although before the folemn priest I've fworn,
I will not bed her.
Par. What? what, fweet 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 kickfy-wickfy here at home;
Ber. It fhall be fo, I'll fend her to my house,
Where noble fellows ftrike. War is no ftrife
Par. Will this capricio hold in thee, art fure?. Ber. Go with me to my chamber, and advife me. I'll fend her ftraight away: to-morrow
I'll to the wars, the to her fingle forrow.
Par. Why, thefe balls bound, there's noife in it.'Tis hard;
A young man, married, is a man that's marr'd:
Enter Helena and Clown.
Hel. My mother greets me kindly, is the well? Clo. She is not well, but yet fhe has her health; fhe's very merry, but yet fhe is not well: but, thanks be given, fhe's very well, and wants nothing i' th' world; but yet fhe is not well