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What power is it which mounts my love so high, |
That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye? |
The mightiest space in fortune nature brings |
To join like likes, and kiss like native things. |
Impossible be strange attempts to those |
That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose |
What hath been cannot be. Who ever strove |
To show her merit that did miss her love? |
The King's disease-my project may deceive me, |
But my intents are fix'd, and will not leave me. Exit |
ACT I. SCENE 2. |
Paris. The KING'S palace |
Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING OF FRANCE, with letters, |
and divers ATTENDANTS |
KING. The Florentines and Senoys are by th' ears; |
Have fought with equal fortune, and continue |
A braving war. |
FIRST LORD. So 'tis reported, sir. |
KING. Nay, 'tis most credible. We here receive it, |
A certainty, vouch'd from our cousin Austria, |
With caution, that the Florentine will move us |
For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend |
Prejudicates the business, and would seem |
To have us make denial. |
FIRST LORD. His love and wisdom, |
Approv'd so to your Majesty, may plead |
For amplest credence. |
KING. He hath arm'd our answer, |
And Florence is denied before he comes; |
Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see |
The Tuscan service, freely have they leave |
To stand on either part. |
SECOND LORD. It well may serve |
A nursery to our gentry, who are sick |
For breathing and exploit. |
KING. What's he comes here? |
Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES |
FIRST LORD. It is the Count Rousillon, my good lord, |
Young Bertram. |
KING. Youth, thou bear'st thy father's face; |
Frank nature, rather curious than in haste, |
Hath well compos'd thee. Thy father's moral parts |
Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris. |
BERTRAM. My thanks and duty are your Majesty's. |
KING. I would I had that corporal soundness now, |
As when thy father and myself in friendship |
First tried our soldiership. He did look far |
Into the service of the time, and was |
Discipled of the bravest. He lasted long; |
But on us both did haggish age steal on, |
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me |
To talk of your good father. In his youth |
He had the wit which I can well observe |
To-day in our young lords; but they may jest |
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted |
Ere they can hide their levity in honour. |
So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness |
Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were, |
His equal had awak'd them; and his honour, |
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when |
Exception bid him speak, and at this time |
His tongue obey'd his hand. Who were below him |
He us'd as creatures of another place; |
And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks, |
Making them proud of his humility |
In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man |
Might be a copy to these younger times; |
Which, followed well, would demonstrate them now |
But goers backward. |
BERTRAM. His good remembrance, sir, |
Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb; |
So in approof lives not his epitaph |
As in your royal speech. |
KING. Would I were with him! He would always say- |
Methinks I hear him now; his plausive words |
He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them |
To grow there, and to bear- 'Let me not live'- |
This his good melancholy oft began, |
On the catastrophe and heel of pastime, |
When it was out-'Let me not live' quoth he |
'After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff |
Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses |
All but new things disdain; whose judgments are |
Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies |
Expire before their fashions.' This he wish'd. |
I, after him, do after him wish too, |
Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home, |
I quickly were dissolved from my hive, |
To give some labourers room. |
SECOND LORD. You're loved, sir; |
They that least lend it you shall lack you first. |
KING. I fill a place, I know't. How long is't, Count, |
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