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In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.
In sending my son away, I lose my second husband.
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 subjection.
And I, madam, as I leave, mourn my father’s death again: but I must follow the king’s orders, to whom I am now a ward, always under his control.
You shall find of the king a husband, madam; you, sir, a father: he that so generally is at all times good must of necessity hold his virtue to you; whose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted rather than lack it where there is such abundance.
You’ll find a husband in the king, madam; you, sir, a father: the king, who is always good, will surely inspire goodness in you; his worth will encourage you when you need it, more than it will ever be lacking where there’s already so much virtue.
What hope is there of his majesty’s amendment?
What are the chances of the king getting better?
He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; under whose practises he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other advantage in the process but only the losing of hope by time.
He’s given up on his doctors, madam; under whose care he’s only wasted time hoping for a cure, and now finds the only result is losing hope as time passes.
This young gentlewoman had a father,--O, that ’had’! how sad a passage ’tis!--whose skill was almost as great as his honesty; had it stretched so far, would have made nature immortal, and death should have play for lack of work. Would, for the king’s sake, he were living! I think it would be the death of the king’s disease.
This young woman had a father—oh, that he ’had’! What a sad thought!—whose skill was nearly as great as his honesty; if his talent had lasted longer, he could have made death disappear, and life would have been eternal. I wish, for the king’s sake, he were still alive! I believe he could cure the king’s illness.
How called you the man you speak of, madam?
What was the name of the man you’re talking about, madam?
He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon.
He was famous, sir, in his field, and deserved to be: Gerard de Narbon.
He was excellent indeed, madam: the king very lately spoke of him admiringly and mourningly: he was skilful enough to have lived still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality.
He was truly excellent, madam: the king just recently spoke of him with admiration and regret: he was skilled enough to have lived longer, if knowledge could have defied death.
What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of?
What’s the king suffering from, my good lord?
A fistula, my lord.
A painful swelling, my lord.
I heard not of it before.
I haven’t heard of it before.
I would it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon?
I wish it weren’t so well known. Was this young woman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon?
His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that her education promises; her dispositions she 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 simpleness; she derives her honesty and achieves her goodness.
His only child, my lord, and entrusted to my care. I have high hopes for her, based on the education she’s had; she inherits her nature, which makes good qualities even better; because when a pure mind carries virtues, praise follows, but with sympathy; they are both virtues and flaws at the same time; in her, they’re better because they’re simple; she gets her honesty from her upbringing and achieves her goodness.
Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.
Your praise, madam, brings her to tears.
’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 livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena; go to, no more; lest it be rather thought you affect a sorrow than have it.
It’s the best seasoning a young woman can add to her praise. The memory of her father never comes to her heart without the weight of her sadness draining all color from her face. No more of this, Helena; come now, no more; unless you want people to think you’re pretending to be sad, rather than truly feeling it.
I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too.
I am pretending to be sad, but I am sad too.
Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.
Moderate grief is the right of the dead, but excessive sorrow harms the living.
If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal.
If the living are the enemy of grief, then too much of it will quickly destroy you.
Madam, I desire your holy wishes.
Madam, I wish you all the best.
How understand we that?
What do we mean by that?
Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy father In manners, as in shape! thy blood and virtue Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness Share with thy birthright! 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 cheque’d for silence, But never tax’d for speech. What heaven more will, That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down, Fall on thy head! Farewell, my lord; ’Tis an unseason’d courtier; good my lord, Advise him.
May you be blessed, Bertram, and follow your father’s example in manners, just as you do in looks! May your blood and virtue compete for dominance in you, and may your goodness match your birthright! Love everyone, trust a few, do no harm to anyone: be stronger than your enemy, but use that strength only when needed, and keep your friends close as if they were your own life: stay silent when necessary, but never be silent when you should speak. Whatever else heaven wants, may it grant you, and my prayers bring it down upon you! Farewell, my lord; He’s still an inexperienced courtier; please, my lord, give him some guidance.
He cannot want the best That shall attend his love.
He won’t lack the best that will serve his love.
Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram.
God bless him! Farewell, Bertram.
[To HELENA] The best wishes that can be forged in your thoughts be servants to you! Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her.
[To HELENA] May the best wishes that can be formed in your thoughts serve you well! Be kind to my mother, your lady, and take good care of her.
Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the credit of your father.
Goodbye, pretty lady: you have to keep your father’s honor.
O, were that all! I think not on my father; And these great tears grace his remembrance more Than those I shed for him. What was he like? I have forgot him: my imagination Carries no favour in’t but Bertram’s. I am undone: there is no living, none, If Bertram be away. ’Twere all one That I should love a bright particular 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. The ambition in my love thus plagues itself: The hind that would be mated by the lion Must die for love. ’Twas pretty, though plague, To see him every hour; to sit 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 reliques. Who comes here?
Oh, if only that were true! I don’t think about my father; And these big tears honor his memory more Than the ones I shed for him. What was he like? I’ve forgotten him: my mind Only sees Bertram’s face. I’m ruined: there’s no life, none, If Bertram is gone. It would be the same As if I were to love a bright star And think I could marry it, because he is so far above me: In his bright glow and surrounding light I must find comfort, not in his world. The ambition in my love torments me this way: The doe that wants to be with the lion Must die for love. It was foolish, but still lovely, To see him every hour; to sit and sketch His arched eyebrows, his sharp eyes, his curls, On my heart’s table; a heart too capable Of holding every line and detail of his sweet face: But now he’s gone, and my worshipping thoughts Must honor his remains. Who’s here?
One that goes with him: I love him for his sake; And yet I know him a notorious liar, Think him a great way fool, solely a coward; Yet these fixed evils sit so fit in him, That they take place, when virtue’s steely bones Look bleak i’ the cold wind: withal, full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
Someone who is with him: I love him for his sake; But I know he’s a well-known liar, I think he’s a big fool, just a coward; Yet these obvious flaws fit him so well, That they seem important, when real strength Looks cold in the wind: also, we often see Cold wisdom waiting on foolishness.
Save you, fair queen!
Hello, fair queen!
And you, monarch!
And you, king!
No.
No.
And no.
And no.
Are you meditating on virginity?
Are you thinking about virginity?
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?
Yes. You’ve got some soldier in you: let me ask you a question. Man is the enemy of virginity; how can we defend it from him?
Keep him out.
Keep him out.
But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant, in the defence yet is weak: unfold to us some warlike resistance.
But he attacks; and our virginity, though brave, is weak in defense: tell us some warlike strategy.
There is none: man, sitting down before you, will undermine you and blow you up.
There’s none: man, sitting outside you, will secretly destroy you and blow you up.
Bless our poor virginity from underminers and blowers up! Is there no military policy, how virgins might blow up men?
Protect our poor virginity from tricksters and destroyers! Is there no military way virgins could destroy men?
Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be blown up: marry, in blowing him down again, with the breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational increase and there was never virgin got till virginity was first lost. That you were made of is metal to make virgins. Virginity by being once lost may be ten times found; by being ever kept, it is ever lost: ’tis too cold a companion; away with ’t!
Once virginity is gone, a man will quickly get aroused: but, if you try to bring him down again, you’ll destroy what you built, and lose everything. It doesn’t make sense in nature to try to keep virginity. Losing virginity is a natural process, and no one has ever been born without first losing their virginity. What you’re made of is what creates virgins. Once virginity is lost, it can be regained; but if you keep it forever, it’s always lost. It’s too cold a thing to hold onto, so forget about it!
I will stand for ’t a little, though therefore I die a virgin.
I’ll hold on to it for a while, even if it means dying a virgin.
There’s little can be said in ’t; ’tis against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity, is to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin: virginity murders itself and should be buried in highways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese; consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but loose by’t: out with ’t! within ten year it will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase; and the principal itself not much the worse: away with ’t!
There’s not much to say about it; it goes against nature. Talking about virginity is like blaming your mothers, which is a serious act of disobedience. A man who kills himself is a virgin: virginity destroys itself and should be thrown out like a criminal, out of sight, as an offense against nature. Virginity breeds bugs, like cheese; it consumes itself until there’s nothing left, and dies by feeding itself. Besides, virginity is stubborn, prideful, lazy, made of selfishness, which is one of the worst sins in the book. Don’t keep it; you’ll lose it anyway: get rid of it! In ten years, it will be worth ten times less, but still not that bad: throw it away!
How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?
How can a girl lose it on her own terms, sir?
Let me see: marry, ill, to like him that ne’er it likes. ’Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less worth: off with ’t while ’tis vendible; answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion: richly suited, but unsuitable: just like the brooch and the tooth-pick, which wear not now. Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek; and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French withered pears, it looks ill, it eats drily; marry, ’tis a withered pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet ’tis a withered pear: will you anything with it?
Let me think: well, it’s bad to want someone who doesn’t want you. It’s a thing that loses its charm the longer you hold on to it; the longer you wait, the less value it has: get rid of it while it’s still in demand; take advantage of the moment. Virginity, like an old nobleman, is out of style: it’s rich-looking, but outdated, like an old brooch or a toothpick, things no one uses anymore. Your best value is in your food, not in your face; and your virginity, like a shriveled French pear, looks bad and tastes dry; sure, it used to be better, but now it’s just a withered pear. Do you want anything with it?
Not my virginity yet [ ] There shall your master have a thousand loves, A mother and a mistress and a friend, A phoenix, captain and an enemy, A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign, A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear; His humble ambition, proud humility, His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet, His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms, That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he-- I know not what he shall. God send him well! The court’s a learning place, and he is one--
Not my virginity yet [ ] There, your master shall have a thousand loves, a mother, a lover, and a friend, a phoenix, a leader, and an enemy, a guide, a goddess, and a queen, a counselor, a traitor, and someone dear to him; his humble ambition, his proud humility, his perfect chaos, and his sweet disaster; a world of sweet, naive new beginnings, that silly Cupid keeps gossiping about. Now he shall— I don’t know what he shall. God bless him! The court is a place for learning, and he is one—
What one, i’ faith?
What one, really?
That I wish well. ’Tis pity--
The one I wish well. It’s a shame—
What’s pity?
What’s a shame?
That wishing well had not a body in’t, Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born, Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes, Might with effects of them follow our friends, And show what we alone must think, which never Return us thanks.
That wishing well didn’t have a body to go with it, something you could actually feel; that we, the poor, who are stuck with low fortunes, might be able to follow our wishes with actions, and show what we alone must think, but never get any thanks in return.
Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.
Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.
Little Helen, farewell; if I can remember thee, I will think of thee at court.
Little Helen, goodbye; if I remember you, I’ll think of you at court.
Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.
Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a lucky star.
Under Mars, I.
Under Mars, I.
I especially think, under Mars.
I especially think, under Mars.
Why under Mars?
Why under Mars?
The wars have so kept you under that you must needs be born under Mars.
The wars have kept you down so much that you must have been born under Mars.
When he was predominant.
When he was in charge.
When he was retrograde, I think, rather.
When he was in a weaker position, I think, actually.
Why think you so?
Why do you think that?
You go so much backward when you fight.
You move so backward when you fight.
That’s for advantage.
That’s for advantage.
So is running away, when fear proposes the safety; but the composition that your valour and fear makes in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well.
Running away is for safety too, when fear tells you it’s the best option; but the mix of your bravery and fear makes you a cowardly hero, and I think you wear that role well.
I am so full of businesses, I cannot answer thee acutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the which, my instruction shall serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier’s counsel and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away: farewell. When thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember thy friends; get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee; so, farewell.
I’m so busy I can’t answer you clearly. I’ll come back as a perfect courtier; in that role, I’ll teach you how to fit in, so that you’ll be able to take advice from a courtier and understand what’s being offered to you; otherwise, you’ll die ungrateful and your ignorance will be your downfall. Goodbye. When you have free time, say your prayers; when you don’t, think of your friends; get yourself a good husband, and treat him as he treats you; so, goodbye.
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. 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 So 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.
Our solutions often lie within ourselves, Which we blame on fate: the sky we’re born under Gives us freedom, but sometimes holds us back When we’re not focused. What power is it that lifts my love so high, That lets me see, but doesn’t let me have it? The greatest forces in nature bring together what is meant to be, To unite those who belong together. Impossible are the efforts Of those who weigh their struggles and think that what has been, Cannot be. Who ever tried so hard to show their worth, And still lost their love? The king’s illness—my plan may fail me, But my intentions are set and will not leave me.