SCENE III. Rousillon. The COUNT's palace. All's Well That Ends Well  Shakespeare homepage  |  All's Well That Ends Well  | Act 1, Scene 3 

 Previous scene  |  Next scene  SCENE III. Rousillon. The COUNT's palace. 

 Enter COUNTESS, Steward, and Clown  COUNTESS  I will now hear; what say you of this gentlewoman? 

 Steward  Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I 

 wish might be found in the calendar of my past 

 endeavours; for then we wound our modesty and make 

 foul the clearness of our deservings, when of 

 ourselves we publish them. 

 COUNTESS  What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah: 

 the complaints I have heard of you I do not all 

 believe: 'tis my slowness that I do not; for I know 

 you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability 

 enough to make such knaveries yours. 

 Clown  'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow. 

 COUNTESS  Well, sir. 

 Clown  No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, though 

 many of the rich are damned: but, if I may have 

 your ladyship's good will to go to the world, Isbel 

 the woman and I will do as we may. 

 COUNTESS  Wilt thou needs be a beggar? 

 Clown  I do beg your good will in this case. 

 COUNTESS  In what case? 

 Clown  In Isbel's case and mine own. Service is no 

 heritage: and I think I shall never have the 

 blessing of God till I have issue o' my body; for 

 they say barnes are blessings. 

 COUNTESS  Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry. 

 Clown  My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on 

 by the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives. 

 COUNTESS  Is this all your worship's reason? 

 Clown  Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons such as they 

 are. 

 COUNTESS  May the world know them? 

 Clown  I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and 

 all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry 

 that I may repent. 

 COUNTESS  Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness. 

 Clown  I am out o' friends, madam; and I hope to have 

 friends for my wife's sake. 

 COUNTESS  Such friends are thine enemies, knave. 

 Clown  You're shallow, madam, in great friends; for the 

 knaves come to do that for me which I am aweary of. 

 He that ears my land spares my team and gives me 

 leave to in the crop; if I be his cuckold, he's my 

 drudge: he that comforts my wife is the cherisher 

 of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh 

 and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my 

 flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses 

 my wife is my friend. If men could be contented to 

 be what they are, there were no fear in marriage; 

 for young Charbon the Puritan and old Poysam the 

 Papist, howsome'er their hearts are severed in 

 religion, their heads are both one; they may jowl 

 horns together, like any deer i' the herd. 

 COUNTESS  Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave? 

 Clown  A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next 

 way: 

 For I the ballad will repeat, 

 Which men full true shall find; 

 Your marriage comes by destiny, 

 Your cuckoo sings by kind. 

 COUNTESS  Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you more anon. 

 Steward  May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to 

 you: of her I am to speak. 

 COUNTESS  Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; 

 Helen, I mean. 

 Clown  Was this fair face the cause, quoth she, 

 Why the Grecians sacked Troy? 

 Fond done, done fond, 

 Was this King Priam's joy? 

 With that she sighed as she stood, 

 With that she sighed as she stood, 

 And gave this sentence then; 

 Among nine bad if one be good, 

 Among nine bad if one be good, 

 There's yet one good in ten. 

 COUNTESS  What, one good in ten? you corrupt the song, sirrah. 

 Clown  One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying 

 o' the song: would God would serve the world so all 

 the year! we'ld find no fault with the tithe-woman, 

 if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth a'! An we 

 might have a good woman born but one every blazing 

 star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery 

 well: a man may draw his heart out, ere a' pluck 

 one. 

 COUNTESS  You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you. 

 Clown  That man should be at woman's command, and yet no 

 hurt done! Though honesty be no puritan, yet it 

 will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of 

 humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am 

 going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither. 



 Exit  COUNTESS  Well, now. 

 Steward  I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely. 

 COUNTESS  Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to me; and 

 she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully 

 make title to as much love as she finds: there is 

 more owing her than is paid; and more shall be paid 

 her than she'll demand. 

 Steward  Madam, I was very late more near her than I think 

 she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate 

 to herself her own words to her own ears; she 

 thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any 

 stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son: 

 Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put 

 such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no 

 god, that would not extend his might, only where 

 qualities were level; Dian no queen of virgins, that 

 would suffer her poor knight surprised, without 

 rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. 

 This she delivered in the most bitter touch of 

 sorrow that e'er I heard virgin exclaim in: which I 

 held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; 

 sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns 

 you something to know it. 

 COUNTESS  You have discharged this honestly; keep it to 

 yourself: many likelihoods informed me of this 

 before, which hung so tottering in the balance that 

 I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you, 

 leave me: stall this in your bosom; and I thank you 

 for your honest care: I will speak with you further anon. 



 Exit Steward 

 Enter HELENA  Even so it was with me when I was young: 

 If ever we are nature's, these are ours; this thorn 

 Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong; 

 Our blood to us, this to our blood is born; 

 It is the show and seal of nature's truth, 

 Where love's strong passion is impress'd in youth: 

 By our remembrances of days foregone, 

 Such were our faults, or then we thought them none. 

 Her eye is sick on't: I observe her now. 

 HELENA  What is your pleasure, madam? 

 COUNTESS  You know, Helen, 

 I am a mother to you. 

 HELENA  Mine honourable mistress. 

 COUNTESS  Nay, a mother: 

 Why not a mother? When I said 'a mother,' 

 Methought you saw a serpent: what's in 'mother,' 

 That you start at it? I say, I am your mother; 

 And put you in the catalogue of those 

 That were enwombed mine: 'tis often seen 

 Adoption strives with nature and choice breeds 

 A native slip to us from foreign seeds: 

 You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan, 

 Yet I express to you a mother's care: 

 God's mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood 

 To say I am thy mother? What's the matter, 

 That this distemper'd messenger of wet, 

 The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye? 

 Why? that you are my daughter? 

 HELENA  That I am not. 

 COUNTESS  I say, I am your mother. 

 HELENA  Pardon, madam; 

 The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother: 

 I am from humble, he from honour'd name; 

 No note upon my parents, his all noble: 

 My master, my dear lord he is; and I 

 His servant live, and will his vassal die: 

 He must not be my brother. 

 COUNTESS  Nor I your mother? 

 HELENA  You are my mother, madam; would you were,-- 

 So that my lord your son were not my brother,-- 

 Indeed my mother! or were you both our mothers, 

 I care no more for than I do for heaven, 

 So I were not his sister. Can't no other, 

 But, I your daughter, he must be my brother? 

 COUNTESS  Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law: 

 God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother 

 So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again? 

 My fear hath catch'd your fondness: now I see 

 The mystery of your loneliness, and find 

 Your salt tears' head: now to all sense 'tis gross 

 You love my son; invention is ashamed, 

 Against the proclamation of thy passion, 

 To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true; 

 But tell me then, 'tis so; for, look thy cheeks 

 Confess it, th' one to th' other; and thine eyes 

 See it so grossly shown in thy behaviors 

 That in their kind they speak it: only sin 

 And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue, 

 That truth should be suspected. Speak, is't so? 

 If it be so, you have wound a goodly clew; 

 If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee, 

 As heaven shall work in me for thine avail, 

 Tell me truly. 

 HELENA  Good madam, pardon me! 

 COUNTESS  Do you love my son? 

 HELENA  Your pardon, noble mistress! 

 COUNTESS  Love you my son? 

 HELENA  Do not you love him, madam? 

 COUNTESS  Go not about; my love hath in't a bond, 

 Whereof the world takes note: come, come, disclose 

 The state of your affection; for your passions 

 Have to the full appeach'd. 

 HELENA  Then, I confess, 

 Here on my knee, before high heaven and you, 

 That before you, and next unto high heaven, 

 I love your son. 

 My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love: 

 Be not offended; for it hurts not him 

 That he is loved of me: I follow him not 

 By any token of presumptuous suit; 

 Nor would I have him till I do deserve him; 

 Yet never know how that desert should be. 

 I know I love in vain, strive against hope; 

 Yet in this captious and intenible sieve 

 I still pour in the waters of my love 

 And lack not to lose still: thus, Indian-like, 

 Religious in mine error, I adore 

 The sun, that looks upon his worshipper, 

 But knows of him no more. My dearest madam, 

 Let not your hate encounter with my love 

 For loving where you do: but if yourself, 

 Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth, 

 Did ever in so true a flame of liking 

 Wish chastely and love dearly, that your Dian 

 Was both herself and love: O, then, give pity 

 To her, whose state is such that cannot choose 

 But lend and give where she is sure to lose; 

 That seeks not to find that her search implies, 

 But riddle-like lives sweetly where she dies! 

 COUNTESS  Had you not lately an intent,--speak truly,-- 

 To go to Paris? 

 HELENA  Madam, I had. 

 COUNTESS  Wherefore? tell true. 

 HELENA  I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear. 

 You know my father left me some prescriptions 

 Of rare and proved effects, such as his reading 

 And manifest experience had collected 

 For general sovereignty; and that he will'd me 

 In heedfull'st reservation to bestow them, 

 As notes whose faculties inclusive were 

 More than they were in note: amongst the rest, 

 There is a remedy, approved, set down, 

 To cure the desperate languishings whereof 

 The king is render'd lost. 

 COUNTESS  This was your motive 

 For Paris, was it? speak. 

 HELENA  My lord your son made me to think of this; 

 Else Paris and the medicine and the king 

 Had from the conversation of my thoughts 

 Haply been absent then. 

 COUNTESS  But think you, Helen, 

 If you should tender your supposed aid, 

 He would receive it? he and his physicians 

 Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him, 

 They, that they cannot help: how shall they credit 

 A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools, 

 Embowell'd of their doctrine, have left off 

 The danger to itself? 

 HELENA  There's something in't, 

 More than my father's skill, which was the greatest 

 Of his profession, that his good receipt 

 Shall for my legacy be sanctified 

 By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your honour 

 But give me leave to try success, I'ld venture 

 The well-lost life of mine on his grace's cure 

 By such a day and hour. 

 COUNTESS  Dost thou believe't? 

 HELENA  Ay, madam, knowingly. 

 COUNTESS  Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love, 

 Means and attendants and my loving greetings 

 To those of mine in court: I'll stay at home 

 And pray God's blessing into thy attempt: 

 Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this, 

 What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss. 



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