Alls Wel that ends Well

Florence. Before the DUKE's palace

Flourish. Enter the DUKE OF FLORENCE, BERTRAM, PAROLLES, SOLDIERS,

drum and trumpets

DUKE. The General of our Horse thou art; and we,

Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence

Upon thy promising fortune.

BERTRAM. Sir, it is

A charge too heavy for my strength; but yet

We'll strive to bear it for your worthy sake

To th' extreme edge of hazard.

DUKE. Then go thou forth;

And Fortune play upon thy prosperous helm,

As thy auspicious mistress!

BERTRAM. This very day,

Great Mars, I put myself into thy file;

Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove

A lover of thy drum, hater of love. Exeunt

SCENE 4.

Rousillon. The COUNT'S palace

Enter COUNTESS and STEWARD

COUNTESS. Alas! and would you take the letter of her?

Might you not know she would do as she has done

By sending me a letter? Read it again.

STEWARD. [Reads] 'I am Saint Jaques' pilgrim, thither gone.

Ambitious love hath so in me offended

That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon,

With sainted vow my faults to have amended.

Write, write, that from the bloody course of war

My dearest master, your dear son, may hie.

Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far

His name with zealous fervour sanctify.

His taken labours bid him me forgive;

I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth

From courtly friends, with camping foes to live,

Where death and danger dogs the heels of worth.

He is too good and fair for death and me;

Whom I myself embrace to set him free.' 

COUNTESS. Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!

Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much

As letting her pass so; had I spoke with her,

I could have well diverted her intents,

Which thus she hath prevented.

STEWARD. Pardon me, madam;

If I had given you this at over-night,

She might have been o'er ta'en; and yet she writes

Pursuit would be but vain.

COUNTESS. What angel shall

Bless this unworthy husband? He cannot thrive,

Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear

And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath

Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rinaldo,

To this unworthy husband of his wife;

Let every word weigh heavy of her worth

That he does weigh too light. My greatest grief,

Though little he do feel it, set down sharply.

Dispatch the most convenient messenger.

When haply he shall hear that she is gone 

He will return; and hope I may that she,

Hearing so much, will speed her foot again,

Led hither by pure love. Which of them both

Is dearest to me I have no skill in sense

To make distinction. Provide this messenger.

My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak;

Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak. Exeunt

SCENE 5.

Without the walls of Florence

A tucket afar off. Enter an old WIDOW OF FLORENCE, her daughter DIANA,

VIOLENTA, and MARIANA, with other CITIZENS

WIDOW. Nay, come; for if they do approach the city we shall lose

all the sight.

DIANA. They say the French count has done most honourable service.

WIDOW. It is reported that he has taken their great'st commander;

and that with his own hand he slew the Duke's brother. [Tucket]

We have lost our labour; they are gone a contrary way. Hark! you

may know by their trumpets.

MARIANA. Come, let's return again, and suffice ourselves with the

report of it. Well, Diana, take heed of this French earl; the

honour of a maid is her name, and no legacy is so rich as

honesty.

WIDOW. I have told my neighbour how you have been solicited by a

gentleman his companion.

MARIANA. I know that knave, hang him! one Parolles; a filthy

officer he is in those suggestions for the young earl. Beware of 

them, Diana: their promises, enticements, oaths, tokens, and all

these engines of lust, are not the things they go under; many a

maid hath been seduced by them; and the misery is, example, that

so terrible shows in the wreck of maidenhood, cannot for all that

dissuade succession, but that they are limed with the twigs that

threatens them. I hope I need not to advise you further; but I

hope your own grace will keep you where you are, though there

were no further danger known but the modesty which is so lost.

DIANA. You shall not need to fear me.

Enter HELENA in the dress of a pilgrim

WIDOW. I hope so. Look, here comes a pilgrim. I know she will lie

at my house: thither they send one another. I'll question her.

God save you, pilgrim! Whither are bound?

HELENA. To Saint Jaques le Grand.

Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?

WIDOW. At the Saint Francis here, beside the port.

HELENA. Is this the way?

[A march afar] 

WIDOW. Ay, marry, is't. Hark you! They come this way.

If you will tarry, holy pilgrim,

But till the troops come by,

I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd;

The rather for I think I know your hostess

As ample as myself.

HELENA. Is it yourself?

WIDOW. If you shall please so, pilgrim.

HELENA. I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure.

WIDOW. You came, I think, from France?

HELENA. I did so.

WIDOW. Here you shall see a countryman of yours

That has done worthy service.

HELENA. His name, I pray you.

DIANA. The Count Rousillon. Know you such a one?

HELENA. But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him;