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ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

THE KING OF FRANCE WELCOMES BERTRAM, COUNT OF ROUSILLON, TO PARIS.

1 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 composed thee. Thy father's moral parts
May'st thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.

Ber. 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 awaked 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 used 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, follow'd well, would demonstrate them now

But goers backward.

Ber. 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,"
Thus 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.

TAMING OF THE SHREW.

LUCENTIO AND TRANIO DISCOURSE UPON STUDIES.

Luc. Tranio, since-for the great desire I had
To see fair Padua, nursery of arts-

I am arrived for fruitful Lombardy,
The pleasant garden of great Italy;

And, by my father's love and leave, am arm'd
With his good will, and thy good company,
Most trusty servant, well approved in all;
Here let us breathe, and happily institute
A course of learning, and ingenious studies.
Pisa, renowned for grave citizens,
Gave me my being, and my father first,
A merchant of great traffic through the world,
Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii.

Vincentio his son, brought up in Florence,
It shall become, to serve all hopes conceived,
To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds:
And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study,
Virtue, and that part of philosophy,
Will I apply, that treats of happiness
By virtue 'specially to be achieved.
Tell me thy mind: for I have Pisa left,
And am to Padua come; as he that leaves
A shallow plash, to plunge him in the deep,

And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst.
Tra. Pardon me, gentle master mine,
I am in all affected as yourself;

Glad that you thus continue your resolve,
To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy.
Only, good master, while we do admire
This virtue, and this moral discipline,
Let's be no stoics, nor no stocks, I pray;
Or so devote to Aristotle's checks,
As Ovid be an outcast quite abjured:
Talk logic with acquaintance that you have,
And practise rhetoric in your common talk:
Music and poesy use to quicken you:
The mathematics, and the metaphysics,
Fall to them, as you find your

stomach serves you:

No profit grows, where is no pleasure ta’en ;—

In brief, Sir, study what you most affect.

KATHARINA ADMONISHES HER FEMALE FRIENDS TO BE
OBEDIENT TO THEIR HUSBANDS.

FIE, fie! unknit that threat'ning unkind brow;
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor:
It blots thy beauty, as frosts bite the meads;
Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds;
And in no sense is meet, or amiable.

A woman moved is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;
And, while it is so, none so dry or thirsty
Will deign to sip, or touch one drop of it.
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance: commits his body
To painful labour, both by sea and land;
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;
And craves no other tribute at thy hands
But love, fair looks, and true obedience ;-
Too little payment for so great a debt.
Such duty as the subject owes the prince,
Even such, a woman oweth to her husband:
And, when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour,
And not obedient to his honest will,

What is she, but a foul contending rebel,
And graceless traitor to her loving lord ?-
I am ashamed, that women are so simple
To offer war, where they should kneel for peace;
Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,

When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.
Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world;

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But that our soft conditions and our hearts
Should well agree with our external parts?
Come, come, you froward and unable worms!
My mind hath been as big as one of yours,
My heart as great; my reason, haply, more,
To bandy word for word, and frown for frown:
But now, I see our lances are but straws;
Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,-
That seeming to be most, which we least are.
Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot;

And place your hands below your husband's foot:
In token of which duty, if he please,

My hand is ready,-may it do him ease!

WINTER'S TALE.

PERDITA DISTRIBUTES FLOWERS AMONG THE GUESTS.

Per. Welcome, Sir!

[To Polixenes.

It is my father's will, I should take on me
The hostessship o' the day :-You're welcome, Sir!

[To Camillo.

Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.-Reverend Sirs,
For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep
Seeming, and savour, all the winter long:

Grace, and remembrance, be to you both,
And welcome to our shearing!

Pol. Shepherdess,

(A fair one are you,)

well you

With flowers of winter.

fit our ages

Per. Sir, the year growing ancient,—

Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth

Of trembling winter,-the fairest flowers o' the season
Are our carnations and streak'd gillyflowers,

Which some call nature's bastards: of that kind

Our rustic garden's barren; and I care not

To get slips of them.

Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden,

Do you neglect them?

Per. For I have heard it said,

There is an art, which, in their piedness, shares
With great creating nature.

Pol. Say, there be;

Yet nature is made better by no mean,

But nature makes that mean: so, o'er that art,
Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art

That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry
A gentler scion to the wildest stock;

And make conceive a bark of baser kind

By bud of nobler race; This is an art

Which does mend nature,—change it rather: but
The art itself is nature.

Per. So it is.

Pol. Then make your garden rich in gillyflowers, And do not call them bastards.

Per. I'll not put

The dibble in earth to set one slip of them.

Here's flowers for you;
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram ;
The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun,
And with him rises weeping; these are flowers
Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given
To men of middle age: You are very welcome.

Cam. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,
And only live by gazing.

Per. Out, alas!

You'd be so lean, that blasts of January

Would blow you through and through.-Now, my fairest friend,

I would I had some flowers o' the spring, that might
Become your time of day.

O Proserpina,

For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou lett'st fall

From Dis's waggon! daffodils,

That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,

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