King

The Florentines and Senoys are by the 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, vouched 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,

Approved so to your majesty, may plead

For amplest credence.

King

He hath armed 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 Rossillion, 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

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 awaked them, and his honour,

Clock to itself, knew the true minute when

Exception bid him speak, and at this time

His tongue obeyed his hand: who were below him

He used as creatures of another place

And bowed 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 scattered 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 judgements are

Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies

Expire before their fashions.” This he wished:

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,

Since the physician at your father's died?

He was much famed.

Bertram

Some six months since, my lord.

King

If he were living, I would try him yet.

Lend me an arm; the rest have worn me out

With several applications: nature and sickness

Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count;

My son's no dearer.

Bertram

Thank your majesty. Exeunt.Flourish.