save you, sir.
And you.
Sir, I have seen you in the court of France.
I have been sometimes there.
I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen
From the report that goes upon your goodness;
An therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions,
Which lay nice manners by, I put you to
The use of your own virtues, for the which
I shall continue thankful.
What's your will?
That it will please you
To give this poor petition to the king,
And aid me with that store of power you have
To come into his presence.
The king's not here.
Not here, sir!
Not, indeed:
He hence removed last night and with more haste
Than is his use.
Lord, how we lose our pains!
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL yet,
Though time seem so adverse and means unfit.
I do beseech you, whither is he gone?
Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon;
Whither I am going.
I do beseech you, sir,
Since you are like to see the king before me,
Commend the paper to his gracious hand,
Which I presume shall render you no blame
But rather make you thank your pains for it.
I will come after you with what good speed
Our means will make us means.
This I'll do for you.
And you shall find yourself to be well thank'd,
Whate'er falls more. We must to horse again.
Go, go, provide.
Good Monsieur Lavache, give my Lord Lafeu this
letter: I have ere now, sir, been better known to
you, when I have held familiarity with fresher
clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in fortune's
mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong
displeasure.
Truly, fortune's displeasure is but sluttish, if it
smell so strongly as thou speakest of: I will
henceforth eat no fish of fortune's buttering.
Prithee, allow the wind.
Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir; I spake
but by a metaphor.
Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my
nose; or against any man's metaphor. Prithee, get
thee further.
Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper.
Foh! prithee, stand away: a paper from fortune's
close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look, here he
comes himself.
Here is a purr of fortune's, sir, or of fortune's
cat,--but not a musk-cat,--that has fallen into the
unclean fishpond of her displeasure, and, as he
says, is muddied withal: pray you, sir, use the
carp as you may; for he looks like a poor, decayed,
ingenious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his
distress in my similes of comfort and leave him to
your lordship.
My lord, I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly
scratched