,
I'd have them whipped; or I would send them to the
Turk, to make eunuchs of.
Be not afraid that I your hand should take;
I'll never do you wrong for your own sake:
Blessing upon your vows! and in your bed
Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed!
These boys are boys of ice, they'll none have her:
sure, they are bastards to the English; the French
ne'er got 'em.
You are too young, too happy, and too good,
To make yourself a son out of my blood.
Fair one, I think not so.
There's one grape yet; I am sure thy father drunk
wine: but if thou be'st not an ass, I am a youth
of fourteen; I have known thee already.
[To ] I dare not say I take you; but I give
Me and my service, ever whilst I live,
Into your guiding power. This is the man.
Why, then, young Bertram, take her; she's thy wife.
My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your highness,
In such a business give me leave to use
The help of mine own eyes.
Know'st thou not, Bertram,
What she has done for me?
Yes, my good lord;
But never hope to know why I should marry her.
Thou know'st she has raised me from my sickly bed.
But follows it, my lord, to bring me down
Must answer for your raising? I know her well:
She had her breeding at my father's charge.
A poor physician's daughter my wife! Disdain
Rather corrupt me ever!
'Tis only title thou disdain'st in her, the which
I can build up. Strange is it that our bloods,
Of colour, weight, and heat, pour'd all together,
Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off
In differences so mighty. If she be
All that is virtuous, save what thou dislikest,
A poor physician's daughter, thou dislikest
Of virtue for the name: but do not so:
From lowest place when virtuous things proceed,
The place is dignified by the doer's deed:
Where great additions swell's, and virtue none,
It is a dropsied honour. Good alone
Is good without a name. Vileness is so:
The property by what it is should go,
Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair;
In these to nature she's immediate heir,
And these breed honour: that is honour's scorn,
Which challenges itself as honour's born
And is not like the sire: honours thrive,
When rather from our acts we them derive
Than our foregoers: the mere word's a slave
Debosh'd on every tomb, on every grave
A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb
Where dust and damn'd oblivion is the tomb
Of honour'd bones indeed. What should be said?
If thou canst like