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