COUNTESS. This young gentlewoman had a father—O that “had!”, how sad a passage ’tis!—whose skill was almost as great as his honesty; had it stretch’d so far, would have made nature immortal, and death should have play for lack of work. Would for the king’s sake he were living! I think it would be the death of the king’s disease. LAFEW. How called you the man you speak of, madam? COUNTESS. He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon. LAFEW. He was excellent indeed, madam; the king very lately spoke of him admiringly, and mourningly; he was skilful enough to have liv’d still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality. BERTRAM. What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of? LAFEW. A fistula, my lord. BERTRAM. I heard not of it before. LAFEW. I would it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon? COUNTESS. His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that her education promises her dispositions she inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity, they are virtues and traitors too. In her they are the better for their simpleness; she derives her honesty, and achieves her goodness. LAFEW. Your commendations, madam, get from her tears. COUNTESS. ’Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father never approaches her heart but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena; go to, no more, lest it be rather thought you affect a sorrow than to have. HELENA. I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too. LAFEW. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead; excessive grief the enemy to the living. COUNTESS. If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal. BERTRAM. Madam, I desire your holy wishes. LAFEW. How understand we that? COUNTESS. Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy father In manners, as in shape! Thy blood and virtue Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none. Be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life’s key. Be check’d for silence, But never tax’d for speech. What heaven more will, That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down, Fall on thy head! Farewell. My lord, ’Tis an unseason’d courtier; good my lord, Advise him. LAFEW. He cannot want the best That shall attend his love. COUNTESS. Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram. [_Exit Countess._] BERTRAM. The best wishes that can be forg’d in your thoughts be servants to you! [_To Helena._] Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her. LAFEW. Farewell, pretty lady, you must hold the credit of your father. [_Exeunt Bertram and Lafew._]