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.