HELENA. Yet, I pray you; But with the word the time will bring on summer, When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns, And be as sweet as sharp. We must away; Our waggon is prepar’d, and time revives us. All’s well that ends well; still the fine’s the crown. Whate’er the course, the end is the renown.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE V. Rossillon. A room in the Countess’s palace.

Enter Clown, Countess and Lafew.

LAFEW. No, no, no, your son was misled with a snipt-taffeta fellow there, whose villanous saffron would have made all the unbak’d and doughy youth of a nation in his colour. Your daughter-in-law had been alive at this hour, and your son here at home, more advanc’d by the king than by that red-tail’d humble-bee I speak of.

COUNTESS. I would I had not known him; it was the death of the most virtuous gentlewoman that ever nature had praise for creating. If she had partaken of my flesh and cost me the dearest groans of a mother, I could not have owed her a more rooted love.

LAFEW. ’Twas a good lady, ’twas a good lady. We may pick a thousand salads ere we light on such another herb.

CLOWN. Indeed, sir, she was the sweet marjoram of the salad, or, rather, the herb of grace.