All's Well That Ends Well

Countess 
Do you love my son?
Helen
Your pardon, noble mistress.
Countess
Love you my son?
Helen
Do not you love him, madam?
Countess
Go not about. My love hath in ’t a bond
Whereof the world takes note. Come, come, disclose
The state of your affection,
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Lafew
But, my good lord, ’tis thus: will you be cured
Of your infirmity?
King
No.

I have seen a medicine
That’s able to breathe life into a stone,
Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary
With sprightly fire and motion

Lafew
O, will you eat
No grapes,
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King 
Now, fair one, does your business follow us?
Helen
Ay, my good lord,
Gerard de Narbon was my father,
In what he did profess well found.
King
I knew him.

Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises, and oft it hits
Where hope is coldest and despair most shifts.
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Helen, to Bertram 
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.
King
Why then, young Bertram, take her. She’s thy wife.
Bertram 
My wife, my liege? I shall beseech your Highness
In such a business give me leave to use
The help of mine own eyes.
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Parolles
O my knave, how does my old lady?
Fool
So that you had her wrinkles and I her money, I
would she did as you say.
Parolles
Why, I say nothing.

To say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and
to have nothing is to be a great part of your title

Fool
Marry,
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Bertram, to Parolles
Is there any unkindness
between my lord and you, monsieur?
Parolles
I know not how I have deserved to run into
my lord’s displeasure.

There can be no kernel in this light nut;
the soul of this man is his clothes.

Lafew
You have made shift to run into ’t,
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Helen
Pray, sir, your pardon.
Bertram
Well, what would you say?

Strangers and foes do sunder and not kiss

Helen
I am not worthy of the wealth I owe,
Nor dare I say ’tis mine—and yet it is—
But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal
What law does vouch mine own.
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“Till I have no wife I have nothing in France.”
Nothing in France until he has no wife.
Thou shalt have none, Rossillion, none in France.
Then hast thou all again.

O you leaden messengers
That ride upon the violent speed of fire,
Fly with false aim; move the still-‘pearing air
That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord.
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Duke, to Bertram
The general of our horse thou art, and we,
Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence
Upon thy promising fortune.

Great Mars, I put myself into thy file.
Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove
A lover of thy drum, hater of love.

Bertram
Sir,
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Countess 
Alas! And would you take the letter of her?
Might you not know she would do as she has done
By sending me a letter? Read it again.

Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!

Steward reads the  letter
I am Saint Jaques’ pilgrim, thither gone.
Ambitious love hath so in me offended
That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon,
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