More happy do not make our outward wall

Thou shalt talk to the hand

Not bad for a "missing play," Edward III chronicles the exploits of the grandfather and father of Richard II. Generally accepted as at least partially penned by Shakespeare, it proves at least more engaging than Cardenio and the plot is reminiscent of the Henriad in places. History tells us that Edward III was actually a very effective leader, so it's entertaining to see the King's foolish wooing of the Countess of Salisbury contrasted with the victorious French war heroics of his son, the Black Prince. It also gives us some insight as to why Richard II's reign was such an epic disappointment.

The play begins with a lot of Scot-bashing, so no wonder it wasn't included in the First Folio; no one wanted to rile up King James in those days. Anyway, Edward goes to rescue the poor Countess from some dirty Scots and winds up thoroughly infatuated with the woman, nagging his secretary Ludowick with his paltry attempts at dictating some primo poetry to win her married hand. The countess is flattered, but sees through the King's hormonal haze and shows him nothing more enticing than her raised palm. Perhaps it was her initial flowery greeting at the gate of her manse that he mistook for flirtation:

Edward III, Act I, Sc. II

Countess of Salisbury: Let not thy presence, like the April sun,

Flatter our earth and suddenly be done.

More happy do not make our outward wall

Than thou wilt grace our inner house withal.

Our house, my liege, is like a country swain,

Whose habit rude and manners blunt and plain

Presageth nought, yet inly beautified

With bounties, riches and faire hidden pride.

For where the golden ore doth buried lie,

The ground, undecked with nature’s tapestry,

Seems barren, sere, unfertile, fructless, dry;

And where the upper turf of earth doth boast

His pied perfumes and party coloured coat,

Delve there, and find this issue and their pride

To spring from ordure and corruption’s side.

But, to make up my all too long compare,

These ragged walls no testimony are,

What is within; but, like a cloak, doth hide

From weather’s Waste the under garnished pride.

More gracious then my terms can let thee be,

Intreat thyself to stay a while with me.

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie

Helena, why do you love this jerk?

It's a tale worthy of Jerry Springer: a virtuous girl falls for a rich dude, he doesn't take notice until she cures the King, who insists the young man marries this wonderful physician, but the boy coldly yields and runs off to fight in the war, the girl goes after him, tricks him into sleeping with her, and the springe he set for himself--he said unless she wore his ring and got pregnant, he wouldn't call her his wife--ensnares him in the end. 

The wanker in question is Bertram, Count of Roussillion. The very determined lady is Helena, the orphaned daughter of a great doctor who is under the care of the dowager Countess of Roussillion. It's not just that Bertram is young, dumb, and horny (he thinks he's bedding a whore when it's actually Helena disguised in the dark bedroom), but that this poor girl actually cherishes the shit out of him, which rankles my modern-day sensibilities to no end. Sure, Helena proves herself very witty, educated, and clever in her quest to get this jag-off to call her his wife, but it smacks of just the kind of rom-com I would avoid if it were made into a film. Sans the benefit of the passionate banter and underlying adoration of Benedick and Beatrice, the concluding promise Bertram makes to love her completely lacks a truly enjoyable resolution. The titular sentiment of the play declares itself with a bemused shrug of the shoulders rather than a snarky "I told you so" grin. 

Despite all this, I cheer Helena's resilience in the face of terrible odds. Her speech poeticizes the species of inexplicable infatuation that is the mark of proper fangirling, as well as outlines a general self-proclaimed call-to-arms when it comes to getting shit done on your own... even though that project deceived you, you did it your way, Helena. Girl power!

All's Well That Ends Well, Act I, Sc. I

Helena: Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie

Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky

Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull 

Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. 

What power is it which mounts my love so high; 

That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye? 

The mightiest space in fortune nature brings 

To join like likes, and kiss like native things. 

Impossible be strange attempts to those 

That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose 

What hath been cannot be: who ever strove 

To show her merit, that did miss her love?

The king's disease, --my project may deceive me, 

But my intents are fix'd and will not leave me.