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I learn in this letter that Don
Pedro of Aragon comes this night to Messina.
He is very near by this. He was not three
leagues off when I left him.
55How many gentlemen have you lost in this
action?
But few of any sort, and none of name.
A victory is twice itself when the achiever
brings home full numbers. I find here that Don
1010Pedro hath bestowed much honor on a young
Florentine called Claudio.
Much deserved on his part, and equally
remembered by Don Pedro. He hath borne himself
beyond the promise of his age, doing in the figure
1515of a lamb the feats of a lion. He hath indeed better
bettered expectation than you must expect of me to
tell you how.
He hath an uncle here in Messina will be
very much glad of it.
2020I have already delivered him letters, and
there appears much joy in him, even so much that
joy could not show itself modest enough without a
badge of bitterness.
Did he break out into tears?
2525In great measure.
A kind overflow of kindness. There are no
faces truer than those that are so washed. How
much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at
weeping!
3030I pray you, is Signior Mountanto returned
from the wars or no?
I know none of that name, lady. There
was none such in the army of any sort.
What is he that you ask for, niece?
3535My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.
O, he’s returned, and as pleasant as ever
he was.
He set up his bills here in Messina and
challenged Cupid at the flight, and my uncle’s Fool,
4040reading the challenge, subscribed for Cupid and
challenged him at the bird-bolt. I pray you, how
many hath he killed and eaten in these wars? But
how many hath he killed? For indeed I promised to
eat all of his killing.
4545Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too
much, but he’ll be meet with you, I doubt it not.
He hath done good service, lady, in these
wars.
You had musty victual, and he hath holp to
5050eat it. He is a very valiant trencherman; he hath an
excellent stomach.
And a good soldier too, lady.
And a good soldier to a lady, but what is he
to a lord?
5555A lord to a lord, a man to a man, stuffed
with all honorable virtues.
It is so indeed. He is no less than a stuffed
man, but for the stuffing—well, we are all mortal.
You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is
6060a kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and
her. They never meet but there’s a skirmish of wit
between them.
Alas, he gets nothing by that. In our last
conflict, four of his five wits went halting off, and
6565now is the whole man governed with one, so that if
he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him
bear it for a difference between himself and his
horse, for it is all the wealth that he hath left to
be known a reasonable creature. Who is his companion
7070now? He hath every month a new sworn
brother.
Is ’t possible?
Very easily possible. He wears his faith but
as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the
7575next block.
I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your
books.
No. An he were, I would burn my study. But
I pray you, who is his companion? Is there no
8080young squarer now that will make a voyage with
him to the devil?
He is most in the company of the right
noble Claudio.
O Lord, he will hang upon him like a
8585disease! He is sooner caught than the pestilence,
and the taker runs presently mad. God help the
noble Claudio! If he have caught the Benedick, it
will cost him a thousand pound ere he be cured.
I will hold friends with you, lady.
9090Do, good friend.
You will never run mad, niece.
No, not till a hot January.
Don Pedro is approached.
Enter Don Pedro, Prince of Aragon, with Claudio,
Good Signior Leonato, are you come to meet
9595your trouble? The fashion of the world is to avoid
cost, and you encounter it.
Never came trouble to my house in the
likeness of your Grace, for trouble being gone,
comfort should remain, but when you depart from
100100me, sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.
You embrace your charge too willingly. Turning
to Hero. I think this is your daughter.
Her mother hath many times told me so.
Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?
105105Signior Benedick, no, for then were you a
child.
You have it full, Benedick. We may guess by
this what you are, being a man. Truly the lady
fathers herself.—Be happy, lady, for you are like
110110an honorable father.
If Signior Leonato be her father, she would
not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina,
as like him as she is.
I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior
115115Benedick, nobody marks you.
What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet
living?
Is it possible disdain should die while she
hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?
120120Courtesy itself must convert to disdain if you come
in her presence.
Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain
I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted; and
I would I could find in my heart that I had not a
125125hard heart, for truly I love none.
A dear happiness to women. They would
else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I
thank God and my cold blood I am of your humor
for that. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow
130130than a man swear he loves me.
God keep your Ladyship still in that mind,
so some gentleman or other shall ’scape a predestinate
scratched face.
Scratching could not make it worse an
135135’twere such a face as yours were.
Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.
A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of
yours.
I would my horse had the speed of your
140140tongue and so good a continuer, but keep your
way, i’ God’s name, I have done.
You always end with a jade’s trick. I know
you of old.
That is the sum of all, Leonato.—Signior
145145Claudio and Signior Benedick, my dear friend
Leonato hath invited you all. I tell him we shall stay
here at the least a month, and he heartily prays
some occasion may detain us longer. I dare swear
he is no hypocrite, but prays from his heart.
150150If you swear, my lord, you shall not be
forsworn. To Don John. Let me bid you welcome,
my lord, being reconciled to the Prince your brother,
I owe you all duty.
I thank you. I am not of many words, but I
155155thank you.
Please it your Grace lead on?
Your hand, Leonato. We will go together.
All exit except Benedick and Claudio.
Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of
Signior Leonato?
160160I noted her not, but I looked on her.
Is she not a modest young lady?
Do you question me as an honest man
should do, for my simple true judgment? Or would
you have me speak after my custom, as being a
165165professed tyrant to their sex?
No, I pray thee, speak in sober judgment.
Why, i’ faith, methinks she’s too low for a
high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too
little for a great praise. Only this commendation I
170170can afford her, that were she other than she is, she
were unhandsome, and being no other but as she is,
I do not like her.
Thou thinkest I am in sport. I pray thee tell
me truly how thou lik’st her.
175175Would you buy her that you enquire after
her?
Can the world buy such a jewel?
Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you
this with a sad brow? Or do you play the flouting
180180jack, to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder and
Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a
man take you to go in the song?
In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever
I looked on.
185185I can see yet without spectacles, and I see
no such matter. There’s her cousin, an she were not
possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in
beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.
But I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have
190190you?
I would scarce trust myself, though I had
sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my wife.
Is ’t come to this? In faith, hath not the
world one man but he will wear his cap with
195195suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore
again? Go to, i’ faith, an thou wilt needs thrust
thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it, and sigh
away Sundays. Look, Don Pedro is returned to seek
you.
200200What secret hath held you here that you followed
not to Leonato’s?
I would your Grace would constrain me to
tell.
I charge thee on thy allegiance.
205205You hear, Count Claudio, I can be secret as
a dumb man, I would have you think so, but on my
allegiance—mark you this, on my allegiance—he
is in love. With who? Now, that is your Grace’s part.
Mark how short his answer is: with Hero, Leonato’s
210210short daughter.
If this were so, so were it uttered.
Like the old tale, my lord: “It is not so, nor
’twas not so, but, indeed, God forbid it should be
so.”
215215If my passion change not shortly, God forbid
it should be otherwise.
Amen, if you love her, for the lady is very well
worthy.
You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.
220220By my troth, I speak my thought.
And in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.
And by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I
spoke mine.
That I love her, I feel.
225225That she is worthy, I know.
That I neither feel how she should be loved
nor know how she should be worthy is the opinion
that fire cannot melt out of me. I will die in it at the
stake.
230230Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the
despite of beauty.
And never could maintain his part but in the
force of his will.
That a woman conceived me, I thank her;
235235that she brought me up, I likewise give her most
humble thanks. But that I will have a recheat
winded in my forehead or hang my bugle in an
invisible baldrick, all women shall pardon me.
Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust
240240any, I will do myself the right to trust none. And the
fine is, for the which I may go the finer, I will live a
bachelor.
I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love.
With anger, with sickness, or with hunger,
245245my lord, not with love. Prove that ever I lose more
blood with love than I will get again with drinking,
pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker’s pen and
hang me up at the door of a brothel house for the
sign of blind Cupid.
250250Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou
wilt prove a notable argument.
If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and
shoot at me, and he that hits me, let him be clapped
on the shoulder and called Adam.
255255Well, as time shall try.
In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.
The savage bull may, but if ever the sensible
Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull’s horns and set
them in my forehead, and let me be vilely painted,
260260and in such great letters as they write “Here is good
horse to hire” let them signify under my sign “Here
you may see Benedick the married man.”
If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be
horn-mad.
265265Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in
Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly.
I look for an earthquake too, then.
Well, you will temporize with the hours. In the
meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to Leonato’s.
270270Commend me to him, and tell him I will not
fail him at supper, for indeed he hath made great
preparation.
I have almost matter enough in me for such
an embassage, and so I commit you—
275275To the tuition of God. From my house, if I had
it—
The sixth of July. Your loving friend,
Benedick.
Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your
280280discourse is sometimes guarded with fragments,
and the guards are but slightly basted on neither.
Ere you flout old ends any further, examine your
conscience. And so I leave you.
My liege, your Highness now may do me good.
285285My love is thine to teach. Teach it but how,
And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn
Any hard lesson that may do thee good.
Hath Leonato any son, my lord?
No child but Hero; she’s his only heir.
290290Dost thou affect her, Claudio?
O, my lord,
When you went onward on this ended action,
I looked upon her with a soldier’s eye,
That liked, but had a rougher task in hand
295295Than to drive liking to the name of love.
But now I am returned and that war thoughts
Have left their places vacant, in their rooms
Come thronging soft and delicate desires,
All prompting me how fair young Hero is,
300300Saying I liked her ere I went to wars.
Thou wilt be like a lover presently
And tire the hearer with a book of words.
If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it,
And I will break with her and with her father,
305305And thou shalt have her. Was ’t not to this end
That thou began’st to twist so fine a story?
How sweetly you do minister to love,
That know love’s grief by his complexion!
But lest my liking might too sudden seem,
310310I would have salved it with a longer treatise.
What need the bridge much broader than the flood?
The fairest grant is the necessity.
Look what will serve is fit. ’Tis once, thou lovest,
And I will fit thee with the remedy.
315315I know we shall have reveling tonight.
I will assume thy part in some disguise
And tell fair Hero I am Claudio,
And in her bosom I’ll unclasp my heart
And take her hearing prisoner with the force
320320And strong encounter of my amorous tale.
Then after to her father will I break,
And the conclusion is, she shall be thine.
In practice let us put it presently.
How now, brother, where is my cousin, your
325son? Hath he provided this music?
He is very busy about it. But,
brother, I can tell you strange news that you yet
5dreamt not of.
Are they good?
330As the events stamps them, but
they have a good cover; they show well outward.
The Prince and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached
10alley in mine orchard, were thus much
overheard by a man of mine: the Prince discovered
335to Claudio that he loved my niece your daughter and
meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance, and if
he found her accordant, he meant to take the
15present time by the top and instantly break with you
of it.
340Hath the fellow any wit that told you this?
A good sharp fellow. I will send
for him, and question him yourself.
20No, no, we will hold it as a dream till it
appear itself. But I will acquaint my daughter
345withal, that she may be the better prepared for an
answer, if peradventure this be true. Go you and tell
her of it.
Enter Antonio’s son, with a Musician and Attendants.
25Cousins, you know what you have to do.—O, I cry
you mercy, friend. Go you with me and I will use
350your skill.—Good cousin, have a care this busy
time.
What the goodyear, my lord, why are you
thus out of measure sad?
There is no measure in the occasion that
355breeds. Therefore the sadness is without limit.
5You should hear reason.
And when I have heard it, what blessing
brings it?
If not a present remedy, at least a patient
360sufferance.
10I wonder that thou, being, as thou sayst thou
art, born under Saturn, goest about to apply a moral
medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide
what I am. I must be sad when I have cause, and
365smile at no man’s jests; eat when I have stomach,
15and wait for no man’s leisure; sleep when I am
drowsy, and tend on no man’s business; laugh when
I am merry, and claw no man in his humor.
Yea, but you must not make the full show of
370this till you may do it without controlment. You
20have of late stood out against your brother, and he
hath ta’en you newly into his grace, where it is
impossible you should take true root but by the fair
weather that you make yourself. It is needful that
375you frame the season for your own harvest.
25I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a
rose in his grace, and it better fits my blood to be
disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob
love from any. In this, though I cannot be said to be
380a flattering honest man, it must not be denied but I
30am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted with a
muzzle and enfranchised with a clog; therefore I
have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my
mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do
385my liking. In the meantime, let me be that I am, and
35seek not to alter me.
Can you make no use of your discontent?
I make all use of it, for I use it only. Who
comes here?
Enter Borachio.
390What news, Borachio?
40I came yonder from a great supper. The
Prince your brother is royally entertained by
Leonato, and I can give you intelligence of an
intended marriage.
395Will it serve for any model to build mischief
45on? What is he for a fool that betroths himself to
unquietness?
Marry, it is your brother’s right hand.
Who, the most exquisite Claudio?
400Even he.
50A proper squire. And who, and who? Which
way looks he?
Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of
Leonato.
405A very forward March chick! How came you
55to this?
Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was
smoking a musty room, comes me the Prince and
Claudio, hand in hand, in sad conference. I
410whipped me behind the arras, and there heard it
60agreed upon that the Prince should woo Hero for
himself, and having obtained her, give her to Count
Claudio.
Come, come, let us thither. This may prove
415food to my displeasure. That young start-up hath
65all the glory of my overthrow. If I can cross him any
way, I bless myself every way. You are both sure, and
will assist me?
To the death, my lord.
420Let us to the great supper. Their cheer is the
70greater that I am subdued. Would the cook were o’
my mind! Shall we go prove what’s to be done?
We’ll wait upon your Lordship.
They exit.Was not Count John here at supper?
425I saw him not.
How tartly that gentleman looks! I never
can see him but I am heartburned an hour after.
5He is of a very melancholy disposition.
He were an excellent man that were made
430just in the midway between him and Benedick. The
one is too like an image and says nothing, and the
other too like my lady’s eldest son, evermore
10tattling.
Then half Signior Benedick’s tongue in
435Count John’s mouth, and half Count John’s melancholy
in Signior Benedick’s face—
With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and
15money enough in his purse, such a man would win
any woman in the world if he could get her
440goodwill.
By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a
husband if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.
20In faith, she’s too curst.
Too curst is more than curst. I shall lessen
445God’s sending that way, for it is said “God sends a
curst cow short horns,” but to a cow too curst, he
sends none.
25So, by being too curst, God will send you no
horns.
450Just, if He send me no husband, for the
which blessing I am at Him upon my knees every
morning and evening. Lord, I could not endure a
30husband with a beard on his face. I had rather lie in
the woolen!
455You may light on a husband that hath no
beard.
What should I do with him? Dress him in my
35apparel and make him my waiting gentlewoman?
He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he
460that hath no beard is less than a man; and he that is
more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less
than a man, I am not for him. Therefore I will even
40take sixpence in earnest of the bearherd, and lead
his apes into hell.
465Well then, go you into hell?
No, but to the gate, and there will the devil
meet me like an old cuckold with horns on his
45head, and say “Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you
to heaven; here’s no place for you maids.” So deliver
470I up my apes and away to Saint Peter; for the
heavens, he shows me where the bachelors sit, and
there live we as merry as the day is long.
50Well, niece, I trust you
will be ruled by your father.
475Yes, faith, it is my cousin’s duty to make
curtsy and say “Father, as it please you.” But yet for
all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or
55else make another curtsy and say “Father, as it
please me.”
480Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted
with a husband.
Not till God make men of some other metal
60than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be
overmastered with a piece of valiant dust? To make
485an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl?
No, uncle, I’ll none. Adam’s sons are my brethren,
and truly I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.
65Daughter, remember what I told
you. If the Prince do solicit you in that kind, you
490know your answer.
The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you
be not wooed in good time. If the Prince be too
70important, tell him there is measure in everything,
and so dance out the answer. For hear me, Hero,
495wooing, wedding, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a
measure, and a cinquepace. The first suit is hot and
hasty like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the
75wedding, mannerly modest as a measure, full of
state and ancientry; and then comes repentance,
500and with his bad legs falls into the cinquepace faster
and faster till he sink into his grave.
Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.
80I have a good eye, uncle; I can see a church
by daylight.
505The revelers are entering, brother. Make
good room.
Lady, will you walk a bout with your
85friend?
So you walk softly, and look sweetly, and say
510nothing, I am yours for the walk, and especially
when I walk away.
With me in your company?
90I may say so when I please.
And when please you to say so?
515When I like your favor, for God defend the lute
should be like the case.
My visor is Philemon’s roof; within the house
95is Jove.
Why, then, your visor should be thatched.
520Speak low if you speak love.
They move aside;Well, I would you did like me.
So would not I for your own sake, for I have
100many ill qualities.
Which is one?
525I say my prayers aloud.
I love you the better; the hearers may cry
“Amen.”
105God match me with a good dancer.
They separate; Benedick moves aside;Amen.
530And God keep him out of my sight when the
dance is done. Answer, clerk.
No more words. The clerk is answered.
They move aside;
110I know you well enough. You are Signior
Antonio.
535At a word, I am not.
I know you by the waggling of your head.
To tell you true, I counterfeit him.
115You could never do him so ill-well unless you
were the very man. Here’s his dry hand up and
540down. You are he, you are he.
At a word, I am not.
Come, come, do you think I do not know you
120by your excellent wit? Can virtue hide itself? Go to,
mum, you are he. Graces will appear, and there’s an
545end.
Will you not tell me who told you so?
No, you shall pardon me.
125Nor will you not tell me who you are?
Not now.
550That I was disdainful, and that I had my
good wit out of ! Well, this
was Signior Benedick that said so.
130What’s he?
I am sure you know him well enough.
555Not I, believe me.
Did he never make you laugh?
I pray you, what is he?
135Why, he is the Prince’s jester, a very dull
fool; only his gift is in devising impossible slanders.
560None but libertines delight in him, and the commendation
is not in his wit but in his villainy, for he
both pleases men and angers them, and then they
140laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in the
fleet.I would he had boarded me.
565When I know the gentleman, I’ll tell him
what you say.
Do, do. He’ll but break a comparison or two
145on me, which peradventure not marked or not
laughed at strikes him into melancholy, and then
570there’s a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat
no supper that night. Music for the dance. We must
follow the leaders.
150In every good thing.
Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them
575at the next turning.
Sure my brother is amorous
on Hero, and hath withdrawn her father to break
155with him about it. The ladies follow her, and but one
visor remains.
580And that is Claudio. I know him by his
bearing.
Are not you Signior Benedick?
160You know me well. I am he.
Signior, you are very near my brother in his
585love. He is enamored on Hero. I pray you dissuade
him from her. She is no equal for his birth. You
may do the part of an honest man in it.
165How know you he loves her?
I heard him swear his affection.
590So did I too, and he swore he would marry
her tonight.
Come, let us to the banquet.
They exit. Claudio remains.
170Thus answer I in name of Benedick,
But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.
595’Tis certain so. The Prince woos for himself.
Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love.
175Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues.
Let every eye negotiate for itself
600And trust no agent, for beauty is a witch
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.
This is an accident of hourly proof,
180Which I mistrusted not. Farewell therefore, Hero.
Count Claudio?
605Yea, the same.
Come, will you go with me?
Whither?
185Even to the next willow, about your own
business, county. What fashion will you wear the
610garland of? About your neck like an usurer’s chain?
Or under your arm like a lieutenant’s scarf? You
must wear it one way, for the Prince hath got your
190Hero.
I wish him joy of her.
615Why, that’s spoken like an honest drover; so
they sell bullocks. But did you think the Prince
would have served you thus?
195I pray you, leave me.
Ho, now you strike like the blind man.
620’Twas the boy that stole your meat, and you’ll beat
the post.
If it will not be, I’ll leave you.
He exits.
200Alas, poor hurt fowl, now will he creep into
sedges. But that my Lady Beatrice should know
625me, and not know me! The Prince’s fool! Ha, it may
be I go under that title because I am merry. Yea, but
so I am apt to do myself wrong. I am not so reputed!
205It is the base, though bitter, disposition of Beatrice
that puts the world into her person and so gives me
630out. Well, I’ll be revenged as I may.
Now, signior, where’s the Count? Did you see
him?
210Troth, my lord, I have played the part of
Lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a
635lodge in a warren. I told him, and I think I told him
true, that your Grace had got the goodwill of this
young lady, and I offered him my company to a
215willow tree, either to make him a garland, as being
forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to
640be whipped.
To be whipped? What’s his fault?
The flat transgression of a schoolboy who,
220being overjoyed with finding a bird’s nest, shows it
his companion, and he steals it.
645Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The
transgression is in the stealer.
Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been
225made, and the garland too, for the garland he
might have worn himself, and the rod he might
650have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stolen
his bird’s nest.
I will but teach them to sing and restore them
230to the owner.
If their singing answer your saying, by my
655faith, you say honestly.
The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you. The
gentleman that danced with her told her she is
235much wronged by you.
O, she misused me past the endurance of a
660block! An oak but with one green leaf on it would
have answered her. My very visor began to assume
life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I
240had been myself, that I was the Prince’s jester, that I
was duller than a great thaw, huddling jest upon jest
665with such impossible conveyance upon me that I
stood like a man at a mark with a whole army
shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every
245word stabs. If her breath were as terrible as her
terminations, there were no living near her; she
670would infect to the North Star. I would not marry
her though she were endowed with all that Adam
had left him before he transgressed. She would have
250made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have cleft
his club to make the fire, too. Come, talk not of her.
675You shall find her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I
would to God some scholar would conjure her, for
certainly, while she is here, a man may live as quiet
255in hell as in a sanctuary, and people sin upon
purpose because they would go thither. So indeed
680all disquiet, horror, and perturbation follows her.
Look, here she comes.
Will your Grace command me any service
260to the world’s end? I will go on the slightest errand
now to the Antipodes that you can devise to send
685me on. I will fetch you a toothpicker now from the
furthest inch of Asia, bring you the length of Prester
John’s foot, fetch you a hair off the great Cham’s
265beard, do you any embassage to the Pygmies, rather
than hold three words’ conference with this harpy.
690You have no employment for me?
None but to desire your good company.
O God, sir, here’s a dish I love not! I cannot
270endure my Lady Tongue.
Come, lady, come, you have lost
695the heart of Signior Benedick.
Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile, and I
gave him use for it, a double heart for his single
275one. Marry, once before he won it of me with false
dice. Therefore your Grace may well say I have lost
700it.
You have put him down, lady, you have put
him down.
280So I would not he should do me, my lord,
lest I should prove the mother of fools. I have
705brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.
Why, how now, count, wherefore are you sad?
Not sad, my lord.
285How then, sick?
Neither, my lord.
710The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry,
nor well, but civil count, civil as an orange, and
something of that jealous complexion.
290I’ faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true,
though I’ll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is
715false.—Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name,
and fair Hero is won. I have broke with her father
and his goodwill obtained. Name the day of marriage,
295and God give thee joy.
Count, take of me my daughter, and with her
720my fortunes. His Grace hath made the match, and
all grace say “Amen” to it.
Speak, count, ’tis your cue.
300Silence is the perfectest herald of joy. I were
but little happy if I could say how much.—Lady, as
725you are mine, I am yours. I give away myself for you
and dote upon the exchange.
Speak, cousin, or, if you cannot, stop his
305mouth with a kiss and let not him speak neither.
In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.
730Yea, my lord. I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on
the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear
that he is in her heart.
310And so she doth, cousin.
Good Lord for alliance! Thus goes everyone
735to the world but I, and I am sunburnt. I may sit in a
corner and cry “Heigh-ho for a husband!”
Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.
315I would rather have one of your father’s
getting. Hath your Grace ne’er a brother like you?
740Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could
come by them.
Will you have me, lady?
320No, my lord, unless I might have another for
working days. Your Grace is too costly to wear
745every day. But I beseech your Grace pardon me. I
was born to speak all mirth and no matter.
Your silence most offends me, and to be merry
325best becomes you, for out o’ question you were
born in a merry hour.
750No, sure, my lord, my mother cried, but then
there was a star danced, and under that was I
born.—Cousins, God give you joy!
330Niece, will you look to those things I told
you of?
755I cry you mercy, uncle.—By your Grace’s
pardon.
By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.
335There’s little of the melancholy element in
her, my lord. She is never sad but when she sleeps,
760and not ever sad then, for I have heard my daughter
say she hath often dreamt of unhappiness and
waked herself with laughing.
340She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.
O, by no means. She mocks all her wooers
765out of suit.
She were an excellent wife for Benedick.
O Lord, my lord, if they were but a week
345married, they would talk themselves mad.
County Claudio, when mean you to go to
770church?
Tomorrow, my lord. Time goes on crutches
till love have all his rites.
350Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence
a just sevennight, and a time too brief, too, to have
775all things answer my mind.
Come, you shake the head at so
long a breathing, but I warrant thee, Claudio, the
355time shall not go dully by us. I will in the interim
undertake one of Hercules’ labors, which is to bring
780Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a
mountain of affection, th’ one with th’ other. I
would fain have it a match, and I doubt not but to
360fashion it, if you three will but minister such
assistance as I shall give you direction.
785My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten
nights’ watchings.
And I, my lord.
365And you too, gentle Hero?
I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my
790cousin to a good husband.
And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband
that I know. Thus far can I praise him: he is of
370a noble strain, of approved valor, and confirmed
honesty. I will teach you how to humor your
795cousin that she shall fall in love with Benedick.—
And I, with your two helps, will so practice on
Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his
375queasy stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice.
If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer; his
800glory shall be ours, for we are the only love gods. Go
in with me, and I will tell you my drift.
It is so. The Count Claudio shall marry the
daughter of Leonato.
Yea, my lord, but I can cross it.
805Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be
5med’cinable to me. I am sick in displeasure to him,
and whatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges
evenly with mine. How canst thou cross this
marriage?
810Not honestly, my lord, but so covertly that
10no dishonesty shall appear in me.
Show me briefly how.
I think I told your Lordship a year since,
how much I am in the favor of Margaret, the
815waiting gentlewoman to Hero.
15I remember.
I can, at any unseasonable instant of the
night, appoint her to look out at her lady’s chamber
window.
820What life is in that to be the death of this
20marriage?
The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go
you to the Prince your brother; spare not to tell
him that he hath wronged his honor in marrying
825the renowned Claudio, whose estimation do you
25mightily hold up, to a contaminated stale, such a
one as Hero.
What proof shall I make of that?
Proof enough to misuse the Prince, to vex
830Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato. Look you
30for any other issue?
Only to despite them I will endeavor
anything.
Go then, find me a meet hour to draw Don
835Pedro and the Count Claudio alone. Tell them that
35you know that Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal
both to the Prince and Claudio, as in love of your
brother’s honor, who hath made this match, and his
friend’s reputation, who is thus like to be cozened
840with the semblance of a maid, that you have discovered
40thus. They will scarcely believe this without
trial. Offer them instances, which shall bear no less
likelihood than to see me at her chamber window,
hear me call Margaret “Hero,” hear Margaret term
845me “Claudio,” and bring them to see this the very
45night before the intended wedding, for in the meantime
I will so fashion the matter that Hero shall be
absent, and there shall appear such seeming truth
of Hero’s disloyalty that jealousy shall be called
850assurance and all the preparation overthrown.
50Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will
put it in practice. Be cunning in the working this,
and thy fee is a thousand ducats.
Be you constant in the accusation, and my
855cunning shall not shame me.
55I will presently go learn their day of
marriage.
Boy!
Enter Boy.Signior?
860In my chamber window lies a book. Bring it
hither to me in the orchard.
5I am here already, sir.
I know that, but I would have thee hence
and here again.Boy exits.
865I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much
another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviors
10to love, will, after he hath laughed at such
shallow follies in others, become the argument of
his own scorn by falling in love—and such a man is
870Claudio. I have known when there was no music
with him but the drum and the fife, and now had he
15rather hear the tabor and the pipe; I have known
when he would have walked ten mile afoot to see a
good armor, and now will he lie ten nights awake
875carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont
to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest
20man and a soldier, and now is he turned orthography;
his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so
many strange dishes. May I be so converted and see
880with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not. I will not
be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster,
25but I’ll take my oath on it, till he have made an
oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool.
One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet
885I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all
graces be in one woman, one woman shall not
30come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that’s certain;
wise, or I’ll none; virtuous, or I’ll never cheapen
her; fair, or I’ll never look on her; mild, or come not
890near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good
discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall
35be of what color it please God. Ha! The Prince and
Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbor.
Come, shall we hear this music?
895Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is,
As hushed on purpose to grace harmony!
40See you where Benedick hath hid himself?
O, very well my lord. The music ended,
We’ll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth.
900Come, Balthasar, we’ll hear that song again.
O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice
45To slander music any more than once.
It is the witness still of excellency
To put a strange face on his own perfection.
905I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.
Because you talk of wooing, I will sing,
50Since many a wooer doth commence his suit
To her he thinks not worthy, yet he woos,
Yet will he swear he loves.
910Nay, pray thee, come,
Or if thou wilt hold longer argument,
55Do it in notes.
Note this before my notes:
There’s not a note of mine that’s worth the noting.
915Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks!
Note notes, forsooth, and nothing.
60Now, divine air! Now is his soul
ravished. Is it not strange that sheeps’ guts should
hale souls out of men’s bodies? Well, a horn for my
920money, when all’s done.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
65Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
925Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
70Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Hey, nonny nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no mo,
930Of dumps so dull and heavy.
The fraud of men was ever so,
75Since summer first was leavy.
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
935Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Hey, nonny nonny.
80By my troth, a good song.
And an ill singer, my lord.
Ha, no, no, faith, thou sing’st well enough for a
940shift.
An he had been a dog that should
85have howled thus, they would have hanged him. And
I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had as
lief have heard the night raven, come what plague
945could have come after it.
Yea, marry, dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray
90thee get us some excellent music, for tomorrow
night we would have it at the Lady Hero’s chamber
window.
950The best I can, my lord.
Do so. Farewell.Balthasar exits.
95Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of
today, that your niece Beatrice was in love with
Signior Benedick?
955O, ay. Aside to Prince. Stalk on, stalk on; the
fowl sits.—I did never think that lady would have
100loved any man.
No, nor I neither, but most wonderful that
she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she
960hath in all outward behaviors seemed ever to
abhor.
105Is ’t possible? Sits the wind in that
corner?
By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to
965think of it, but that she loves him with an enraged
affection, it is past the infinite of thought.
110Maybe she doth but counterfeit.
Faith, like enough.
O God! Counterfeit? There was never counterfeit
970of passion came so near the life of passion as
she discovers it.
115Why, what effects of passion shows she?
Bait the hook well; this fish
will bite.
975What effects, my lord? She will sit you—you
heard my daughter tell you how.
120She did indeed.
How, how I pray you? You amaze me. I would
have thought her spirit had been invincible against
980all assaults of affection.
I would have sworn it had, my lord, especially
125against Benedick.
I should think this a gull but that the
white-bearded fellow speaks it. Knavery cannot,
985sure, hide himself in such reverence.
He hath ta’en th’ infection.
130Hold it up.
Hath she made her affection known to
Benedick?
990No, and swears she never will. That’s her
torment.
135’Tis true indeed, so your daughter says. “Shall
I,” says she, “that have so oft encountered him with
scorn, write to him that I love him?”
995This says she now when she is beginning to
write to him, for she’ll be up twenty times a night,
140and there will she sit in her smock till she have writ
a sheet of paper. My daughter tells us all.
Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember
1000a pretty jest your daughter told us of.
O, when she had writ it and was reading it
145over, she found “Benedick” and “Beatrice” between
the sheet?
That.
1005O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence,
railed at herself that she should be so
150immodest to write to one that she knew would flout
her. “I measure him,” says she, “by my own spirit,
for I should flout him if he writ to me, yea, though I
1010love him, I should.”
Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps,
155sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses:
“O sweet Benedick, God give me patience!”
She doth indeed, my daughter says so, and
1015the ecstasy hath so much overborne her that my
daughter is sometimes afeared she will do a desperate
160outrage to herself. It is very true.
It were good that Benedick knew of it by some
other, if she will not discover it.
1020To what end? He would make but a sport of it
and torment the poor lady worse.
165An he should, it were an alms to hang him.
She’s an excellent sweet lady, and, out of all suspicion,
she is virtuous.
1025And she is exceeding wise.
In everything but in loving Benedick.
170O, my lord, wisdom and blood combating in
so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that
blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have
1030just cause, being her uncle and her guardian.
I would she had bestowed this dotage on me. I
175would have daffed all other respects and made her
half myself. I pray you tell Benedick of it, and hear
what he will say.
1035Were it good, think you?
Hero thinks surely she will die, for she says
180she will die if he love her not, and she will die ere
she make her love known, and she will die if he woo
her rather than she will bate one breath of her
1040accustomed crossness.
She doth well. If she should make tender of
185her love, ’tis very possible he’ll scorn it, for the man,
as you know all, hath a contemptible spirit.
He is a very proper man.
1045He hath indeed a good outward happiness.
Before God, and in my mind, very wise.
190He doth indeed show some sparks that are like
wit.
And I take him to be valiant.
1050As Hector, I assure you, and in the managing
of quarrels you may say he is wise, for either he
195avoids them with great discretion or undertakes
them with a most Christianlike fear.
If he do fear God, he must necessarily keep
1055peace. If he break the peace, he ought to enter into
a quarrel with fear and trembling.
200And so will he do, for the man doth fear God,
howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests
he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall
1060we go seek Benedick and tell him of her love?
Never tell him, my lord, let her wear it out
205with good counsel.
Nay, that’s impossible; she may wear her
heart out first.
1065Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter.
Let it cool the while. I love Benedick well, and I
210could wish he would modestly examine himself to
see how much he is unworthy so good a lady.
My lord, will you walk? Dinner is ready.
Leonato, Prince, and Claudio begin to exit.
1070If he do not
dote on her upon this, I will never trust my
215expectation.
Let there be the same net
spread for her, and that must your daughter and her
1075gentlewomen carry. The sport will be when they
hold one an opinion of another’s dotage, and no
220such matter. That’s the scene that I would see,
which will be merely a dumb show. Let us send her
to call him in to dinner.
1080This can be no trick. The
conference was sadly borne; they have the truth of
225this from Hero; they seem to pity the lady. It seems
her affections have their full bent. Love me? Why, it
must be requited! I hear how I am censured. They
1085say I will bear myself proudly if I perceive the love
come from her. They say, too, that she will rather
230die than give any sign of affection. I did never think
to marry. I must not seem proud. Happy are they
that hear their detractions and can put them to
1090mending. They say the lady is fair; ’tis a truth, I can
bear them witness. And virtuous; ’tis so, I cannot
235reprove it. And wise, but for loving me; by my troth,
it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of
her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her! I
1095may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of
wit broken on me because I have railed so long
240against marriage, but doth not the appetite alter? A
man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot
endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and
1100these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the
career of his humor? No! The world must be peopled.
245When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not
think I should live till I were married. Here comes
Beatrice. By this day, she’s a fair lady. I do spy some
1105marks of love in her.
Against my will, I am sent to bid you come
250in to dinner.
Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.
I took no more pains for those thanks than
1110you take pains to thank me. If it had been painful, I
would not have come.
255You take pleasure then in the message?
Yea, just so much as you may take upon a
knife’s point and choke a daw withal. You have no
1115stomach, signior. Fare you well.
Ha! “Against my will I am sent to bid you
260come in to dinner.” There’s a double meaning in
that. “I took no more pains for those thanks than
you took pains to thank me.” That’s as much as to
1120say “Any pains that I take for you is as easy as
thanks.” If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I
265do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture.
Good Margaret, run thee to the parlor.
There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice
1125Proposing with the Prince and Claudio.
Whisper her ear and tell her I and Ursula
5Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse
Is all of her. Say that thou overheardst us,
And bid her steal into the pleachèd bower
1130Where honeysuckles ripened by the sun
Forbid the sun to enter, like favorites,
10Made proud by princes, that advance their pride
Against that power that bred it. There will she hide
her
1135To listen our propose. This is thy office.
Bear thee well in it, and leave us alone.
15I’ll make her come, I warrant you, presently.
Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come,
As we do trace this alley up and down,
1140Our talk must only be of Benedick.
When I do name him, let it be thy part
20To praise him more than ever man did merit.
My talk to thee must be how Benedick
Is sick in love with Beatrice. Of this matter
1145Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made,
That only wounds by hearsay. Now begin,
25For look where Beatrice like a lapwing runs
Close by the ground, to hear our conference.
The pleasant’st angling is to see the fish
1150Cut with her golden oars the silver stream
And greedily devour the treacherous bait.
30So angle we for Beatrice, who even now
Is couchèd in the woodbine coverture.
Fear you not my part of the dialogue.
1155Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing
Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.—
They walk near the bower.
35No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful.
I know her spirits are as coy and wild
As haggards of the rock.
1160But are you sure
That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?
40So says the Prince and my new-trothèd lord.
And did they bid you tell her of it, madam?
They did entreat me to acquaint her of it,
1165But I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick,
To wish him wrestle with affection
45And never to let Beatrice know of it.
Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman
Deserve as full as fortunate a bed
1170As ever Beatrice shall couch upon?
O god of love! I know he doth deserve
50As much as may be yielded to a man,
But Nature never framed a woman’s heart
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice.
1175Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprizing what they look on, and her wit
55Values itself so highly that to her
All matter else seems weak. She cannot love,
Nor take no shape nor project of affection,
1180She is so self-endeared.
Sure, I think so,
60And therefore certainly it were not good
She knew his love, lest she’ll make sport at it.
Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man,
1185How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured,
But she would spell him backward. If fair-faced,
65She would swear the gentleman should be her
sister;
If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antic,
1190Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed;
If low, an agate very vilely cut;
70If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;
If silent, why, a block moved with none.
So turns she every man the wrong side out,
1195And never gives to truth and virtue that
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.
75Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.
No, not to be so odd and from all fashions
As Beatrice is cannot be commendable.
1200But who dare tell her so? If I should speak,
She would mock me into air. O, she would laugh
80me
Out of myself, press me to death with wit.
Therefore let Benedick, like covered fire,
1205Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly.
It were a better death than die with mocks,
85Which is as bad as die with tickling.
Yet tell her of it. Hear what she will say.
No, rather I will go to Benedick
1210And counsel him to fight against his passion;
And truly I’ll devise some honest slanders
90To stain my cousin with. One doth not know
How much an ill word may empoison liking.
O, do not do your cousin such a wrong!
1215She cannot be so much without true judgment,
Having so swift and excellent a wit
95As she is prized to have, as to refuse
So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.
He is the only man of Italy,
1220Always excepted my dear Claudio.
I pray you be not angry with me, madam,
100Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick,
For shape, for bearing, argument, and valor,
Goes foremost in report through Italy.
1225Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.
His excellence did earn it ere he had it.
105When are you married, madam?
Why, every day, tomorrow. Come, go in.
I’ll show thee some attires and have thy counsel
1230Which is the best to furnish me tomorrow.
She’s limed, I warrant you. We have caught her,
110madam.
If it prove so, then loving goes by haps;
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
1235What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much?
115Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adieu!
No glory lives behind the back of such.
And Benedick, love on; I will requite thee,
1240Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand.
If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee
120To bind our loves up in a holy band.
For others say thou dost deserve, and I
Believe it better than reportingly.
1245I do but stay till your marriage be consummate,
and then go I toward Aragon.
I’ll bring you thither, my lord, if you’ll vouchsafe
me.
5Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new
1250gloss of your marriage as to show a child his new
coat and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold
with Benedick for his company, for from the crown
of his head to the sole of his foot he is all mirth. He
10hath twice or thrice cut Cupid’s bowstring, and the
1255little hangman dare not shoot at him. He hath a
heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the
clapper, for what his heart thinks, his tongue
speaks.
15Gallants, I am not as I have been.
1260So say I. Methinks you are sadder.
I hope he be in love.
Hang him, truant! There’s no true drop of
blood in him to be truly touched with love. If he be
20sad, he wants money.
1265I have the toothache.
Draw it.
Hang it!
You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards.
25What, sigh for the toothache?
1270Where is but a humor or a worm.
Well, everyone can master a grief but he
that has it.
Yet say I, he is in love.
30There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless
1275it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises, as to
be a Dutchman today, a Frenchman tomorrow, or
in the shape of two countries at once, as a German
from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard
35from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a
1280fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no
fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is.
If he be not in love with some woman, there
is no believing old signs. He brushes his hat o’
40mornings. What should that bode?
1285Hath any man seen him at the barber’s?
No, but the barber’s man hath been seen
with him, and the old ornament of his cheek hath
already stuffed tennis balls.
45Indeed he looks younger than he did, by the
1290loss of a beard.
Nay, he rubs himself with civet. Can you smell
him out by that?
That’s as much as to say, the sweet youth’s in
50love.
1295The greatest note of it is his melancholy.
And when was he wont to wash his face?
Yea, or to paint himself? For the which I hear
what they say of him.
55Nay, but his jesting spirit, which is now crept
1300into a lute string and now governed by stops—
Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude,
conclude, he is in love.
Nay, but I know who loves him.
60That would I know, too. I warrant, one that
1305knows him not.
Yes, and his ill conditions; and, in despite of
all, dies for him.
She shall be buried with her face upwards.
65Yet is this no charm for the toothache.—
1310Old signior, walk aside with me. I have studied eight
or nine wise words to speak to you, which these
hobby-horses must not hear.
For my life, to break with him about Beatrice!
70’Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this
1315played their parts with Beatrice, and then the two
bears will not bite one another when they meet.
My lord and brother, God save you.
Good e’en, brother.
75If your leisure served, I would speak with
1320you.
In private?
If it please you. Yet Count Claudio may
hear, for what I would speak of concerns him.
80What’s the matter?
1325Means your Lordship to be
married tomorrow?
You know he does.
I know not that, when he knows what I
85know.
1330If there be any impediment, I pray you discover
it.
You may think I love you not. Let that
appear hereafter, and aim better at me by that I
90now will manifest. For my brother, I think he holds
1335you well, and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect
your ensuing marriage—surely suit ill spent and
labor ill bestowed.
Why, what’s the matter?
95I came hither to tell you; and, circumstances
1340shortened, for she has been too long
a-talking of, the lady is disloyal.
Who, Hero?
Even she: Leonato’s Hero, your Hero, every
100man’s Hero.
1345Disloyal?
The word is too good to paint out her
wickedness. I could say she were worse. Think you
of a worse title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not
105till further warrant. Go but with me tonight, you
1350shall see her chamber window entered, even the
night before her wedding day. If you love her then,
tomorrow wed her. But it would better fit your
honor to change your mind.
110May this be so?
1355I will not think it.
If you dare not trust that you see, confess
not that you know. If you will follow me, I will
show you enough, and when you have seen more
115and heard more, proceed accordingly.
1360If I see anything tonight why I should not
marry her, tomorrow in the congregation, where I
should wed, there will I shame her.
And as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will
120join with thee to disgrace her.
1365I will disparage her no farther till you are
my witnesses. Bear it coldly but till midnight, and
let the issue show itself.
O day untowardly turned!
125O mischief strangely thwarting!
1370O plague right well prevented! So will you
say when you have seen the sequel.
Are you good men and true?
Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer
salvation, body and soul.
1375Nay, that were a punishment too good for
5them if they should have any allegiance in them,
being chosen for the Prince’s watch.
Well, give them their charge, neighbor
Dogberry.
1380First, who think you the most desartless
10man to be constable?
Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal,
for they can write and read.
Come hither, neighbor Seacoal. Seacoal
steps forward. 1385God hath blessed you with a good
15name. To be a well-favored man is the gift of
fortune, but to write and read comes by nature.
Both which, master constable—
You have. I knew it would be your answer.
1390Well, for your favor, sir, why, give God thanks, and
20make no boast of it, and for your writing and
reading, let that appear when there is no need of
such vanity. You are thought here to be the most
senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch;
1395therefore bear you the lantern. This is your charge:
25you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to
bid any man stand, in the Prince’s name.
How if he will not stand?
Why, then, take no note of him, but let him
1400go, and presently call the rest of the watch together
30and thank God you are rid of a knave.
If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is
none of the Prince’s subjects.
True, and they are to meddle with none but
1405the Prince’s subjects.—You shall also make no
35noise in the streets; for, for the watch to babble and
to talk is most tolerable and not to be endured.
We will rather sleep than talk.
We know what belongs to a watch.
1410Why, you speak like an ancient and most
40quiet watchman, for I cannot see how sleeping
should offend; only have a care that your bills be not
stolen. Well, you are to call at all the alehouses and
bid those that are drunk get them to bed.
1415How if they will not?
45Why then, let them alone till they are sober.
If they make you not then the better answer, you
may say they are not the men you took them for.
Well, sir.
1420If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by
50virtue of your office, to be no true man, and for such
kind of men, the less you meddle or make with
them, why, the more is for your honesty.
If we know him to be a thief, shall we not
1425lay hands on him?
55Truly, by your office you may, but I think
they that touch pitch will be defiled. The most
peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to
let him show himself what he is and steal out of
1430your company.
60You have been always called a merciful man,
partner.
Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will,
much more a man who hath any honesty in him.
1435If you hear a child cry in the
65night, you must call to the nurse and bid her still it.
How if the nurse be asleep and
will not hear us?
Why, then depart in peace, and let the
1440child wake her with crying, for the ewe that will
70not hear her lamb when it baas will never answer a
calf when he bleats.
’Tis very true.
This is the end of the charge. You, constable,
1445are to present the Prince’s own person. If you
75meet the Prince in the night, you may stay him.
Nay, by ’r Lady, that I think he cannot.
Five shillings to one on ’t, with any man that
knows the statutes, he may stay him—marry, not
1450without the Prince be willing, for indeed the watch
80ought to offend no man, and it is an offense to stay a
man against his will.
By ’r Lady, I think it be so.
Ha, ah ha!—Well, masters, goodnight. An
1455there be any matter of weight chances, call up me.
85Keep your fellows’ counsels and your own, and
goodnight.—Come, neighbor.
Well, masters, we hear our charge. Let us go
sit here upon the church bench till two, and then all
1460to bed.
90One word more, honest neighbors. I pray
you watch about Signior Leonato’s door, for the
wedding being there tomorrow, there is a great coil
tonight. Adieu, be vigitant, I beseech you.
1465What, Conrade!
95Peace, stir not.
Conrade, I say!
Here, man, I am at thy elbow.
Mass, and my elbow itched, I thought there
1470would a scab follow.
100I will owe thee an answer for that. And now
forward with thy tale.
Stand thee close, then, under this penthouse,
for it drizzles rain, and I will, like a true
1475drunkard, utter all to thee.
105Some treason, masters. Yet stand
close.
Therefore know, I have earned of Don
John a thousand ducats.
1480Is it possible that any villainy should be so
110dear?
Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible
any villainy should be so rich. For when rich
villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may
1485make what price they will.
115I wonder at it.
That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou
knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a
cloak, is nothing to a man.
1490Yes, it is apparel.
120I mean the fashion.
Yes, the fashion is the fashion.
Tush, I may as well say the fool’s the fool.
But seest thou not what a deformed thief this
1495fashion is?
125I know that Deformed. He
has been a vile thief this seven year. He goes up and
down like a gentleman. I remember his name.
Didst thou not hear somebody?
1500No, ’twas the vane on the house.
130Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief
this fashion is, how giddily he turns about all the
hot bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty,
sometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh’s soldiers
1505in the reechy painting, sometimes like god Bel’s
135priests in the old church window, sometimes like
the shaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten
tapestry, where his codpiece seems as massy as his
club?
1510All this I see, and I see that the fashion wears
140out more apparel than the man. But art not thou
thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast
shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the
fashion?
1515Not so, neither. But know that I have tonight
145wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero’s gentlewoman,
by the name of Hero. She leans me out at
her mistress’ chamber window, bids me a thousand
times goodnight. I tell this tale vilely. I should first
1520tell thee how the Prince, Claudio, and my master,
150planted and placed and possessed by my master
Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable
amiable encounter.
And thought they Margaret was Hero?
1525Two of them did, the Prince and Claudio,
155but the devil my master knew she was Margaret;
and partly by his oaths, which first possessed them,
partly by the dark night, which did deceive them,
but chiefly by my villainy, which did confirm any
1530slander that Don John had made, away went Claudio
160enraged, swore he would meet her as he was
appointed next morning at the temple, and there,
before the whole congregation, shame her with
what he saw o’ernight and send her home again
1535without a husband.
165We charge you in the Prince’s name
stand!
Call up the right Master Constable. Second
Watchman exits. We have here recovered the most
1540dangerous piece of lechery that ever was known in
170the commonwealth.
And one Deformed is one of them. I
know him; he wears a lock.
Masters, masters—
1545You’ll be made bring
175Deformed forth, I warrant you.
Masters, never
speak, we charge you, let us obey you to go with us.
We are like to prove a goodly
1550commodity, being taken up of these men’s bills.
180A commodity in question, I warrant you.—
Come, we’ll obey you.
Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice and
desire her to rise.
1555I will, lady.
And bid her come hither.
5Well.
Ursula exits.
Troth, I think your other rebato were
better.
1560No, pray thee, good Meg, I’ll wear this.
By my troth, ’s not so good, and I warrant
10your cousin will say so.
My cousin’s a fool, and thou art another. I’ll
wear none but this.
1565I like the new tire within excellently, if the
hair were a thought browner; and your gown’s a
15most rare fashion, i’ faith. I saw the Duchess of
Milan’s gown that they praise so.
O, that exceeds, they say.
1570By my troth, ’s but a nightgown in respect
of yours—cloth o’ gold, and cuts, and laced with
20silver, set with pearls, down sleeves, side sleeves,
and skirts round underborne with a bluish tinsel.
But for a fine, quaint, graceful, and excellent fashion,
1575yours is worth ten on ’t.
God give me joy to wear it, for my heart is
25exceeding heavy.
’Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a
man.
1580Fie upon thee! Art not ashamed?
Of what, lady? Of speaking honorably? Is
30not marriage honorable in a beggar? Is not your
lord honorable without marriage? I think you
would have me say “Saving your reverence, a husband.”
1585An bad thinking do not wrest true speaking,
I’ll offend nobody. Is there any harm in “the heavier
35for a husband”? None, I think, an it be the right
husband and the right wife. Otherwise, ’tis light and
not heavy. Ask my lady Beatrice else. Here she
1590comes.
Good morrow, coz.
40Good morrow, sweet Hero.
Why, how now? Do you speak in the sick tune?
I am out of all other tune, methinks.
1595Clap ’s into That goes
without a burden. Do you sing it, and I’ll dance it.
45You light o’ love with your heels! Then, if
your husband have stables enough, you’ll see he
shall lack no barns.
1600O, illegitimate construction! I scorn that
with my heels.
50’Tis almost five o’clock, cousin. ’Tis time
you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill.
Heigh-ho!
1605For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?
For the letter that begins them all, .
55Well, an you be not turned Turk, there’s no
more sailing by the star.
What means the fool, trow?
1610Nothing, I; but God send everyone their
heart’s desire.
60These gloves the Count sent me, they are an
excellent perfume.
I am stuffed, cousin. I cannot smell.
1615A maid, and stuffed! There’s goodly catching
of cold.
65O, God help me, God help me! How long
have you professed apprehension?
Ever since you left it. Doth not my wit
1620become me rarely?
It is not seen enough; you should wear it in
70your cap. By my troth, I am sick.
Get you some of this distilled carduus benedictus
and lay it to your heart. It is the only thing for
1625a qualm.
There thou prick’st her with a thistle.
75Benedictus! Why benedictus? You have some
moral in this benedictus?
Moral? No, by my troth, I have no moral
1630meaning; I meant plain holy thistle. You may think
perchance that I think you are in love. Nay, by ’r
80Lady, I am not such a fool to think what I list, nor I
list not to think what I can, nor indeed I cannot
think, if I would think my heart out of thinking, that
1635you are in love or that you will be in love or that you
can be in love. Yet Benedick was such another, and
85now is he become a man. He swore he would never
marry, and yet now, in despite of his heart, he eats
his meat without grudging. And how you may be
1640converted I know not, but methinks you look with
your eyes as other women do.
90What pace is this that thy tongue keeps?
Not a false gallop.
Enter Ursula.
Madam, withdraw. The Prince, the Count,
1645Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of
the town are come to fetch you to church.
95Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good
Ursula.
What would you with me, honest neighbor?
1650Marry, sir, I would have some confidence
with you that decerns you nearly.
Brief, I pray you, for you see it is a busy time
5with me.
Marry, this it is, sir.
1655Yes, in truth, it is, sir.
What is it, my good friends?
Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the
10matter. An old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt
as, God help, I would desire they were, but, in faith,
1660honest as the skin between his brows.
Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man
living that is an old man and no honester than I.
15Comparisons are odorous. Palabras, neighbor
Verges.
1665Neighbors, you are tedious.
It pleases your Worship to say so, but we
are the poor duke’s officers. But truly, for mine
20own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find
in my heart to bestow it all of your Worship.
1670All thy tediousness on me, ah?
Yea, an ’twere a thousand pound more
than ’tis, for I hear as good exclamation on your
25Worship as of any man in the city, and though I be
but a poor man, I am glad to hear it.
1675And so am I.
I would fain know what you have to say.
Marry, sir, our watch tonight, excepting your
30Worship’s presence, ha’ ta’en a couple of as arrant
knaves as any in Messina.
1680A good old man, sir. He will be talking. As
they say, “When the age is in, the wit is out.” God
help us, it is a world to see!—Well said, i’ faith,
35neighbor Verges.—Well, God’s a good man. An two
men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An
1685honest soul, i’ faith, sir, by my troth he is, as ever
broke bread, but God is to be worshiped, all men
are not alike, alas, good neighbor.
40Indeed, neighbor, he comes too short of you.
Gifts that God gives.
1690I must leave you.
One word, sir. Our watch, sir, have indeed
comprehended two aspicious persons, and we
45would have them this morning examined before
your Worship.
1695Take their examination yourself and bring it
me. I am now in great haste, as it may appear unto
you.
50It shall be suffigance.
Drink some wine ere you go. Fare you well.
Enter a Messenger.
1700My lord, they stay for you to give your
daughter to her husband.
I’ll wait upon them. I am ready.
He exits, with the Messenger.
55Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis
Seacoal. Bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the
1705jail. We are now to examination these men.
And we must do it wisely.
We will spare for no wit, I warrant you.
60Here’s that shall drive some of them to a noncome.
Only get the learned writer to set down our excommunication
1710and meet me at the jail.
Come, Friar Francis, be brief, only to the
plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their
particular duties afterwards.
You come hither, my lord, to marry
51715this lady?
No.
To be married to her.—Friar, you come to
marry her.
Lady, you come hither to be married to this
101720count?
I do.
If either of you know any inward impediment
why you should not be conjoined, I charge you on
your souls to utter it.
151725Know you any, Hero?
None, my lord.
Know you any, count?
I dare make his answer, none.
O, what men dare do! What men may do!
201730What men daily do, not knowing what they do!
How now, interjections? Why, then, some
be of laughing, as ah, ha, he!
Stand thee by, friar.—Father, by your leave,
Will you with free and unconstrainèd soul
251735Give me this maid, your daughter?
As freely, son, as God did give her me.
And what have I to give you back whose worth
May counterpoise this rich and precious gift?
Nothing, unless you render her again.
301740Sweet prince, you learn me noble thankfulness.—
There, Leonato, take her back again.
Give not this rotten orange to your friend.
She’s but the sign and semblance of her honor.
Behold how like a maid she blushes here!
351745O, what authority and show of truth
Can cunning sin cover itself withal!
Comes not that blood as modest evidence
To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear,
All you that see her, that she were a maid,
401750By these exterior shows? But she is none.
She knows the heat of a luxurious bed.
Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.
What do you mean, my lord?
Not to be married,
451755Not to knit my soul to an approvèd wanton.
Dear my lord, if you in your own proof
Have vanquished the resistance of her youth,
And made defeat of her virginity—
I know what you would say: if I have known her,
501760You will say she did embrace me as a husband,
And so extenuate the forehand sin.
No, Leonato,
I never tempted her with word too large,
But, as a brother to his sister, showed
551765Bashful sincerity and comely love.
And seemed I ever otherwise to you?
Out on thee, seeming! I will write against it.
You seem to me as Dian in her orb,
As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown.
601770But you are more intemperate in your blood
Than Venus, or those pampered animals
That rage in savage sensuality.
Is my lord well that he doth speak so wide?
Sweet prince, why speak not you?
651775What should I
speak?
I stand dishonored that have gone about
To link my dear friend to a common stale.
Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?
701780Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.
This looks not like a nuptial.
True! O God!
Leonato, stand I here?
Is this the Prince? Is this the Prince’s brother?
751785Is this face Hero’s? Are our eyes our own?
All this is so, but what of this, my lord?
Let me but move one question to your daughter,
And by that fatherly and kindly power
That you have in her, bid her answer truly.
801790I charge thee do so, as thou art my child.
O, God defend me, how am I beset!—
What kind of catechizing call you this?
To make you answer truly to your name.
Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name
851795With any just reproach?
Marry, that can Hero!
Hero itself can blot out Hero’s virtue.
What man was he talked with you yesternight
Out at your window betwixt twelve and one?
901800Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.
I talked with no man at that hour, my lord.
Why, then, are you no maiden.—Leonato,
I am sorry you must hear. Upon mine honor,
Myself, my brother, and this grievèd count
951805Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night
Talk with a ruffian at her chamber window,
Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain,
Confessed the vile encounters they have had
A thousand times in secret.
1001810Fie, fie, they are not to be named, my lord,
Not to be spoke of!
There is not chastity enough in language,
Without offense, to utter them.—Thus, pretty lady,
I am sorry for thy much misgovernment.
1051815O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been
If half thy outward graces had been placed
About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart!
But fare thee well, most foul, most fair. Farewell,
Thou pure impiety and impious purity.
1101820For thee I’ll lock up all the gates of love
And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang,
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,
And never shall it more be gracious.
Hath no man’s dagger here a point for me?
1151825Why, how now, cousin, wherefore sink you down?
Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light,
Smother her spirits up.
How doth the lady?
Dead, I think.—Help, uncle!—
1201830Hero, why Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar!
O Fate, take not away thy heavy hand!
Death is the fairest cover for her shame
That may be wished for.
How now, cousin Hero?
Hero stirs.1251835Have comfort, lady.
Dost thou look up?
Yea, wherefore should she not?
Wherefore? Why, doth not every earthly thing
Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny
1301840The story that is printed in her blood?—
Do not live, Hero, do not ope thine eyes,
For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,
Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,
Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches,
1351845Strike at thy life. Grieved I I had but one?
Chid I for that at frugal Nature’s frame?
O, one too much by thee! Why had I one?
Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?
Why had I not with charitable hand
1401850Took up a beggar’s issue at my gates,
Who, smirchèd thus, and mired with infamy,
I might have said “No part of it is mine;
This shame derives itself from unknown loins”?
But mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised,
1451855And mine that I was proud on, mine so much
That I myself was to myself not mine,
Valuing of her—why she, O she, is fall’n
Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again,
1501860And salt too little which may season give
To her foul tainted flesh!
Sir, sir, be patient.
For my part, I am so attired in wonder
I know not what to say.
1551865O, on my soul, my cousin is belied!
Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?
No, truly not, although until last night
I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.
Confirmed, confirmed! O, that is stronger made
1601870Which was before barred up with ribs of iron!
Would the two princes lie and Claudio lie,
Who loved her so that, speaking of her foulness,
Washed it with tears? Hence from her. Let her die!
Hear me a little,
1651875For I have only silent been so long,
And given way unto this course of fortune,
By noting of the lady. I have marked
A thousand blushing apparitions
To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames
1701880In angel whiteness beat away those blushes,
And in her eye there hath appeared a fire
To burn the errors that these princes hold
Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool,
Trust not my reading nor my observations,
1751885Which with experimental seal doth warrant
The tenor of my book; trust not my age,
My reverence, calling, nor divinity,
If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here
Under some biting error.
1801890Friar, it cannot be.
Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left
Is that she will not add to her damnation
A sin of perjury. She not denies it.
Why seek’st thou then to cover with excuse
1851895That which appears in proper nakedness?
Lady, what man is he you are accused of?
They know that do accuse me. I know none.
If I know more of any man alive
Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant,
1901900Let all my sins lack mercy!—O my father,
Prove you that any man with me conversed
At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight
Maintained the change of words with any creature,
Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death!
1951905There is some strange misprision in the princes.
Two of them have the very bent of honor,
And if their wisdoms be misled in this,
The practice of it lives in John the Bastard,
Whose spirits toil in frame of villainies.
2001910I know not. If they speak but truth of her,
These hands shall tear her. If they wrong her honor,
The proudest of them shall well hear of it.
Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,
Nor age so eat up my invention,
2051915Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,
Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,
But they shall find, awaked in such a kind,
Both strength of limb and policy of mind,
Ability in means and choice of friends,
2101920To quit me of them throughly.
Pause awhile,
And let my counsel sway you in this case.
Your daughter here the princes left for dead.
Let her awhile be secretly kept in,
2151925And publish it that she is dead indeed.
Maintain a mourning ostentation,
And on your family’s old monument
Hang mournful epitaphs and do all rites
That appertain unto a burial.
2201930What shall become of this? What will this do?
Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf
Change slander to remorse. That is some good.
But not for that dream I on this strange course,
But on this travail look for greater birth.
2251935She, dying, as it must be so maintained,
Upon the instant that she was accused,
Shall be lamented, pitied, and excused
Of every hearer. For it so falls out
That what we have we prize not to the worth
2301940Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost,
Why then we rack the value, then we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio.
When he shall hear she died upon his words,
2351945Th’ idea of her life shall sweetly creep
Into his study of imagination,
And every lovely organ of her life
Shall come appareled in more precious habit,
More moving, delicate, and full of life,
2401950Into the eye and prospect of his soul,
Than when she lived indeed. Then shall he mourn,
If ever love had interest in his liver,
And wish he had not so accused her,
No, though he thought his accusation true.
2451955Let this be so, and doubt not but success
Will fashion the event in better shape
Than I can lay it down in likelihood.
But if all aim but this be leveled false,
The supposition of the lady’s death
2501960Will quench the wonder of her infamy.
And if it sort not well, you may conceal her,
As best befits her wounded reputation,
In some reclusive and religious life,
Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.
2551965Signior Leonato, let the Friar advise you.
And though you know my inwardness and love
Is very much unto the Prince and Claudio,
Yet, by mine honor, I will deal in this
As secretly and justly as your soul
2601970Should with your body.
Being that I flow in grief,
The smallest twine may lead me.
’Tis well consented. Presently away,
For to strange sores strangely they strain the
2651975cure.—
Come, lady, die to live. This wedding day
Perhaps is but prolonged. Have patience and
endure.
All but Beatrice and Benedick exit.
Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?
2701980Yea, and I will weep a while longer.
I will not desire that.
You have no reason. I do it freely.
Surely I do believe your fair cousin is
wronged.
2751985Ah, how much might the man deserve of me
that would right her!
Is there any way to show such friendship?
A very even way, but no such friend.
May a man do it?
2801990It is a man’s office, but not yours.
I do love nothing in the world so well as
you. Is not that strange?
As strange as the thing I know not. It were as
possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you,
2851995but believe me not, and yet I lie not; I confess
nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my
cousin.
By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me!
Do not swear and eat it.
2902000I will swear by it that you love me, and I will
make him eat it that says I love not you.
Will you not eat your word?
With no sauce that can be devised to it. I
protest I love thee.
2952005Why then, God forgive me.
What offense, sweet Beatrice?
You have stayed me in a happy hour. I was
about to protest I loved you.
And do it with all thy heart.
3002010I love you with so much of my heart that
none is left to protest.
Come, bid me do anything for thee.
Kill Claudio.
Ha! Not for the wide world.
3052015You kill me to deny it. Farewell.
She begins to exit.Tarry, sweet Beatrice.
I am gone, though I am here. There is no
love in you. Nay, I pray you let me go.
Beatrice—
3102020In faith, I will go.
We’ll be friends first.
You dare easier be friends with me than
fight with mine enemy.
Is Claudio thine enemy?
3152025Is he not approved in the height a villain
that hath slandered, scorned, dishonored my kinswoman?
O, that I were a man! What, bear her in
hand until they come to take hands, and then, with
public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated
3202030rancor—O God, that I were a man! I would eat his
heart in the marketplace.
Hear me, Beatrice—
Talk with a man out at a window! A proper
saying.
3252035Nay, but Beatrice—
Sweet Hero, she is wronged, she is slandered,
she is undone.
Beat—
Princes and counties! Surely a princely testimony,
3302040a goodly count, Count Comfect, a sweet
gallant, surely! O, that I were a man for his sake! Or
that I had any friend would be a man for my sake!
But manhood is melted into curtsies, valor into
compliment, and men are only turned into tongue,
3352045and trim ones, too. He is now as valiant as Hercules
that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man
with wishing; therefore I will die a woman with
grieving.
Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love
3402050thee.
Use it for my love some other way than
swearing by it.
Think you in your soul the Count Claudio
hath wronged Hero?
3452055Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul.
Enough, I am engaged. I will challenge
him. I will kiss your hand, and so I leave you. By
this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account.
As you hear of me, so think of me. Go comfort your
3502060cousin. I must say she is dead, and so farewell.
Is our whole dissembly appeared?
O, a stool and a cushion for the Sexton.
A stool is brought in; the Sexton sits.Which be the malefactors?
Marry, that am I, and my partner.
52065Nay, that’s certain, we have the exhibition to
examine.
But which are the offenders that are to be
examined? Let them come before Master
Constable.
102070Yea, marry, let them come before me.
Conrade and Borachio are brought forward.
What is your name, friend?
Borachio.
Pray, write down “Borachio.”—Yours,
sirrah?
152075I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is
Conrade.
Write down “Master Gentleman Conrade.”—
Masters, do you serve God?
Yea, sir, we hope.
202080Write down that they hope they serve
God; and write God first, for God defend but God
should go before such villains!—Masters, it is
proved already that you are little better than false
knaves, and it will go near to be thought so shortly.
252085How answer you for yourselves?
Marry, sir, we say we are none.
A marvelous witty fellow, I assure you,
but I will go about with him.—Come you hither,
sirrah, a word in your ear. Sir, I say to you it is
302090thought you are false knaves.
Sir, I say to you we are none.
Well, stand aside.—’Fore God, they are
both in a tale. Have you writ down that they are
none?
352095Master constable, you go not the way to
examine. You must call forth the watch that are
their accusers.
Yea, marry, that’s the eftest way.—Let
the watch come forth. Masters, I charge you in the
402100Prince’s name, accuse these men.
This man said, sir, that Don John, the
Prince’s brother, was a villain.
Write down Prince John a villain. Why,
this is flat perjury, to call a prince’s brother villain!
452105Master constable—
Pray thee, fellow, peace. I do not like thy
look, I promise thee.
What heard you him say else?
Marry, that he had received a thousand
502110ducats of Don John for accusing the Lady Hero
wrongfully.
Flat burglary as ever was committed.
Yea, by Mass, that it is.
What else, fellow?
552115And that Count Claudio did mean,
upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole
assembly, and not marry her.
O, villain! Thou wilt be condemned
into everlasting redemption for this!
602120What else?
This is all.
And this is more, masters, than you can deny.
Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away.
Hero was in this manner accused, in this very
652125manner refused, and upon the grief of this suddenly
died.—Master constable, let these men be bound
and brought to Leonato’s. I will go before and show
him their examination.
Come, let them be opinioned.
702130Let them be in the hands—
Off, coxcomb!
God’s my life, where’s the Sexton? Let
him write down the Prince’s officer “coxcomb.”
Come, bind them.—Thou naughty varlet!
752135Away! You are an ass, you are an ass!
Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost
thou not suspect my years? O, that he were here to
write me down an ass! But masters, remember that
I am an ass, though it be not written down, yet
802140forget not that I am an ass.—No, thou villain, thou
art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by
good witness. I am a wise fellow and, which is more,
an officer and, which is more, a householder and,
which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in
852145Messina, and one that knows the law, go to, and a
rich fellow enough, go to, and a fellow that hath had
losses, and one that hath two gowns and everything
handsome about him.—Bring him away.—O, that I
had been writ down an ass!
2150If you go on thus, you will kill yourself,
And ’tis not wisdom thus to second grief
Against yourself.
I pray thee, cease thy counsel,
5Which falls into mine ears as profitless
2155As water in a sieve. Give not me counsel,
Nor let no comforter delight mine ear
But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine.
Bring me a father that so loved his child,
10Whose joy of her is overwhelmed like mine,
2160And bid him speak of patience.
Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine,
And let it answer every strain for strain,
As thus for thus, and such a grief for such,
15In every lineament, branch, shape, and form.
2165If such a one will smile and stroke his beard,
Bid sorrow wag, cry “hem” when he should
groan,
Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk
20With candle-wasters, bring him yet to me,
2170And I of him will gather patience.
But there is no such man. For, brother, men
Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief
Which they themselves not feel, but tasting it,
25Their counsel turns to passion, which before
2175Would give preceptial med’cine to rage,
Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,
Charm ache with air and agony with words.
No, no, ’tis all men’s office to speak patience
30To those that wring under the load of sorrow,
2180But no man’s virtue nor sufficiency
To be so moral when he shall endure
The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel.
My griefs cry louder than advertisement.
35Therein do men from children nothing differ.
2185I pray thee, peace. I will be flesh and blood,
For there was never yet philosopher
That could endure the toothache patiently,
However they have writ the style of gods
40And made a push at chance and sufferance.
2190Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself.
Make those that do offend you suffer too.
There thou speak’st reason. Nay, I will do so.
My soul doth tell me Hero is belied,
45And that shall Claudio know; so shall the Prince
2195And all of them that thus dishonor her.
Here comes the Prince and Claudio hastily.
Good e’en, good e’en.
Good day to both of you.
50Hear you, my lords—
2200We have some haste,
Leonato.
Some haste, my lord! Well, fare you well, my lord.
Are you so hasty now? Well, all is one.
55Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man.
2205If he could right himself with quarrelling,
Some of us would lie low.
Who wrongs him?
Marry, thou dost wrong me, thou dissembler, thou.
60Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword.
2210I fear thee not.
Marry, beshrew my hand
If it should give your age such cause of fear.
In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.
65Tush, tush, man, never fleer and jest at me.
2215I speak not like a dotard nor a fool,
As under privilege of age to brag
What I have done being young, or what would do
Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head,
70Thou hast so wronged mine innocent child and me
2220That I am forced to lay my reverence by,
And with gray hairs and bruise of many days
Do challenge thee to trial of a man.
I say thou hast belied mine innocent child.
75Thy slander hath gone through and through her
2225heart,
And she lies buried with her ancestors,
O, in a tomb where never scandal slept,
Save this of hers, framed by thy villainy.
80My villainy?
2230Thine, Claudio, thine, I say.
You say not right, old man.
My lord, my lord,
I’ll prove it on his body if he dare,
85Despite his nice fence and his active practice,
2235His May of youth and bloom of lustihood.
Away! I will not have to do with you.
Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast killed my child.
If thou kill’st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.
90He shall kill two of us, and men indeed,
2240But that’s no matter. Let him kill one first.
Win me and wear me! Let him answer me.—
Come, follow me, boy. Come, sir boy, come, follow
me.
95Sir boy, I’ll whip you from your foining fence,
2245Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will.
Brother—
Content yourself. God knows I loved my niece,
And she is dead, slandered to death by villains
100That dare as well answer a man indeed
2250As I dare take a serpent by the tongue.—
Boys, apes, braggarts, jacks, milksops!
Brother Anthony—
Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea,
105And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple—
2255Scambling, outfacing, fashionmonging boys,
That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander,
Go anticly and show outward hideousness,
And speak off half a dozen dang’rous words
110How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst,
2260And this is all.
But brother Anthony—
Come, ’tis no matter.
Do not you meddle. Let me deal in this.
115Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience.
2265My heart is sorry for your daughter’s death,
But, on my honor, she was charged with nothing
But what was true and very full of proof.
My lord, my lord—
120I will not hear you.
2270No? Come, brother, away. I will be heard.
And shall, or some of us will smart for it.
See, see, here comes the man we went to seek.
Now, signior, what news?
125Good day, my lord.
2275Welcome, signior. You are almost come to
part almost a fray.
We had like to have had our two noses
snapped off with two old men without teeth.
130Leonato and his brother. What think’st thou?
2280Had we fought, I doubt we should have been too
young for them.
In a false quarrel there is no true valor. I
came to seek you both.
135We have been up and down to seek thee, for
2285we are high-proof melancholy and would fain have
it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy wit?
It is in my scabbard. Shall I draw it?
Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side?
140Never any did so, though very many have
2290been beside their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do
the minstrels: draw to pleasure us.
As I am an honest man, he looks pale.—Art
thou sick, or angry?
145What, courage, man! What
2295though care killed a cat? Thou hast mettle enough
in thee to kill care.
Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, an
you charge it against me. I pray you, choose another
150subject.
2300Nay, then, give him another staff.
This last was broke ’cross.
By this light, he changes more and more. I
think he be angry indeed.
155If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle.
2305Shall I speak a word in your ear?
God bless me from a challenge!
You are a villain. I jest
not. I will make it good how you dare, with what you
160dare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I will
2310protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet
lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me
hear from you.
Well, I will meet you, so I may have good
165cheer.
2315What, a feast, a feast?
I’ faith, I thank him. He hath bid me to a
calf’s head and a capon, the which if I do not carve
most curiously, say my knife’s naught. Shall I not
170find a woodcock too?
2320Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily.
I’ll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the
other day. I said thou hadst a fine wit. “True,” said
she, “a fine little one.” “No,” said I, “a great wit.”
175“Right,” says she, “a great gross one.” “Nay,” said I,
2325“a good wit.” “Just,” said she, “it hurts nobody.”
“Nay,” said I, “the gentleman is wise.” “Certain,”
said she, “a wise gentleman.” “Nay,” said I, “he
hath the tongues.” “That I believe,” said she, “for he
180swore a thing to me on Monday night which he
2330forswore on Tuesday morning; there’s a double
tongue, there’s two tongues.” Thus did she an hour
together transshape thy particular virtues. Yet at
last she concluded with a sigh, thou wast the
185proper’st man in Italy.
2335For the which she wept heartily and said she
cared not.
Yea, that she did. But yet for all that, an if she
did not hate him deadly, she would love him
190dearly. The old man’s daughter told us all.
2340All, all. And, moreover, God saw him when
he was hid in the garden.
But when shall we set the savage bull’s horns
on the sensible Benedick’s head?
195Yea, and text underneath: “Here dwells Benedick,
2345the married man”?
Fare you well, boy. You know my mind. I
will leave you now to your gossip-like humor. You
break jests as braggarts do their blades, which, God
200be thanked, hurt not.—My lord, for your many
2350courtesies I thank you. I must discontinue your
company. Your brother the Bastard is fled from
Messina. You have among you killed a sweet and
innocent lady. For my Lord Lackbeard there, he and
205I shall meet, and till then peace be with him.
2355He is in earnest.
In most profound earnest, and, I’ll warrant
you, for the love of Beatrice.
And hath challenged thee?
210Most sincerely.
2360What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his
doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!
He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an ape
a doctor to such a man.
215But soft you, let me be. Pluck up, my heart,
2365and be sad. Did he not say my brother was fled?
Come you, sir. If justice cannot tame you,
she shall ne’er weigh more reasons in her balance.
Nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must
220be looked to.
2370How now, two of my brother’s men bound?
Borachio one!
Hearken after their offense, my lord.
Officers, what offense have these men done?
225Marry, sir, they have committed false
2375report; moreover, they have spoken untruths;
secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they
have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust
things; and, to conclude, they are lying knaves.
230First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I
2380ask thee what’s their offense; sixth and lastly, why
they are committed; and, to conclude, what you lay
to their charge.
Rightly reasoned, and in his own division;
235and, by my troth, there’s one meaning well suited.
2385Who have you offended,
masters, that you are thus bound to your
answer? This learned constable is too cunning to be
understood. What’s your offense?
240Sweet prince, let me go no farther to mine
2390answer. Do you hear me, and let this count kill me.
I have deceived even your very eyes. What your
wisdoms could not discover, these shallow fools
have brought to light, who in the night overheard
245me confessing to this man how Don John your
2395brother incensed me to slander the Lady Hero, how
you were brought into the orchard and saw me
court Margaret in Hero’s garments, how you disgraced
her when you should marry her. My villainy
250they have upon record, which I had rather seal with
2400my death than repeat over to my shame. The lady is
dead upon mine and my master’s false accusation.
And, briefly, I desire nothing but the reward of a
villain.
255Runs not this speech like iron through your blood?
2405I have drunk poison whiles he uttered it.
But did my brother set thee on to this?
Yea, and paid me richly for the practice of
it.
260He is composed and framed of treachery,
2410And fled he is upon this villainy.
Sweet Hero, now thy image doth appear
In the rare semblance that I loved it first.
Come, bring away the plaintiffs. By this
265time our sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of
2415the matter. And, masters, do not forget to specify,
when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass.
Here, here comes Master Signior Leonato,
and the Sexton too.
270Which is the villain? Let me see his eyes,
2420That, when I note another man like him,
I may avoid him. Which of these is he?
If you would know your wronger, look on me.
Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast killed
275Mine innocent child?
2425Yea, even I alone.
No, not so, villain, thou beliest thyself.
Here stand a pair of honorable men—
A third is fled—that had a hand in it.—
280I thank you, princes, for my daughter’s death.
2430Record it with your high and worthy deeds.
’Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.
I know not how to pray your patience,
Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself.
285Impose me to what penance your invention
2435Can lay upon my sin. Yet sinned I not
But in mistaking.
By my soul, nor I,
And yet to satisfy this good old man
290I would bend under any heavy weight
2440That he’ll enjoin me to.
I cannot bid you bid my daughter live—
That were impossible—but, I pray you both,
Possess the people in Messina here
295How innocent she died. And if your love
2445Can labor aught in sad invention,
Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb
And sing it to her bones. Sing it tonight.
Tomorrow morning come you to my house,
300And since you could not be my son-in-law,
2450Be yet my nephew. My brother hath a daughter,
Almost the copy of my child that’s dead,
And she alone is heir to both of us.
Give her the right you should have giv’n her cousin,
305And so dies my revenge.
2455O, noble sir!
Your overkindness doth wring tears from me.
I do embrace your offer and dispose
For henceforth of poor Claudio.
310Tomorrow then I will expect your coming.
2460Tonight I take my leave. This naughty man
Shall face to face be brought to Margaret,
Who I believe was packed in all this wrong,
Hired to it by your brother.
315No, by my soul, she was not,
2465Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me,
But always hath been just and virtuous
In anything that I do know by her.
Moreover, sir, which indeed is
320not under white and black, this plaintiff here, the
2470offender, did call me ass. I beseech you, let it be
remembered in his punishment. And also the watch
heard them talk of one Deformed. They say he
wears a key in his ear and a lock hanging by it and
325borrows money in God’s name, the which he hath
2475used so long and never paid that now men grow
hardhearted and will lend nothing for God’s sake.
Pray you, examine him upon that point.
I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.
330Your Worship speaks like a most thankful
2480and reverent youth, and I praise God for you.
There’s for thy pains.
God save the foundation.
Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I
335thank thee.
2485I leave an arrant knave with your Worship,
which I beseech your Worship to correct
yourself, for the example of others. God keep your
Worship! I wish your Worship well. God restore you
340to health. I humbly give you leave to depart, and if a
2490merry meeting may be wished, God prohibit it.—
Come, neighbor.
Until tomorrow morning, lords, farewell.
Farewell, my lords. We look for you tomorrow.
345We will not fail.
2495Tonight I’ll mourn with Hero.
Bring you these fellows on.—We’ll talk with
Margaret,
How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.
Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve
2500well at my hands by helping me to the speech of
Beatrice.
Will you then write me a sonnet in praise
5of my beauty?
In so high a style, Margaret, that no man
2505living shall come over it, for in most comely truth
thou deservest it.
To have no man come over me? Why, shall I
10always keep below stairs?
Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound’s
2510mouth; it catches.
And yours as blunt as the fencer’s foils,
which hit but hurt not.
15A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt
a woman. And so, I pray thee, call Beatrice. I give
2515thee the bucklers.
Give us the swords; we have bucklers of our
own.
20If you use them, Margaret, you must put in
the pikes with a vice, and they are dangerous
2520weapons for maids.
Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I
think hath legs.
25And therefore will come.
Margaret exits.
SingsThe god of love
2525That sits above,
And knows me, and knows me,
How pitiful I deserve—
30I mean in singing. But in loving, Leander the good
swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and
2530a whole book full of these quondam carpetmongers,
whose names yet run smoothly in the even
road of a blank verse, why, they were never so truly
35turned over and over as my poor self in love. Marry,
I cannot show it in rhyme. I have tried. I can find out
2535no rhyme to “lady” but “baby”—an innocent
rhyme; for “scorn,” “horn”—a hard rhyme; for
“school,” “fool”—a babbling rhyme; very ominous
40endings. No, I was not born under a rhyming
planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms.
Enter Beatrice.
2540Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called
thee?
Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me.
45O, stay but till then!
“Then” is spoken. Fare you well now. And
2545yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came, which is,
with knowing what hath passed between you and
Claudio.
50Only foul words, and thereupon I will kiss
thee.
2550Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is
but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome. Therefore
I will depart unkissed.
55Thou hast frighted the word out of his right
sense, so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee
2555plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge, and either
I must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe
him a coward. And I pray thee now tell me, for
60which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love
with me?
2560For them all together, which maintained so
politic a state of evil that they will not admit any
good part to intermingle with them. But for which
65of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?
Suffer love! A good epithet. I do suffer love
2565indeed, for I love thee against my will.
In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor
heart, if you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for
70yours, for I will never love that which my friend
hates.
2570Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
It appears not in this confession. There’s not
one wise man among twenty that will praise
75himself.
An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived
2575in the time of good neighbors. If a man do not erect
in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no
longer in monument than the bell rings and the
80widow weeps.
And how long is that, think you?
2580Question: why, an hour in clamor and a
quarter in rheum. Therefore is it most expedient for
the wise, if Don Worm, his conscience, find no
85impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of
his own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for
2585praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is
praiseworthy. And now tell me, how doth your
cousin?
90Very ill.
And how do you?
2590Very ill, too.
Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I
leave you too, for here comes one in haste.
95Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder’s
old coil at home. It is proved my Lady Hero
2595hath been falsely accused, the Prince and Claudio
mightily abused, and Don John is the author of all,
who is fled and gone. Will you come presently?
100Will you go hear this news, signior?
I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be
2600buried in thy eyes—and, moreover, I will go with
thee to thy uncle’s.
Is this the monument of Leonato?
It is, my lord.
Done to death by slanderous tongues
2605Was the Hero that here lies.
5Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,
Gives her fame which never dies.
So the life that died with shame
Lives in death with glorious fame.
He hangs up the scroll.
2610Hang thou there upon the tomb,
10Praising her when I am dumb.
Now music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.
Pardon, goddess of the night,
Those that slew thy virgin knight,
2615For the which with songs of woe,
15Round about her tomb they go.
Midnight, assist our moan.
Help us to sigh and groan
Heavily, heavily.
2620Graves, yawn and yield your dead,
20Till death be utterèd,
Heavily, heavily.
Now, unto thy bones, goodnight.
Yearly will I do this rite.
2625Good morrow, masters. Put your torches out.
25The wolves have preyed, and look, the gentle day
Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about
Dapples the drowsy east with spots of gray.
Thanks to you all, and leave us. Fare you well.
2630Good morrow, masters. Each his several way.
30Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds,
And then to Leonato’s we will go.
And Hymen now with luckier issue speed ’s,
Than this for whom we rendered up this woe.
2635Did I not tell you she was innocent?
So are the Prince and Claudio, who accused her
Upon the error that you heard debated.
But Margaret was in some fault for this,
5Although against her will, as it appears
2640In the true course of all the question.
Well, I am glad that all things sorts so well.
And so am I, being else by faith enforced
To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.
10Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all,
2645Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves,
And when I send for you, come hither masked.
The Prince and Claudio promised by this hour
To visit me.—You know your office, brother.
15You must be father to your brother’s daughter,
2650And give her to young Claudio.
Which I will do with confirmed countenance.
Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.
To do what, signior?
20To bind me, or undo me, one of them.—
2655Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior,
Your niece regards me with an eye of favor.
That eye my daughter lent her; ’tis most true.
And I do with an eye of love requite her.
25The sight whereof I think you had from me,
2660From Claudio, and the Prince. But what’s your will?
Your answer, sir, is enigmatical.
But for my will, my will is your goodwill
May stand with ours, this day to be conjoined
30In the state of honorable marriage—
2665In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.
My heart is with your liking.
And my help.
Here comes the Prince and Claudio.
35Good morrow to this fair assembly.
2670Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Claudio.
We here attend you. Are you yet determined
Today to marry with my brother’s daughter?
I’ll hold my mind were she an Ethiope.
40Call her forth, brother. Here’s the Friar ready.
2675Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what’s the matter
That you have such a February face,
So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness?
I think he thinks upon the savage bull.
45Tush, fear not, man. We’ll tip thy horns with gold,
2680And all Europa shall rejoice at thee,
As once Europa did at lusty Jove
When he would play the noble beast in love.
Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low,
50And some such strange bull leapt your father’s cow
2685And got a calf in that same noble feat
Much like to you, for you have just his bleat.
For this I owe you. Here comes other reck’nings.
Enter Leonato’s brother, Hero, Beatrice, Margaret,
Ursula, the ladies masked.
Which is the lady I must seize upon?
55This same is she, and I do give you her.
2690Why, then, she’s mine.—Sweet, let me see your face.
No, that you shall not till you take her hand
Before this friar and swear to marry her.
Give me your hand before this holy friar.
They take hands.
60I am your husband, if you like of me.
2695And when I lived, I was your other wife,
And when you loved, you were my other husband.
Another Hero!
Nothing certainer.
65One Hero died defiled, but I do live,
2700And surely as I live, I am a maid.
The former Hero! Hero that is dead!
She died, my lord, but whiles her slander lived.
All this amazement can I qualify,
70When after that the holy rites are ended,
2705I’ll tell you largely of fair Hero’s death.
Meantime let wonder seem familiar,
And to the chapel let us presently.
Soft and fair, friar.—Which is Beatrice?
75I answer to that name. What is your will?
2710Do not you love me?
Why no, no more than reason.
Why then, your uncle and the Prince and Claudio
Have been deceived. They swore you did.
80Do not you love me?
2715Troth, no, no more than reason.
Why then, my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula
Are much deceived, for they did swear you did.
They swore that you were almost sick for me.
85They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.
2720’Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?
No, truly, but in friendly recompense.
Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.
And I’ll be sworn upon ’t that he loves her,
90For here’s a paper written in his hand,
2725A halting sonnet of his own pure brain,
Fashioned to Beatrice.
And here’s another,
Writ in my cousin’s hand, stol’n from her pocket,
95Containing her affection unto Benedick.
2730A miracle! Here’s our own hands against
our hearts. Come, I will have thee, but by this light
I take thee for pity.
I would not deny you, but by this good day, I
100yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your
2735life, for I was told you were in a consumption.
Peace! I will stop your mouth.
They kiss.
How dost thou, Benedick, the married man?
I’ll tell thee what, prince: a college of
105wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor.
2740Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?
No. If a man will be beaten with brains, he shall
wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I
do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any
110purpose that the world can say against it, and
2745therefore never flout at me for what I have said
against it. For man is a giddy thing, and this is my
conclusion.—For thy part, Claudio, I did think to
have beaten thee, but in that thou art like to be my
115kinsman, live unbruised, and love my cousin.
2750I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied
Beatrice, that I might have cudgeled thee out of thy
single life, to make thee a double-dealer, which out
of question thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look
120exceeding narrowly to thee.
2755Come, come, we are friends. Let’s have a
dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our
own hearts and our wives’ heels.
We’ll have dancing afterward.
125First, of my word! Therefore play, music.—
2760Prince, thou art sad. Get thee a wife, get thee a wife.
There is no staff more reverend than one tipped
with horn.
My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight,
130And brought with armed men back to Messina.
2765Think not on him till tomorrow.
I’ll devise thee brave punishments for him.—Strike
up, pipers!