Bene.

Pray thee, sweet mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands, by helping me to the speech of Beatrice.

Marg.

Will you then write me a sonnet, in praise of my beauty?

Bene.

In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it; for in most comely truth, thou deservest it.

Marg.

To have no man come over me? Why, shall I always keep above stairs?

Bene.

Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's mouth, it catches.

Marg.

And yours as blunt as the fencer's foils, which hit, but hurt not.

Bene.

A most manly wit, Margaret, it will not hurt a woman; and so I pray thee, call Beatrice.

Marg.

Well, I will call Beatrice to you.

Bene. Sings.]

The god of love, that sits above.

No, I cannot sing. But for loving, Leander the good swimmer, Trolius, the first employer of pandars, and a whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse, why, they never were so truly turn'd over and over, as my poor self, in love. Marry, I cannot shew it in rhime; I have try'd, I can find out no rhime to lady, but baby, an innocent's rhime; for school, fool, a babling rhime; for scorn, horn, a hard rhime; very ominous endings; no, I was not born under a rhiming planet, for I cannot woo in festival terms.

Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come, when I call thee?

Beat.

Yea, Signior, and depart when you bid me.

Bene.

O, stay but till then.

Beat.

Then is spoken: fare you well now; and yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for, which is, with knowing what hath past between you and Claudio.

Bene.

Only foul words, and thereupon I will kiss thee.

Beat.

Foul words, are but foul wind, and foul wind, is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore, I will depart unkiss'd.

Bene.

Thou hast frighted the word out of its right sense, so forceable is thy wit; but I must tell thee plainly, 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 which of my bad parts, didst thou first fall in love with me?

Beat.

For them all together, which maintain'd so politic a state of evil, that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?

Bene.

Suffer love! a good epithet. I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.

Beat.

In spight of your heart, I think. Alas! poor heart! if you spight it for my sake, I will spight it for yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates.

Bene.

Thou and I are too wise, to woo peaceably.

Beat.

It appears not, in this confession. There's not one wise man among twenty, that will praise himself.

Bene.

An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that liv'd in the time of good neighbours. If a man do not erect, in this age, his own tomb, ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monuments, than the bells ring, and the widow weeps.

Beat.

And how long is that, think you?* ^note

Bene.

Why, an hour in clamour, and a quarter in rheum; therefore, it is most expedient for the wise, it Don Worm (his conscience) find no impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for praising myself, who, I myself, will bear witness, is praiseworthy. And now, tell me, how doth your cousin?

Beat.

Very ill.

Bene.

And how do you?

Beat.

Very ill, too.

Bene.

Say your prayers, love me, and mend; there will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste.

Ursu.

Madam, you must come to your uncle: it is proved my lady Hero hath been falsely accus'd, the prince and Claudio, mightily abus'd, and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone.

Beat.

Will you go hear this news, signior?

Bene.

I will live in thy eyes, die in thy lap, and be bury'd in thy heart; and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle.* ^note