Ursula.
Leonato.
Was not Count John here at Supper?
Ant.
I saw him not.
Beat.
How tartly that gentleman looks!
I never can see him, but I am heart-burn'd an hour
after.
Hero.
He is of a very melancholy disposition.
Beat.
He were an excellent man, that were made just
in the mid-way 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 tatling.
Leon.
Then half Signior Benedick's tongue in Count
John's mouth, and half Count John's melancholy in
Signior Benedick's face—
Beat.
With a good leg, and a good foot, Uncle, and
mony enough in his purse, such a man would win any
woman in the world, if he could get her good Will.
Leon.
By my troth, Neice, thou wilt never get thee
a husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.
Ant.
In faith, she's too curst.
-- 416 --
Beat.
Too curst is more than curst; I shall lessen
God's sending that way; for it is said, God sends a
curst Cow short horns; but to a Cow too curst he sends
none.
Leon.
So, by being too curst, God will send you no
horns.
Beat.
Just, 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 husband
with a beard on his face, I had rather lye in
woollen.
Leon.
You may light upon a husband, that hath no
beard.
Beat.
What should I do with him? dress him in my
apparel, and make him my waiting-gentlewoman? he
that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that
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 take
six pence in earnest of the bear-herd, and lead his apes
into hell.
Leon.
Well then, go you into hell,—
Beat.
No, but to the gate; and there will the devil
meet me, like an old cuckold, with his horns on
his head, and say, “get you to heaven, Beatrice, get
you to heav'n, here's no place for you maids.” so
deliver I up my apes, and away to St. Peter, for the
heav'ns; he shews me where the batchelors sit, and
there live we as merry as the day is long.
Ant.
Well, Neice, I trust, you will be rul'd by your
father.
[To Hero.
Beat.
Yes, faith, it is my Cousin's duty to make
curtsie, and say, Father, as it please you; but yet for
all that, Cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or
else make another curtsie, and say, Father, as it pleases
me.
Leon.
Well, Neice, I hope to see you one day fitted
with a husband.
Beat.
Not 'till God make men of some other metal
than earth; would it not grieve a woman to be over-master'd
-- 417 --
with a piece of valiant dust? to make account
of her life to a clod of way-ward marle? no, uncle,
I'll none; Adam's sons are my brethren, and truly, I
hold it a sin to match in my kindred.
Leon.
Daughter, remember, what I told you; if the
Prince do sollicit you in that kind, you know your answer.
Beat.
The fault will be in the musick, cousin, if you
be not woo'd in good time; (4) note
If the Prince be too
important, tell him, there is measure in every thing,
and so dance out the Answer; for hear me, Hero,
wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a Scotch jig, a
measure, and a cinque-pace; the first suit is hot and
hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the
wedding mannerly-modest, as a measure, full of state
and anchentry; and then comes repentance, and with
his bad legs falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster,
'till he sinks into his grave.
Leon.
Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.
Beat.
I have a good eye, uncle, I can see a church
by day-light.
Leon.
The revellers are entring, brother; make good
room.
Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, Balthazar, and others in Masquerade.
Pedro.
Lady, will you walk about with your friend?
Hero.
So you walk softly, and look sweetly, and say
nothing, I am yours for the walk, and especially when
I walk away.
Pedro.
With me in your company?
Hero.
I may say so, when I please.
Pedro.
And when please you to say so?
-- 418 --
Hero.
When I like your favour; for God defend, the
lute should be like the case!
Pedro.
(5) note
My visor is Philemon's roof; within the
house is Jove.
Hero.
Why, then your visor should be thatch'd.
-- 419 --
Pedro.
Speak low, if you speak love.
Balth.
Well; I would, you did like me.(6) note
Marg.
So would not I for your own sake, for I have
many ill qualities.
Balth.
Which is one?
Marg.
I say my Prayers aloud.
Balth.
I love you the better, the hearers may cry
Amen.
Marg.
God match me with a good dancer!
Balth.
Amen.
Marg.
And God keep him out of my sight when the
dance is done! Answer, Clerk.
Balth.
No more words, the clerk is answer'd.
Urs.
I know you well enough; you are Signior Antonio.
Ant.
At a word, I am not.
Urs.
I know you by the wagling of your head.
Ant.
To tell you true, I counterfeit him.
Urs.
You could never do him so ill-well, unless
you were the very man: here's his dry hand up and
down; you are he, you are he.
Ant.
At a word, I am not.
Urs.
Come, come, do you think, I do not know you
by your excellent wit? can virtue hide it self? go to,
mum, you are he; graces will appear, and there's an
end.
Beat.
Will you not tell me, who told you so?
Bene.
No, you shall pardon me.
Beat.
Nor will you not tell me, who you are?
Bene.
Not now.
Beat.
That I was disdainful, and that I had my good
Wit out of the Hundred merry Tales; well, this was
Signior Benedick that said so.
Bene.
What's he?
-- 420 --
Beat.
I am sure, you know him well enough.
Bene.
Not I, believe me.
Beat.
Did he never make you laugh?
Bene.
I pray you, what is he?
Beat.
Why, he is the Prince's jester; a very dull fool,
only his gift is in devising impossible slanders: none
but libertines delight in him, and the commendation
is not in his wit, but in his villany; for he both
pleaseth men and angers them, and then they laugh at
him, and beat him; I am sure, he is in the fleet; I would,
he had boarded me.
Bene.
When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him
what you say.
Beat.
Do, do, he'll but break a comparison or two on
me; which, peradventure, not mark'd, or not laugh'd
at, strikes him into melancholy, and then there's a
partridge wing sav'd, for the fool will eat no supper
that night. We must follow the leaders.
[Musick within.
Bene.
In every good thing.
Beat.
Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them
at the next turning.
[Exeunt.
Manent John, Borachio, and Claudio.
John.
Sure, my brother is amorous on Hero, and hath
withdrawn her father to break with him about it: the
ladies follow her, and but one visor remains.
Bora.
And that is Claudio; I know him by his Bearing.
John.
Are you not Signior Benedick?
Claud.
You know me well, I am he.
John.
Signior, you are very near my brother in his
love, he is enamour'd 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.
Claud.
How know ye, he loves her?
John.
I heard him swear his affection.
Bora.
So did I too, and he swore he would marry
her to night.
-- 421 --
John.
Come, let us to the banquet.
[Exeunt John and Bor.
Claud.
Thus answer I in name of Benedick,
But hear this ill news with the ears of Claudio.
'Tis certain so, the Prince wooes for himself.
Friendship is constant in all other things,
Save in the office and affairs of love;
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues,
Let every eye negotiate for it self,
And trust no agent; beauty is a witch,
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.
This is an accident of hourly proof,
Which I mistrusted not. Farewel then, Hero!
Enter Benedick.
Bene.
Count Claudio?
Claud.
Yea, the same.
Bene.
Come, will you go with me?
Claud.
Whither?
Bene.
Even to the next willow, about your own
business, Count. What fashion will you wear the garland
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
Hero.
Claud.
I wish him joy of her.
Bene.
Why, that's spoken like an honest drover; so
they sell bullocks: but did you think, the Prince would
have served you thus?
Claud.
I pray you, leave me.
Bene.
Ho! now you strike like the blind man; 'twas
the boy that stole your meat, and you'll beat the
post.
Claud.
If it will not be, I'll leave you.
[Exit.
Bene.
Alas, poor hurt sowle! now will he creep
into sedges. But that my lady Beatrice should know
me, 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 my self wrong: I am not
so reputed. It is the base (tho' bitter) disposition of
-- 422 --
Beatrice, that puts the world into her person, and so
gives me out; well, I'll be reveng'd as I may.
Enter Don Pedro.
Pedro.
Now, Signior, where's the Count? did you
see him?
Bene.
Troth, my lord, I have play'd the part of lady
Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in
a warren, I told him (and I think, told him true) that
your Grace had got the Will of this young lady, and
I offer'd him my company to a willow tree, either to
make him a garland, as being forsaken, or to bind him
up a rod, as being worthy to be whipt.
Pedro.
To be whipt! what's his fault?
Bene.
The flat transgression of a school-boy; who,
being over-joy'd with finding a bird's nest, shews it
his companion, and he steals it.
Pedro.
Wilt thou make a trust, a transgression? the
transgression is in the stealer.
Bene.
Yet it had not been amiss, the rod had been
made, and the garland too; for the garland he might
have worn himself, and the rod he might have bestow'd
on you, who (as I take it) have stol'n his bird's
nest.
Pedro.
I will but teach them to sing, and restore
them to the owner.
Bene.
If their singing answer your saying, by my
faith, you say honestly.
Pedro.
The lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you; the
gentleman, that danc'd with her, told her she is much
wrong'd by you.
Bene.
O, she misus'd me past the indurance of a
block; an oak, but with one green leaf on it, would
have answer'd her; my very visor began to assume
life, and scold with her; she told me, not thinking I
had been my self, that I was the Prince's jester, and
that I was duller than a great thaw; (7) notehudling jest
-- 423 --
upon jest, with such impassable conveyance upon me,
that I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole army
shooting at me; she speaks Ponyards, and every word
stabs; if her breath were as terrible as her terminations,
there were no living near her, she would infect
to the North-Star; I would not marry her, though she
were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he
transgress'd; she would have made Hercules have turn'd
Spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too.
Come, talk not of her, you shall find her the infernal
Até in good apparel. I would to God, some scholar
would conjure her; for, certainly, while she is here
a man may live as quiet in hell as in a sanctuary, and
people sin upon purpose, because they would go thither;
so, indeed, all disquiet, horror, and perturbation
follow her.
Enter Claudio, Beatrice, Leonato and Hero.
Pedro.
Look, here she comes.
Bene.
Will your Grace command me any service to
the world's end? I will go on the slightest errand now
to the Antipodes, that you can devise to send me on;
I will fetch you a tooth-picker now from the farthest
inch of Asia; bring you the length of Prester John's
foot; fetch you a hair off the great Cham's beard; do
you any ambassage to the pigmies, rather than hold three
words conference with this harpy; you have no employment
for me?
Pedro.
None, but to desire your good company.
Bene.
O God, Sir, here's a dish I love not. I cannot
indure this Lady Tongue.
Pedro.
Come, Lady, come; you have lost the heart
of Signior Benedick.
Beat.
Indeed, my Lord, he lent it me a while, and I
gave him use for it, a double heart for a single one;
-- 424 --
marry, once before he won it of me with false dice,
therefore your Grace may well say, I have lost it.
Pedro.
You have put him down, Lady, you have
put him down.
Beat.
So I would not he should do me, my Lord,
lest I should prove the mother of fools: I have brought
Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.
Pedro.
Why, how now, Count, wherefore are you
sad?
Claud.
Not sad, my Lord.
Pedro.
How then? sick?
Claud.
Neither, my Lord.
Beat.
The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry,
nor well; but civil, Count, civil as an orange, and something
of that jealous complexion.
Pedro.
I'faith, Lady, I think your blazon to be true;
though I'll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is false.
Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and fair
Hero is won; I have broke with her father, and his
good will obtained; name the day of marriage, and
God give thee joy.
Leon.
Count, take of me my daughter, and with her
my fortunes: his Grace hath made the match, and all
grace say, Amen, to it.
Beat.
Speak, Count, 'tis your cue.—
Claud.
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy; I were
but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as
you are mine, I am yours: I give away my self for
you, and doat upon the exchange.
Beat.
Speak, Cousin, or (if you cannot) stop his
mouth with a kiss, and let him not speak neither.
Pedro.
In faith, Lady, you have a merry heart.
Beat.
Yea, 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.
Claud.
And so she doth, cousin.
Beat.
Good Lord, for alliance! thus goes every one
to the world but I, and I am sun-burn'd; I may sit
in a corner, and cry heigh ho! for a husband.
Pedro.
Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.
-- 425 --
Beat.
I would rather have one of your Father's getting:
hath your Grace ne'er a brother like you? your
Father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come
by them.
Pedro.
Will you have me, Lady?
Beat.
No, my Lord, unless I might have another for
working-days; your Grace is too costly to wear every
day: but, I beseech your Grace, pardon me, I was
born to speak all mirth and no matter.
Pedro.
Your silence most offends me, and to be merry
best becomes you; for, out of question, you were
born in a merry hour.
Beat.
No, sure, my Lord, my mother cry'd; but then
there was a star danc'd, and under that I was born.
Cousins, God give you joy.
Leon.
Neice, will you look to those things I told
you of?
Beat.
I cry you mercy, Uncle: by your Grace's
pardon.
[Exit Beatrice.
Pedro.
By my troth, a pleasant-spirited Lady.
Leon.
There's little of the melancholy element in her,
my Lord; she is never sad but when she sleeps, and not
ever sad then; (8) notefor I have heard my daughter say,
she hath often dream'd of an happiness, and wak'd her
self with laughing.
Pedro.
She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.
Leon.
O, by no means, she mocks all her wooers out
of suit.
Pedro.
She were an excellent wife for Benedick.
Leon.
O Lord, my Lord, if they were but a week
marry'd, they would talk themselves mad.
Pedro.
Count Claudio, when mean you to go to
church?
-- 426 --
Claud.
To morrow, my Lord; time goes on crutches,
'till love have all his rites.
Leon.
Not 'till Monday, my dear son, which is hence
a just seven-night, and a time too brief too, to have all
things answer my mind.
Pedro.
Come, you shake the head at so long a
breathing; but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall
not go dully by us; I will in the Interim undertake
one of Hercules's labours, which is to bring Signior
Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection
the one with the other; I would fain have it
a match, and I doubt not to fashion it, if you three
will but minister such assistance as I shall give you direction.
Leon.
My Lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten
nights watchings.
Claud.
And I, my Lord.
Pedro.
And you too, gentle Hero?
Hero.
I will do any modest office, my Lord, to help
my Cousin to a good husband.
Pedro.
And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband
that I know: thus far I can praise him, he is of
a noble strain, of approv'd valour, and confirm'd honesty.
I will teach you how to humour your Cousin,
that she shall fall in love with Benedick; and I, with
your two helps, will so practise on Benedick, that in
despight of his quick wit, and his queasie stomach, he
shall fall in love with Beatrice: if we can do this, Cupid
is no longer an archer, his glory shall be ours, for
we are the only Love-Gods; go in with me, and I
will tell you my drift.
[Exeunt.
Lewis Theobald [1733], The works of Shakespeare: in seven volumes. Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected; With notes, Explanatory and Critical; By Mr. Theobald (Printed for A. Bettesworth and C. Hitch [and] J. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11201].
