Hero.

Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire her to rise.

Ursu.

I will, lady.

Hero.

And bid her come hither.

Ursu.

Well.

Marg.

Troth, I think, your other Rebato were better.

Hero.

No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this.

Marg.

By my troth, it's not so good; and, I warrant, your cousin will say so.

Hero.

My cousin's a fool, and thou art another. I'll wear none but this.

Marg.

I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair were a thought browner; and your gown's a most rare fashion, i'faith. I saw the Dutchess of Milan's gown, that they praise so.

Hero.

O, that exceeds, they say.

Marg.

By my troth, it's but a night-gown in respect of yours; cloth of gold and cuts, and lac'd with silver, set with pearls down-sleeves, side-sleeves and skirts, round, underborn with a blueish tinsel; but for a fine, queint, graceful and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on't.

Hero.

God give me joy to wear it, for my heart is exceeding heavy!

Marg.

'Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man.

Hero.

Fie upon thee, art not asham'd?

Marg.

Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? is not marriage honourable in a beggar? is not your lord honourable without marriage? I think, you would have me say (saving your reverence) a husband. If bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I'll offend no body; is there any harm in the heavier for a husband? none, I think, if it be the right husband, and the right wife, otherwise 'tis light and not heavy; ask my lady Beatrice else, here she comes.

Hero.

Good morrow, coz.

Beat.

Good morrow, sweet Hero.

Hero.

Why how now? do you speak in the sick tune?

Beat.

I am out of all other tune, methinks.

Marg.

Clap us into Light o' love; that goes without a burden; do you sing it, and I'll dance it.

Beat.

Yes, Light o' love with your heels; then if your husband have stables enough, you'll look he shall lack no barns.

Marg.

O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.

Beat.

'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; 'tis time you were ready: by my troth, I am exceeding ill; hey ho!

Marg.

For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?

Beat.

For the letter that begins them all, H.

Marg.

Well, if you be not turn'd Turk, there's no more sailing by the star.

Beat.

What means the fool, trow?

Marg.

Nothing I, but God send every one their heart's desire!

Hero.

These gloves the Count sent me, they are an excellent perfume.

Beat.

I am stuft, cousin, I cannot smell.

Marg.

A maid, and stuft! there's goodly catching of cold.

Beat.

O, God help me, God help me, how long have you profest apprehension?

Marg.

Ever since you left it; doth not my wit become me rarely?

Beat.

It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick.

Marg.

Get you some of this distill'd Carduus Benedictus, and lay it to your heart; it is the only thing for a qualm.

Hero.

There thou prick'st her with a thistle.

Beat.

Benedictus? why Benedictus? you have some moral in this Benedictus.

Marg.

Moral? no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning, I meant plain holy-thistle: you may think, perchance, that I think you are in love; nay, birlady, 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 with thinking, that you are in love, or that you will be in love, or that you can be in love: yet Benedick was such another, and now is he become a man; he swore, he would never marry; and yet now, in despight of his heart, he eats his meat without grudging; and how you may be converted, I know not; but, methinks, you look with your eyes as other women do.

Beat.

What pace is this that thy tongue keeps?

Marg.

Not a false gallop.

Ursu.

Madam, withdraw; the Prince, the Count, Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the Gallants of the town are come to fetch you to church.

Hero.

Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula.