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hath withdrawn her father to break with him about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.
-- 22 --
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.
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 (a) note your own tongues!
Let every eye negotiate for itself,
And trust no agent; beauty is a witch,
Against whose charms 6 notefaith 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
-- 23 --
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 fowle! 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 myself wrong: I am not
so reputed. It is the base (tho' bitter) disposition of
Beatrice, that puts the World into her person, and so
gives me out; well, I'll be reveng'd as I may.
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
