SCENE VII.
Enter Beatrice.
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 1 noteturn'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 stufft, cousin, I cannot smell.
-- 55 --
Marg.
A maid, and stufft! 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.
[Exeunt.
-- 56 --
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].
