Messenger.
Leo.
I learn in this † letter, that Don Pedro of Arragon
comes this night to Messina.
Mes.
He is very near by this; he was not three leagues
off when I left him.
Leo.
How many gentlemen have you lost in this
action?
Mes.
But few of any sort, and none of name.
Leo.
A victory is twice itself, when the atchiever
brings home full numbers. I find † here, that Don
Pedro hath bestowed much honour on a young Florentine,
called Claudio.
Mes.
Much deserv'd on his part, and equally remember'd
by Don Pedro: He hath born himself beyond
the promise of his age; doing, in the figure of
a lamb, the feats of a lion: he hath, indeed, better
better'd expectation, than you must expect of me to
-- 4 --
tell you how.
Leo.
He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very
much glad of it.
Mes.
I have already delivered him letters, and there
appears much joy in him; even so much, that joy
could not shew itself modest enough, without a badge
of bitterness.
Leo.
Did he break out into tears?
Mes.
In great measure.
Leo.
A kind overflow of kindness: There are no
faces truer than those that are so wash'd. How much
better is it to weep at joy, than to joy at weeping?
Bea.
I pray you, is signior Montanto return'd from
the wars, or no?
Mes.
I know none of that name, lady; there was
none such in the army of any sort.
Leo.
What is he that you ask for, niece?
Her.
My cousin means signior Benedick of Padua.
Mes.
O, he's return'd; and as pleasant as ever he was.
Bea.
He set up his bills14Q0156 here in Messina, and challeng'd
Cupid at the flight: and my uncle's fool, reading
the challenge, subscrib'd for Cupid, and challeng'd
him at the bird-bolt.—I pray you, how many
hath he kill'd and eaten in these wars? But, how
many hath he kill'd? for, indeed, I promis'd to eat
all of his killing.
Leo.
Faith, niece, you tax signior Benedick too much:
but he'll be met with note you, I doubt it not.
Mes.
He hath done good service, lady, in these wars. note
Bea.
You had note musty victual, and he hath holp to
eat it: note he's a very valiant trencher-man, he hath an
excellent stomack.
-- 5 --
Mes.
And a good soldier too, lady.
Bea.
And a good soldier to a lady;—But what is
he to a lord?
Mes.
A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuft with
all honourable virtues.
Bea.
It is so, indeed; he is no less than a stuft man:
but, for the stuffing!—well, we are all mortal.
Leo.
You must not, sir, mistake my niece: there
is a kind of merry war betwixt signior Benedick and
her; they never meet, but there's a skirmish of wit
between them.
Bea.
Alas, he gets nothing by that. In our last
conflict, four of his five wits went halting off, and now
is the whole man govern'd with one: so that if he
have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear
it for a difference between himself and his horse; for
it is all the wealth that he hath left, to be known a
reasonable creature.—Who is his companion now?
He hath every month a new sworn-brother.
Mes.
Is't possible?
Bea.
Very easily possible: he wears his faith but
as the fashion of his hat, it ever changes with the next
block.
Mes.
I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.
Bea.
No; an he were, I would burn my study.
But, I pray you, who is his companion? Is there no
young squarer now, that will make a voyage with him
to the devil?
Mes.
He is most in the company of the right noble
Claudio.
Bea.
O lord! He will hang upon him like a disease: note
he is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the
-- 6 --
taker runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio!
if he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a
thousand pound ere he be note cur'd.
Mes.
I will hold friends with you, lady.
Bea.
Do, good friend.
Leo.
You will never run note mad, niece.
Bea.
No, not 'till a hot January.
Mes.
Don Pedro is approach'd.
Enter Don Pedro, attended; Don John, Claudio, and Benedick.
D. Pe.
Good signior Leonato, you are note come to meet
your trouble: the fashion of the world is to avoid cost,
and you encounter it.
Leo.
Never came trouble to my house in the likeness
of your grace: for, trouble being gone, comfort
should remain; but, when you depart from me, sorrow
abides, and happiness takes his leave.
D. Pe.
You embrace your charge too willingly. note—
I think, this is your daughter.
Leo.
Her mother hath many times told me so.
Ben.
Were you in doubt, sir, that you ask'd her?
Leo.
Signior Benedick, no; for then were you a child.
D. Pe.
You have it full, Benedick: we may guess by
this what you are, being a man. Truly, the lady fathers
herself:—Be happy, lady! for you are like an
honourable father.
Ben.
If signior Leonato be her father, she would
not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as
like him as she is.
Bea.
I wonder, that you will still be talking, signior
Benedick; no body marks you.
Ben.
What, my dear lady disdain! are you yet living?
-- 7 --
Bea.
Is it possible disdain should dye, while she
hath such meet food to feed it, as signior Benedick?
Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in
her presence.
Ben.
Then is courtesy a turn-coat:—But it is certain,
I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and
I would I could find in my heart note that I had not a hard
heart; for, truly, I love none.
Bea.
A dear happiness to women; they would else
have been troubl'd with a pernicious suitor. I thank
God, and my cold blood, I am of your humour for
that; I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than
a man swear he loves me.
Ben.
God keep your ladyship still in that mind!
so some gentleman or other shall scape a predestinate
scratcht face.
Bea.
Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere
such a face as yours were.
Ben.
Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.
Bea.
A bird of my tongue is better than a beast
of yours.
Ben.
I would, my horse had the speed of your
tongue; and so good a continuer: But keep your way,
i' God's name; I have done.
Bea.
You always end with a jade's trick; I know
you of old.
D. Pe.
This is note the sum of all: Leonato,—signior
Claudio, and signior Benedick,—my dear friend Leonato,
hath invited you all. I tell him, we shall stay here
at the least a month; and he heartily prays, some occasion
may detain us longer: I dare swear he is no
hypocrite, but prays from his heart.
-- 8 --
Leo.
If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn.
—Let me bid you welcome, my lord: being
reconciled to the prince your brother, I owe you all
duty.
D. Jo.
I thank you: I am not of many words, but
I thank you.
Leo.
Please it your grace lead on?
D. Pe.
Your hand, Leonato; we will go together.
[Exeunt D. Pedro, D. John, Leonato, Hero,
Beatrice, Messenger, and Attendants.
Cla.
Benedick, did'st thou note the daughter of
signior Leonato?
Ben.
I noted her not; but I look'd on her.
Cla.
Is she not a modest young lady?
Ben.
Do you question me, as an honest man should
do, for my simple true judgment? or would you have
me speak after my custom, as being a professed tyrant
to their sex? note
Cla.
No, I pray thee note speak in sober judgment.
Ben.
Why, i'faith, methinks she's too low for
a high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too
little for a great praise: only this commendation I can
afford her; that, were she other than she is, she were
unhandsome; and being no other but as she is, I do
not like her.
Cla.
Thou think'st, I am in sport; I pray thee,
tell me truly how thou lik'st her.
Ben.
Would you buy her, that you enquire after her?
Cla.
Can the world buy such a jewel?
Ben.
Yea, and a case to put it into. note But speak
you this14Q0157 with a sad brow? Or do you play the flouting
Jack; to tell us, Cupid is a good hare-finder, and
-- 9 --
Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a
man take you, to go in the song?
Cla.
In mine eye, she is the sweetest lady that ever
I look'd on.
Ben.
I can see yet without spectacles, and I see
no such matter: there's her cousin, an she were not
possess'd with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty,
as the first of May doth the last of December. But I
hope note you have no intent to turn husband; have you?
Cla.
I would scarce trust myself, though I had
sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my wife.
Ben.
Is't come to this, i'faith? Hath not the
world one man, but he will wear his cap with suspicion?
Shall I never see a batchelor of threescore
again? Go to, i'faith; an thou wilt needs thrust thy
neck into a yoke, wear the print of it, and sigh
away sundays. Look, Don Pedro is return'd to seek
you.
Re-enter Don Pedro.
D. Pe.
What secret hath held you here, that you follow'd
not to Leonato's?
Ben.
I would your grace would constrain me to
tell.
D. Pe.
I charge thee on thy allegeance.
Ben.
You hear, count Claudio: I can be secret
as a dumb man, I would have you think so; but, on
my allegeance, mark you this, on my allegeance:—
He is in love. With who? note—now that is your grace's
part: mark how short his answer is:—With Hero,
Leonato's short daughter.
Cla.
If this were so, so were it uttered.
Ben.
Like the old tale, my lord: it is not so, nor
-- 10 --
'twas not so; but, indeed, God forbid it should be so.
Cla.
If my passion change not shortly, God forbid
it should be otherwise.
D. Pe.
Amen, if you love her, for the lady is very
well worthy.
Cla.
You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.
D. Pe.
By my troth, I speak my thought.
Cla.
And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.
Ben.
And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord,
I spoke mine. note
Cla.
That I love her, I feel.
D. Pe.
That she is worthy, I know.
Ben.
That I neither feel how she should be loved,
nor know how she should be worthy, is the opinion
that fire cannot melt out of me; I will dye in it at
the stake.
D. Pe.
Thou wast ever an obstinate heretick in the
despight of beauty.
Cla.
And never could maintain his part, but in
the force of his will.
Ben.
That a woman conceived me, I thank her;
that she brought me up, I likewise give her most
humble thanks: but that I will have a recheat winded
in my forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick,
all women shall pardon me: because I will not
do them the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the
right to trust none: and the fine is (for the which I
may go the finer) I will live a batchelor.
D. Pe.
I shall see thee, ere I dye, look pale with
love.
Ben.
With anger, with sickness, or with hunger,
my lord; not with love: prove that ever I lose more
-- 11 --
blood with love, than I will get again with drinking,
pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen, and
hang me up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign
of blind Cupid.
D. Pe.
Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith,
thou wilt prove a notable argument.
Ben.
If I do, hang me in a bottle, like a cat, and
shoot at me; and he that hits me,14Q0158 let him be clap'd on
the shoulder, and call'd Adam.
D. Pe.
Well, as time shall try:
In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.
Ben.
The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible
Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns, and
set them in my forehead: and let me be vilely
painted; and in such great letters as they write—
Here is good horse to hire, let them signify under
my sign—Here you may see Benedick the marry'd
man.
Cla.
If this should ever happen, thou would'st be
horn-mad.
D. Pe.
Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver
in Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly.
Ben.
I look for an earth-quake too then.
D. Pe.
Well, you will temporize with the hours.
In the mean time, good signior Benedick, repair to
Leonato's; commend me to him, and tell him, I will
not fail him at supper; for, indeed, he hath made
great preparation.
Ben.
I have almost matter enough in me for such
an embássage: And so I commit you—
Cla.
to note the tuition of God: From my house, (if
I had it,)
-- 12 --
D. Pe.
the note sixth of July: Your loving friend, Benedick.
Ben.
Nay, mock not, mock not: The body of
your discourse is sometime guarded with fragments,
and the guards are but slightly basted on neither: ere
you flout old ends any further, examine your conscience;
and so I leave you.
[Exit Benedick.
Cla.
My liege, your highness now may do me good.
D. Pe.
My love is thine to teach; teach it but how,
And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn
Any hard lesson that may do thee good.
Cla.
Hath Leonato any son, my lord?
D. Pe.
No child but Hero, she's his only heir:
Dost thou affect her, Claudio?
Cla.
O my lord,
When you went onward on this ended action,
I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye,
That lik'd, but had a rougher task in hand
Than to drive liking to the name of love:
But now I am return'd, and that war-thoughts
Have left their places vacant, in their rooms
Come thronging soft and delicate desires,
All prompting me how fair young Hero is,
Saying, I lik'd her ere I went to wars.
D. Pe.
Thou wilt be like a lover presently,
And tire the hearer with a book of words:
If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it;
And I will break with her, and with her father, note
And thou shalt have her: Wast not to this end,
That thou began'st to twist so fine a story?
Cla.
How sweetly do you note minister to love,
That know love's grief by his complexion!
-- 13 --
But lest my liking might too sudden seem,
I would have salv'd it with a longer treatise.
D. Pe.
What need the bridge much broader than the flood?
The fairest grant is the necessity:
Look, what will serve, is fit: 'tis once, thou lov'st;
And I will fit thee with the remedy.
I know, we shall have reveling to-night;
I will assume thy part in some disguise,
And tell fair Hero, I am Claudio;
And in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart,
And take her hearing prisoner with the force
And strong encounter of my amorous tale:
Then, after, to her father will I break;
And, the conclusion is, she shall be thine:
In practice let us put it presently.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A Room in Leonato's House.
Enter Leonato, and Antonio.
Leo.
How now, brother? Where is my cousin your
son? Hath he provided this musick?
Ant.
He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can
tell you strange note news, that you yet dreamt not of.
Leo.
Are they good?
Ant.
As the event note stamps them; but they have a
good cover, they shew well outward. The prince and
count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley in
my orchard, note were thus much note over-heard by a man of
mine: The prince discover'd to Claudio, that he loved
my niece your daughter, and meant to acknowledge it
this night in a dance; and, if he found her accordant,
he meant to take the present time by the top, and instantly
break with you of it.
-- 14 --
Leo.
Hath the fellow any wit, that told you this?
Ant.
A good sharp fellow; I will send for him, and
question him yourself.
Leo.
No, no; we will hold it as a dream, 'till
it appear itself: but I will acquaint my daughter
withal, that she may be the better prepared for an
answer, note if peradventure this be true: Go you, and
Enter several Persons, bearing Things for the Banquet.
tell her of it.—Cousins, you know what you have to
do.—O, I cry you mercy, friend; go you with me,
and I will use your skill:—Good cousin, have a care
this busy time.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Another Room in the same.
Enter Don John, and Conrade.
Con.
What the good year, my note lord! why are you
thus out of measure sad?
D. Jo.
There is no measure in the occasion that
breeds it, therefore the sadness is without limit.
Con.
You should hear reason.
D. Jo.
And when I have heard it, what blessing
bringeth it? note
Con.
If not a present remedy, yet a note patient sufferance.
D. Jo.
I wonder, that thou, being (as thou say'st,
thou art) born under Saturn, goest about to apply
a moral medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot
hide what I am: I must be sad when I have
cause, and smile at no man's jests; eat when I
have stomack, and wait for no man's leisure; sleep
when I am drowsy, and tend on no man's business;
laugh when I am merry, and claw no man in his
-- 15 --
humour.
Con.
Yea, but you must not make the full show of
this, 'till you may do it without controulment. You
have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath
ta'en you newly into his grace: where it is impossible
you should take true root, note but by the fair weather that
you make yourself; it is needful that you frame the
season for your own harvest.
D. Jo.
I had rather be a canker in a hedge, than a
rose in his grace; and it better fits my blood to be
disdain'd of all, than to fashion a carriage to rob love
from any: in this, though I cannot be said to be a
flattering honest man, it must not be deny'd but I am
a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted with a muzle,
and enfranchis'd with a clog; therefore I have decreed
not to sing in my cage: If I had my mouth, I
would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking:
in the mean time, let me be that I am, and seek
not to alter me.
Con.
Can you make no use of your discontent?
D. Jo.
I make note all use of it, for I use it only.
Enter Borachio.
Who comes here?—What news, Borachio?
Bor.
I came yonder note from a great supper; the
prince your brother is royally entertain'd by Leonato:
and I can give you intelligence of an intended marriage.
D. Jo.
Will it serve for any model to build mischief
on? What is he for a fool, that betroths himself to
unquietness?
Bor.
Marry, it is your brother's right hand.
D. Jo.
Who? the most exquisite Claudio?
-- 16 --
Bor.
Even he.
D. Jo.
A proper squire! And who, and who? which
way looks he?
Bor.
Marry, on Hero note, the daughter and heir of
Leonato.
D. Jo.
A very forward March-chick! How came you note
to this?
Bor.
Being entertain'd for a perfumer, as I was
smoking a musty room, comes me the prince and Claudio,
hand in hand, in sad conference: I whipt me behind note
the arras; and there heard it agreed upon, that
the prince should woo Hero for himself, and, having obtain'd
her, give her to count Claudio.
D. Jo.
Come, come, let us thither; this may prove
food to my displeasure: that young start-up hath all
the glory of my overthrow; if I can cross him any
way, I bless myself every way: You are both sure, and
will assist me?
Con.
To the death, my lord.
D. Jo.
Let us to the great supper; their cheer is the
greater, that I am subdued: Would note the cook were of
my mind! Shall we go prove what's to be done?
Bor.
We'll wait upon your lordship.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
A Hall in Leonato's House.
Enter Leonato, Antonio, Hero, Beatrice, and Others.
Leo.
Was not count John here at supper?
Ant.
I saw him not.
-- 17 --
Bea.
How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can
see him, but I am heart-burn'd an hour after.
Her.
He is of a very melancholy disposition.
Bea.
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 tattling.
Leo.
Then half signior Benedick's tongue in count
John's mouth, and half count John's melancholy in
signior Benedick's face,—
Bea.
With a good leg, and a good foot, uncle, and
money enough in his purse, Such a man would win
any woman in the world,—if he could get her good
will.
Leo.
By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a
husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.
Ant.
In faith, she's too curst.
Bea.
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.
Leo.
So, by being too curst, God will send you no
horns.
Bea.
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 the
woollen.
Leo.
You may light upon a note husband that hath no
beard.
Bea.
What should I do with him? dress him in my
apparel, and make him my waiting gentlewoman?
-- 18 --
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 sixpence in earnest of the bearherd, and lead his
apes into hell.14Q0159
Leo.
Well then, go you into hell.
Bea.
No, but to the gate: and there will the devil
meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head,
and say, Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven,
here's no place for you maids: so deliver I up my apes,
and away to saint Peter for the heavens; he shews me
where the batchelors sit, and there live we as merry
as the day is long.
Ant.
Well, niece, [to Hero.] I trust you will be
rul'd by your father.
Bea.
Yes, faith; it is my cousin's duty to make a
court'sy, and say, Father, as it please you:—but yet for
all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else
make another court'sy, and say, Father, as it please me. note
Leo.
Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted
with a husband.
Bea.
Not 'till God make men of some other metal
than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmaster'd
with a piece of valiant dust? to make an account note
of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No,
uncle, I'll none: Adam's sons are my brethren; and,
truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.
Leo.
Daughter, remember what I told you: if the
prince do sollicit you in that kind, you know your
answer.
Bea.
The fault will be in the musick, cousin, if
-- 19 --
you be not woo'd in good time: if the prince be too
important, tell him, there is measure in every thing,
and so dance out the answer. For hear me note, Hero,
Wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a Scoth note 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 ancientry; and then comes repentance, and, with
his bad legs, falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster,
'till he sink into note his grave.
Leo.
Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.
Bea.
I have a good eye, uncle; I can see a church
by day-light.
Leo.
The revelers are entring; brother, make good
room.
[Leonato and his Company mask.
Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, Balthasar,
Don John, Borachio, Margaret, Ursula,
and Others, mask'd.
D. Pe.
Lady, will you walk about with your friend?
Her.
So you walk softly, and look sweetly, and
say nothing, I am yours for the walk; and, especially,
when I walk away.
D. Pe.
With me in your company.
Her.
I may say so, when I please.
D. Pe.
And when please you to say so?
Her.
When I like your favour; for God defend,
the lute should be like the case!
D. Pe.
My visor is Philemon's roof; within the house
is Jove. note14Q0160
Her.
Why, then your visor should be thatch'd.
D. Pe.
Speak low, if you speak love.
[drawing her aside.
-- 20 --
Ben.
Well, I would you did like me.
Mar.
So would not I, for your own sake! for I
have many ill qualities.
Ben.
Which is one?
Mar.
I say my prayers aloud.
Ben.
I love you the better; the hearers may cry,
amen.
[turning off in Quest of another.
Mar.
God match me with a good dancer!
Bal.
Amen.
Mar.
And God keep him out of my sight, when
the dance is done!—Answer, clerk.
Bal.
No more words; the clerk is answered.
[parting different Ways.
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 itself?
Go to, mum, you are he: graces will appear, and
there's an end.
[mixing with the Company.
Bea.
Will you not tell me who told you so?
Ben.
No, you shall pardon me.
Bea.
Nor will you not tell note me who you are?
Ben.
Not now.
Bea.
That I was disdainful,—and that I had my
good wit out of the Hundred merry Tales;—Well, this
-- 21 --
was signior Benedick that said so?
Ben.
What's he?
Bea. note
I am sure, you know him well enough.
Ben.
Not I, believe me.
Bea.
Did he never make you laugh?
Ben.
I pray you, what is he?
Bea.
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 note, 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.
Ben.
When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him
what you say.
Bea.
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's wing sav'd, for the fool will eat no supper
that night. [Musick begins: Dance forming.] We
must follow the leaders.
Ben.
In every good thing.
Bea.
Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them
at the next turning.
[Dance: and Exeunt D. Pe. and Leo. conversing; Her. Bea.
Mar. Urs. Ant. Ben. Bal. and Company.
&clquo;D. Jo.
&clquo;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.&crquo;
&clquo;Bor.
&clquo;And that is Claudio; I know him by his
bearing.&crquo;
-- 22 --
D. Jo.
Are not you signior Benedick?
Cla.
You know me well; I am he.
D. Jo.
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.
Cla.
How know you he loves her?
D. Jo.
I heard him swear his affection.
Bor.
So did I too; and he swore note he would marry
her to-night.
D. Jo.
Come, let us to the banquet.
[Exeunt D. John, and Borachio.
Cla.
Thus answer I in name of Benedick,
But hear these 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 hearts14Q0161 in love use their own note tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself,
And trust no agent: for beauty is a witch,
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.
This is an accident of hourly proof,
Which I mistrusted not: Farewel therefore, Hero!
Re-enter Benedick.
Ben.
Count Claudio?
Cla.
Yea, the same.
Ben.
Come, will you go with me?
Cla.
Whither?
Ben.
Even to the next willow, about your own
business, count. note 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
-- 23 --
must wear it one way, for the prince hath got your
Hero.
Cla.
I wish him joy of her.
Ben.
Why, that's spoken like an honest drover;
so they sell bullocks. But did you think, the prince
would have serv'd you thus?
Cla.
I pray you, leave me.
Ben.
Ho! now you note strike like the blind man;
'twas the boy that stole your meat, and you'll beat the
post.
Cla.
If it will not be, I'll leave you.
[Exit Claudio.
Ben.
Alas, poor hurt fowl! note 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 note;14Q0162 (I am apt to do myself wrong) I am
not so reputed: it is the base, though bitter, disposition
of Beatrice, that puts the world into her person,
and so gives me out. Well, I'll be revenged as
I may.
Re-enter Don Pedro, Hero, and Leonato.
D. Pe.
Now, signior? where's the count? Did you
see him?
Ben.
Troth, my lord, I have played the part of
lady fame: I found him here as melancholy as a
lodge in a warren; I told him, and, I think, I told
him note true, that your grace had got the good note will of
this young lady; and I offered him my company to
a willow-tree, either to make him a garland, as being
forsaken, or to bind him up note a rod, as being worthy to
be whipt.
-- 24 --
D. Pe.
To be whipt! What's his fault?
Ben.
The flat transgression of a school-boy; who
being overjoy'd with finding a bird's nest, shews it his
companion, and he steals it.
D. Pe.
Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The
transgession is in the stealer.
Ben.
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 bestowed
on you, who, as I take it, have stol'n his birds'
nest.
D. Pe.
I will but teach them to sing, and restore them
to the owner.
Ben.
If their singing answer your saying, by my
faith, you say honestly.
D. Pe.
The lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you; the
gentleman, that danc'd with her, told her, she is much
wrong'd by you.
Ben.
O, she misus'd me past the endurance of a
block; an oak, but with note one green leaf on it, would
have answered note her; my very visor began to assume life,
and scold with her: She told me, not thinking I had
been myself, that I was the prince's jester; that note I was
duller than a great thaw; hudling jest upon jest, with
such impossible conveyance, upon me, that I stood like
a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at me:
She speaks poniards, and every word stabs: if her
breath were as terrible as her terminations, note 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
-- 25 --
have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk
not of her; you shall find her the infernal Ate 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, follows her.
Re-enter Beatrice, and Claudio.
D. Pe.
Look, here she comes.
Ben.
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 embássage to the pigmies, rather
than hold three words conference with this harpy: You
have no employment for me?
D. Pe.
None, but to desire your good company.
Ben.
O God, sir, here's a dish I love not; I cannot
endure this lady's tongue. note
[Exit Benedick.
D. Pe.
Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart
of signior Benedick.
Bea.
Indeed, my lord, he lent it me a while; and
I gave him use for it, a double heart for his single note one:
marry, once before he won it of me with false dice,
therefore your grace may well say, I have lost it.
D. Pe.
You have put him down, lady, you have put
him down.
Bea.
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.
-- 26 --
D. Pe.
Why, how now, count? wherefore are you sad?
Cla.
Not sad, my lord.
D. Pe.
How then? Sick?
Cla.
Neither, my lord.
Bea.
The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry,
nor well:—but civil, count; civil as an orange, and
something of that jealous note complexion.
D. Pe.
I' faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true;
though, I'll be note sworn, if he be so, his conceit is false.—
Here, Claudio, [leading him to Hero.] 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!
Leo.
Count, take of me my daughter, and with
her my fortunes: his grace hath made the match, and
all grace say, amen, to it!
Bea.
Speak, count, 'tis your cue.
Cla.
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 myself for
you, and doat upon the exchange.
Bea.
Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his
mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak neither.
D. Pe.
In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.
Bea.
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. note
Cla.
And so she doth, cousin.
Bea.
Good lord, for alliance!14Q0163 Thus goes every
one to the world but I, and I am sun-burnt; I may sit
in a corner, and cry, hey ho! for a husband.
D. Pe.
Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.
-- 27 --
Bea.
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.
D. Pe.
Will you have me, lady?
Bea.
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.
D. Pe.
Your silence most offends me, and to be merry
best becomes you; for, out of question, you were
born in a merry hour.
Bea.
No, sure, my lord; my mother cry'd: but
then there was a star danc'd, and under that was I
born.—Cousins, God give you joy?
Leo.
Niece, will you look to those things I told
you of?
Bea.
I cry you mercy, uncle.—By your grace's
pardon.
[Exit Beatrice.
D. Pe.
By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.
Leo.
There's little of the melancholy element in
her, my lord: she is never sad, but when she sleeps;
and not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter
say, she hath often dreamt of unhappiness, and wak'd
herself with laughing.
D. Pe.
She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.
Leo.
O, by no means; she mocks all her wooers
out of suit.
D. Pe.
She were an excellent wife for Benedick.
Leo.
O lord, my lord, if they were but a week
marry'd, they would talk themselves mad.
D. Pe.
Count note Claudio, when mean you to go to church?
-- 28 --
Cla.
To-morrow, my lord; Time goes on crutches,
'till love have all his rites.
Leo.
Not 'till monday, my dear son, which is hence
a just sevennight; and a time too brief too, to have all
things answer my mind. note
D. Pe.
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' 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 but to note fashion it, if you three will but minister
such assistance as I shall give you direction.
Leo.
My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten
nights' watchings.
Cla.
And I, my lord.
D. Pe.
And you too, gentle Hero?
Her.
I will do any modest office, my lord, to help
my cousin to a good husband.
D. Pe.
And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband
that I know: thus far can I praise him; he is
of a noble strain, of approved 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 queasy stomack, 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.
SCENE II.
Another Room in the same.
-- 29 --
Enter Don John, and Borachio.
D. Jo.
It is so; the count Claudio shall marry the
daughter of Leonato.
Bor.
Yea, my lord; but I can cross it.
D. Jo.
Any bar, any cross, any impediment, will
be medicinable to me: I am sick in displeasure to him;
and whatsoever comes athwart his affection, ranges
evenly with mine: How canst thou cross this marriage?
Bor.
Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly, that
no dishonesty shall appear in me.
D. Jo.
Shew me briefly how.
Bor.
I think I told your lordship, a year since, how
much I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting-gentlewoman
to Hero:
D. Jo.
I remember.
Bor.
I can, at any unseasonable instant of the
night, appoint her to look out at her lady's chamber-window.
D. Jo.
What life is in that, to be the death of this
marriage?
Bor.
The poison of that lies in you to temper: Go
you to the prince your brother; spare not to tell him, that
he hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned
Claudio (whose estimation do you mightily hold up) to
a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero.
D. Jo.
What proof shall I make of that?
Bor.
Proof enough, to misuse the prince, to vex
Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato: Look you for
any other issue?
D. Jo.
Only to despite them, I will endeavour any
thing.
Bor.
Go then, find me a meet hour to draw Don
-- 30 --
Pedro note, and the count Claudio, alone; tell them, that
you know that Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal
both to the prince and Claudio; as—in a love note of your
brother's honour, who hath made this match; and his
friend's reputation, who is thus like to be cozen'd with
the semblance of a maid,—that you have discover'd
thus: They will scarcely believe this without trial:
offer them instances; which shall bear no less likelihood,
than to see me at her chamber-window; hear
me call Margaret, Hero; hear Margaret term me Claudio14Q0164;
and bring them to see this, the very night before
the intended wedding: for, in the mean time, I will so
fashion the matter, that Hero shall be absent; and there
shall appear such seeming truth note of her disloyalty note, that
jealousy shall be call'd assurance, and all the preparation
overthrown.
D. Jo.
Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will
put it in practice: Be cunning in the working this,
and thy fee is a thousand ducats.
Bor.
Be you constant note in the accusation, and my
cunning shall not shame me.
D. Jo.
I will presently go learn their day of marriage.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Leonato's Garden.
Enter Benedick, and a Boy.
Ben.
Boy,—
Boy.
Signior.
Ben.
In my chamber-window lies a book; bring
it hither to me in the orchard.
Boy.
I am here already, sir.
Ben.
I know that; but I would have thee hence,
-- 31 --
and here again. [Exit Boy.] I do much wonder, that
one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when
he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath
laugh'd at such shallow follies in others, become the
argument of his own scorn, by falling in love: And
such a man is Claudio: I have known, when there was
no musick with him but the drum and the fife; and
now had he rather hear the taber and the pipe: I have
known, when he would have walk'd ten mile afoot, to
see a good armour; and now will he lye ten nights
awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet: He was
wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest
man and a soldier; and now is he turn'd orthographer; note note
his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many
strange dishes. May I be so converted, and see with
these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not be
sworn, but love may transform me to an oister; but I'll
take my oath on it, 'till he have made an oister note of me,
he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is
fair; yet I am well: another is wise; yet I am well:
another virtuous; yet I am well: but 'till all graces be
in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace:
Rich she shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none;
virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never
look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or
not I for an angel: of good discourse, an excellent musician,
and her hair shall be14Q0165 of what colour it please
God. Ha! The prince, and monsieur Love! I will
hide me in the arbour.
[withdraws.
Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato.
D. Pe.
Come, shall we hear this musick?
Cla.
Yea, my good lord: How still the evening is!
-- 32 --
As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony.
&clquo;D. Pe.
&clquo;See you where Benedick hath hid himself?&crquo;
&clquo;Cla.
&clquo;O, very well, my lord: the musick ended,&crquo;
&clquo;We'll fit the hid fox note with a penny-worth.&crquo;
Enter Balthasar, with Musick.
D. Pe.
Come, Balthasar, we'll hear that song again.
Bal.
O good my lord, tax not note so bad a voice
To slander musick any more than once. note
D. Pe.
It is the witness still of excellency,
To put a strange face on his own perfection:—
I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no note more.
Bal.
Because you talk of wooing, I will sing:
Since many a wooer doth commence his suit
To her he thinks not worthy; yet he wooes;
Yet will he swear, he loves.
D. Pe.
Nay, pray thee, come:
Or if thou wilt hold longer argument,
Do it in notes.
Bal.
Note this before my notes,
There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.
D. Pe.
Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks;
Note, notes, forsooth, and noting note!
[Air.
&clquo;Ben.
&clquo;Now, Divine air! Now is his soul ravish'd!
Is it not strange, that sheep's guts should hale souls
out of men's bodies? Well, a horn for my money,
when all's done.&crquo;
[Song.
Bal.
[I]
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
men were deceivers ever;
one foot in sea, and one on shore;
to one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so,
but let them go,
-- 33 --
and be you blith and bonny;
converting all your note sounds of woe
into, Hey, nonny, nonny.
II. St.
Sing no more note ditties, sing no mo
of dumps so dull and heavy;
the fraud of men was ever note so,
since summer first was leavy.
Then sigh not so, &c.
D. Pe.
By my troth, a good song.
Bal.
And an ill singer, my lord.
D. Pe.
Ha? No; no, faith; thou sing'st well enough
for a shift.
&clquo;Ben.
&clquo;An he had been a dog that should have
howl'd thus, they would have hang'd him: and I
pray God, his bad voice bode no mischief; I had
as lief have heard the night-raven, come what
plague could have come after it.&crquo;
D. Pe.
Yea, marry;—Dost thou hear, Balthasar?
I pray thee, get us some excellent musick; for tomorrow
night we would have it at the lady Hero's
chamber-window.
Bal.
The best I can, my lord.
D. Pe.
Do so; farewel. [Exeunt Bal. and Musick.]
Come hither, Leonato: What was it you told me of today?
that your niece Beatrice was in love with signior
Benedick?
Cla.
O, ay:—&clquo;Stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits.&crquo;—
I did never think, that lady would have loved any man.
Leo.
No, nor I neither; but most wonderful, that
she should so doat on signior Benedick, whom she hath
in all outward behaviours seemed ever to abhor.
-- 34 --
&clquo;Ben.
&clquo;Is't possible? Sits the wind in that corner?&crquo;
Leo.
By my troth, my lord,14Q0166 I cannot tell what to
think of it: but, that she loves him with an enrag'd
affection,—It is past the infinite of thought.
D. Pe.
May be, she doth but counterfeit.
Cla.
'Faith, like enough.
Leo.
O God! counterfeit! There was never counterfeit
of passion came so near the life of passion, as she
discovers it.
D. Pe.
Why, what effects of passion shews she?
&clquo;Cla.
&clquo;Bait the hook well; this fish note will bite.&crquo;
Leo.
What effects, my lord? She will sit you—
You heard my daughter tell how note.
Cla.
She did, indeed.
D. Pe.
How, how, I pray you? You amaze me: I
would have thought, her spirit had been invincible
against all assaults of affection.
Leo.
I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially
against Benedick.
&clquo;Ben.
&clquo;I should think this a gull, but that the
white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot,
sure, hide himself in such reverence.&crquo;
&clquo;Cla.
&clquo;He hath ta'en th'infection; hold it up.&crquo;
D. Pe.
Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?
Leo.
No; and swears, she never will; that's her
torment.
Cla.
'Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says:
Shall I, says she, that have so oft encounter'd him with
scorn, write to him that I love him?
Leo.
This says she now when she is beginning to
write to him: for she'll be up twenty times a night;
-- 35 --
and there will she sit in her smock, 'till she have writ
a sheet of paper:—my daughter tells us all.
Cla.
Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember
a pretty jest your daughter told us of.
Leo.
O,—When she had writ it, and was reading
it over, she note found Benedick and Beatrice between the
sheet?—
Cla.
That.
Leo.
O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence;
rail'd at herself, that she should be so immodest
to write to one that she knew would flout her: I measure
him, says she, by my own spirit; for I should flout
him, if he writ to me; yea, though I love him, I should.
Cla.
Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps,
sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses;—
O sweet Benedick! God give me patience!
Leo.
She doth, indeed; my daughter says so: and
the extasy hath so much over-born her, that my daughter
is sometime afeard she will do a desperate outrage
to herself; It is very true.
D. Pe.
It were good, that Benedick knew of it by some
other, if she will not discover it.
Cla.
To what end? He would but make a sport of
it, and torment the poor lady worse.
D. Pe.
An he should, it were an alms to hang him:
She's an excellent sweet lady; and, out of all suspicion,
she is virtuous.
Cla.
And she is exceeding wise.
D. Pe.
In every thing, but in loving Benedick.
Leo.
O my lord, wisdom and blood combating in
so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one, that blood
hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just
-- 36 --
cause, being her uncle and her guardian.
D. Pe.
I would she had bestowed this dotage on me;
I would have daft all other respects, and made her half
my self: I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear what
he will say.
Leo.
Were it good, think you?
Cla.
Hero thinks surely, she will dye: for she says
she will dye, if he love her not; and she will dye ere
she make her love known; and she will dye, if he woo
her, rather than she will 'bate one breath of her accustomed
crossness.
D. Pe.
She doth well: if she should make tender of
her love, 'tis very possible he'll scorn it; for the man,
as you know all, hath a contemptible spirit.
Cla.
He is a very proper man.
D. Pe.
He hath, indeed, a good outward happiness.
Cla.
'Fore God, note and, in my mind, very wise.
D. Pe.
He doth, indeed, shew some sparks that are
like wit.
Cla.
And I note take him to be valiant.
D. Pe.
As Hector, I assure you: and in the managing
of quarrels you may say he note is wise; for either he avoids
them with great discretion, or undertakes them with
a most note christian-like fear.
Leo.
If he do fear God, he must necessarily keep
peace; if he break the peace, he ought to enter into
a quarrel with fear and trembling.
D. Pe.
And so will he do; for the man doth fear
God, howsoever it seems not in him, by some large
jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece:
Shall we go seek Benedick note, and tell him of her love?
Cla.
Never tell him, my lord; let her wear it out
-- 37 --
with good counsel.
Leo.
Nay, that's impossible; she may wear her
heart out first.
D. Pe.
Well, we will hear further of it by your
daughter; let it cool the while: I love Benedick well;
and I could wish he would modestly examine himself, to
see how much he is unworthy to have note so good a lady.
Leo.
My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready.
&clquo;Cla.
&clquo;If he do not doat on her upon this, I will
never trust my expectation.&crquo;
&clquo;D. Pe.
&clquo;Let there be the same net spread for her,
and that must your daughter and her gentlewomen note
carry: The sport will be, when they hold one an
opinion of another's dotage, and no such matter;
that's the scene that I would see, which will be
meerly a dumb shew. Let us send her to call him
in to note dinner.&crquo;
[Exeunt Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato.
Ben. [advancing.]
This can be no trick: The conference
was sadly born: They have the truth of this
from Hero. They seem to pity the lady; it seems, her
affections have their full note bent. Love me! Why, it must
be requited. I hear how I am censur'd: they say, I
will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come
from her; they say too, that she will rather dye than
give any sign of affection;—I did never think to marry:
I must not seem proud: happy are they that hear their
detractions, and can put them to mending. They say,
the lady is fair; 'tis a truth, I can bear them witness:
and virtuous; 'tis so, I can not reprove it: and wise,
but for loving me; By my troth, it is no addition to
her wit; nor no great argument of her folly, for I will
-- 38 --
be horribly in love with her. I may chance have some
odd quirks and remnants of note wit broken on me, because
I have railed so long against marriage: But doth not
the appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth,
that he cannot endure in his age: Shall quips, and sentences,
and these paper bullets of the brain, awe a man
from the career of his humour? No: The world must
be peopl'd: When I said, I would dye a batchelor, I
did not think I should live 'till I were marry'd.—Here
comes Beatrice: By this day, she's a fair lady: I do
spy some marks of love in her.
Enter Beatrice.
Bea.
Against my will, I am sent to bid you come
in to dinner.
Ben.
Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.
Bea.
I took no more pains for those thanks, than
you take pains to thank me; if it had been painful, I
would not have come.
Ben.
You take pleasure then in the message?
Bea.
Yea, just so much as you may take upon a
knife's point, and choak a daw withal:—You have no
stomack, signior; fare you well.
[Exit Beatrice.
Ben.
Ha! Against my will, I am sent to bid you come
in to note dinner—there's a double meaning in that. I took
no more pains for those thanks, than you took pains to thank
me—that's as much as to say, Any pains that I take
for you is as easy as thanks:—If I do not take pity
of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a
Jew: I will go get her picture.
[Exit.
ACT III.
-- 39 --
SCENE I.
The Garden.
Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula.
Her.
Good Margaret, run thee into the note parlour;
There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice,
Proposing with the prince and Claudio:
Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursula note
Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse
Is all of her; say, that thou overheard'st us;
And bid her steal into the pleached bower,
Where honey-suckles, ripen'd by the sun,
Forbid the sun to enter;—like to favourites,
Made proud by princes, that advance their pride
Against that power that bred it:—there will she hide her
To listen our propose: note This is thy office;
Bear thee well in it, and leave us alone.
Mar.
I'll make her come, I warrant you note, presently.
[Exit Margaret.
Her.
Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come,
As we do trace this alley up and down,
Our talk must only be of Benedick:
When I do name him, let it be thy part
To praise him more than ever man did merit;
My talk to thee must be, how Benedick
Is sick in love with Beatrice: Of this matter
Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made,
That only wounds with hear-say. &clquo;Now begin;&crquo;
Enter Beatrice.
&clquo;For look where Beatrice, like a lap-wing, runs&crquo;
&clquo;Close by the ground, to hear our conference.&crquo;
&clquo;Urs.
&clquo;The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish&crquo;
&clquo;Cut with her golden oars the silver stream,&crquo;
-- 40 --
&clquo;And greedily devour the treacherous bait:&crquo;
&clquo;So angle we for Beatrice; who even now&crquo;
&clquo;Is couched in the woodbine coverture:&crquo;
&clquo;Fear you not my part of the dialogue.&crquo;
&clquo;Her.
&clquo;Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing&crquo;
&clquo;Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.&crquo;
No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful;
I know, her spirits are as coy and wild
As haggards of the rock.
Urs.
But are you sure,
That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?
Her.
So says the prince, and my new-trothed lord.
Urs.
And did they bid you tell her of it, madam?
Her.
They did intreat me to acquaint her of it:
But I persuaded them, if they lov'd Benedick,
To wish him wrestle with affection,
And never to let Beatrice know of it.
Urs.
Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman
Deserve as full, as fortunate a bed,
As ever Beatrice shall couch upon?
Her.
O god of love! I know, he doth deserve
As much as may be yielded to a man:
But nature never fram'd a woman's heart
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice:
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, note
Misprizing what they look on; and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak: she cannot love,
Nor take no shape nor project of affection,
She is so self-endeared.
Urs.
Sure, I think so;
And therefore, certainly, it were not good
-- 41 --
She knew his love, lest she make note sport at it.
Her.
Why, you speak truth14Q0167: I never yet saw man,
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur'd,
But she would spell him backward: if fair-fac'd,
She would swear, the gentleman should be her sister;
If black, why, nature, drawing of an antick, note
Made a foul blot: if tall, a lance ill-headed;
If low, an agat very vilely cut:
If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;
If silent, why, a block moved with none.
So turns she every man the wrong side out;
And never gives to truth and virtue, that
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.
Urs.
Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.
Her.
No; nor to note be so odd, and from all fashions,
As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable:
But who dare tell her so? If I should speak,
She would mock me into air; o, she would laugh me
Out of myself, press me to death with wit.
Therefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire,
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly:
It were a better death than dye note with mocks;
Which is as bad as dye with tickling.
Urs.
Yet tell her of it; hear what she will say.
Her.
No; rather I will go to Benedick,
And counsel him to fight against his passion:
And, truly, I'll devise some honest slanders,
To stain my cousin with; One doth not know,
How much an ill word may empoison liking.
Urs.
O, do not do your cousin such a wrong.
She cannot be so much without true judgment,
(Having so swift and excellent a wit,
-- 42 --
As she is pris'd to have) as to refuse
So rare a gentleman as signior Benedick.
Her.
He is the only man of Italy,
Always excepted my dear Claudio.
Urs.
I pray you, be not angry with me, madam,
Speaking my fancy; Signior Benedick,
For shape, for bearing, argument, and valour,
Goes foremost in report through Italy.
Her.
Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.
Urs.
His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.—
When are you marry'd, madam?
Her.
Why, every day; to-morrow: Come, go in;
I'll shew thee some attires; and have thy counsel,
Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.
&clquo;Urs.
&clquo;She's ta'en, I note warrant you; we have caught her, madam.&crquo;
&clquo;Her.
&clquo;If it prove so, then loving goes by haps:&crquo;
&clquo;Some Cupid kills note with arrows, some with traps.&crquo;
[Exeunt Hero, and Ursula. Beatrice advances.
Bea.
What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much?
Contempt, farewel! and, maiden pride, adieu!
No glory lives behind the back of such.
And, Benedick, love on, I will requite thee;
Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand;
If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee
To bind our loves up in a holy band:
For others say, thou dost deserve; and I
Believe it better than reportingly.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
A Room in Leonato's House.
Enter D. Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and Leonato.
D. Pe.
I do but stay 'till your marriage be consummate,
-- 43 --
and then go I toward Arragon.
Cla.
I'll bring you thither, my lord, if you'll
vouchsafe me.
D. Pe.
Nay, that would be as great a soyl in the
new gloss of your marriage, as to shew a child his new
coat, and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold
with Benedick for his company; for, from the crown
of his head to the soal of his foot, he is all mirth: he
hath twice or thrice cut Cupid's bow-string, and the
little hangman dare not shoot at him: he hath a heart
as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for
what his heart thinks, his tongue speaks.
Ben.
Gallants, I am not as I have been.
Leo.
So say I; methinks, you are sadder.
Cla.
I hope, he be in love.
D. Pe.
Hang him, truant; there's no true drop of
blood in him, to be truly touch'd with love: if he be
sad, he wants money.
Ben.
I have the tooth-ach.
D. Pe.
Draw it.
Ben.
Hang it!
Cla.
You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards.
D. Pe.
What? sigh for the tooth-ach?
Leo.
Where is but a humour, or a worm?
Ben.
Well, Every one can master note a grief, but he
that has it.
Cla.
Yet say I, he is in love.
D. Pe.
There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless
it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises; as,
to be a Dutchman to-day, a Frenchman to-morrow;
or in note the shape of two countries at once, as, a German
from the waste downward, all slops, and a Spaniard
-- 44 --
from the hip upward, no doublet: unless he have
a fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no
fool for fancy, as you would have it appear note he is.
Cla.
If he be not in love with some woman, there
is no believing old signs: he brushes his hat o' mornings;
What should that bode?
D. Pe.
Hath any man seen him at the barber's?
Cla.
No, but the barber's man hath been seen with
him; and the old ornament of his cheek hath already
stuff'd tennis-balls.
Leo.
Indeed, he looks younger than he did, by
the loss of a beard.
D. Pe.
Nay, he rubs himself with civet; Can you
smell him out by that?
Cla.
That's as much as to say, The sweet youth's
in love.
D. Pe.
The greatest note note of it is his melancholy.
Cla.
And when was he wont to wash his face?
D. Pe.
Yea, or to paint himself? for the which, I
hear what they say of him.
Cla.
Nay, but his jesting spirit; which is now crept
into a lute-string, and now govern'd by stops.
D. Pe.
Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him: Conclude,
conclude note, he is in love.
Cla.
Nay, but I know who loves him.
D. Pe.
That would I know too; I warrant, one that
knows him not.
Cla.
Yes, and his ill conditions; and, in despight
of all, dies for him.
D. Pe.
She shall be bury'd14Q0168 with her heels upwards note.
Ben.
Yet is this no charm for the tooth-ach.—
Old signior, walk aside with me; I have study'd eight
-- 45 --
or nine wise words to speak to you, which these
hobby-horses must not hear.
[Exeunt Benedick, and Leonato.
D. Pe.
For my life, to break with him about Beatrice.
Cla.
'Tis even so: Hero and Margaret have by this
played their parts with Beatrice; and then the two bears
will not bite one another, when they meet.
Enter Don John.
D. Jo.
My lord and brother, God save you.
D. Pe.
Good den, brother.
D. Jo.
If your leisure serv'd, I would speak with you.
D. Pe.
In private?
D. Jo.
If it please you:—yet count Claudio may
hear; for what I would speak of, concerns him.
D. Pe.
What's note the matter?
D. Jo.
Means your lordship [to Cla.] to be marry'd
to-morrow?
D. Pe.
You know, he does.
D. Jo.
I know not that, when he knows what I know.
Cla.
If there be any impediment, I pray you, discover
it.
D. Jo.
You may think, I love you not; let that appear
hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now
will manifest: For my brother, I think, he holds you
well; and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect your
ensuing marriage: surely, suit ill spent, and labour ill
bestowed.
D. Pe.
Why, what's the matter?
D. Jo.
I came hither to tell you; and, circumstances
shorten'd, (for she hath been note too long a'talking
about) the lady is disloyal.
Cla.
Who? Hero?
-- 46 --
D. Jo.
Even she; Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every
man's Hero.
Cla.
Disloyal?
D. Jo.
The word is too good to paint out her wickedness;
I could say, she were worse; think you of a
worse title, and I will fit her to it: Wonder not 'till
further warrant: go but with me to-night, you shall see
her chamber-window enter'd; even the night before her
wedding-day: if you love her then, to-morrow wed her;
but it would better fit your honour to change your mind.
Cla.
May this be so?
D. Pe.
I will not think it.
D. Jo.
If you dare not trust that you see, confess not
that you know: if you will follow me, I will shew you
enough; and when you have seen more, and heard
more, proceed accordingly.
Cla.
If I see any thing to-night, why I should not
marry her; to-morrow, in the congregation, where I
should wed, there will I shame her.
D. Pe.
And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will
join with thee to disgrace her.
D. Jo.
I will disparage her no farther, 'till you are
my witnesses; bear it coldly but 'till midnight, note and let
the issue shew itself.
D. Pe.
O day untowardly turned!
Cla.
O mischief strangely thwarting!
D. Jo.
O plague right well prevented!
So will you say, when you have note seen the sequel.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A Street.
Enter Dogberry, and Verges, with the Watch.
Dog.
Are you good men and true?
-- 47 --
Ver.
Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer
salvation, body and soul.
Dog.
Nay, that were a punishment too good for
them, if they should have any allegeance in them, being
chosen for the prince's watch.
Ver.
Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry.
Dog.
First, who think you the most desartless man
to be constable?
1. W.
Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they
can write and read.
Dog.
Come hither, neighbour Seacoal: God hath
bless'd you with a good name: to be a well-favour'd
man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes
by nature.
2. W.
Both which, master constable,—
Dog.
You have; I knew it would be your answer:
Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks,
and make no boast of it; and for your writing and
reading, let that appear when there is no need of such
vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless
and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore
bear you the lanthorn: This is your charge; You shall
comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man
stand, in the prince's name.
2. W.
How if he will not stand?
Dog.
Why then, take no note of him, but let him
go; and presently call the rest of the watch together,
and thank God you are rid of a knave.
Ver.
If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is
none of the prince's subjects.
Dog.
True, and they are to meddle with none but
the prince's subjects:—You shall also make no noise in
-- 48 --
the streets; for, for the watch to babble and to talk, note
is most tolerable and not to be endured.
2. W.
We will rather14Q0169 sleep than talk; we know what
belongs to a watch.
Dog.
Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet
watchman; for I cannot see how sleeping should offend:
only, have a care that your bills be not stoln:—Well,
you are to call at all the ale-houses, and bid those that note
are drunk get them to bed.
2. W.
How if they will not?
Dog.
Why then, let them alone 'till they are sober;
if they make you not then the better answer, you may
say, they are not the men you took them for.
2. W.
Well, sir.
Dog.
If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by
virtue of your office, to be no true man; and, for such
kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them,
why, the more is for your honesty.
2. W.
If we know him to be a thief, shall we not
lay hands on him?
Dog.
Truly, by your office, you may; but, I think,
they that touch pitch will be defil'd: the most peaceable
way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him shew
himself what he is, and steal out of your company.
Ver.
You have been always call'd a merciful man,
partner.
Dog.
Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will;
much more a man who hath any honesty in him.
Ver.
If you hear a child cry in the night, you must
call to the nurse, and bid her still it.
2. W.
How if the nurse be asleep, and will not hear us?
Dog.
Why then, depart in peace, and let the child
-- 49 --
wake her with crying: for the ewe that will not hear
her lamb when it baes, will never answer a calf when
he bleats.
Ver.
'Tis very true.
Dog.
This is the end of the charge. You, constable,
are to present the prince's own person; if you
meet the prince in the night, you may stay him.
Ver.
Nay, by'r-lady, that, I think, he cannot.
Dog.
Five shillings to one on 't, with any man that
knows the statutes, he may stay him: marry, not without
the prince be willing: for, indeed, the watch ought
to offend no man; and it is an offence to stay a man
against his will.
Ver.
By'r-lady, I think, it be so.
Dog.
Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good night: an
there be any matter of weight chances, call up me:
keep your fellows' counsels, and your own, and good
night.—Come, neighbour.
2. W.
Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go
sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then all
to-bed.
Dog.
One word more, honest neighbours: I pray
you, watch about signior Leonato's door; for the wedding
being there to-morrow, there is a great coyl tonight:
Adieu; be vigitant note, I beseech you.
[Exeunt Dogberry, and Verges.
Enter Borachio, and Conrade.
Bor.
What, Conrade,—
&clquo;2. W.
&clquo;Peace, stir not.&crquo;
Bor.
Conrade, I say,—
Con.
Here, man, I am at thy elbow.
Bor.
Mass, and my elbow itch'd; I thought, there
-- 50 --
would a scab follow.
Con.
I will owe thee an answer for that; and now
forward with thy tale.
Bor.
Stand thee close then under this pent-house,
for it drizzles rain; and I will, like a true drunkard,
utter all to thee.
&clquo;2. W.
&clquo;Some treason, masters; yet stand close.&crquo;
Bor.
Therefore know, I have earned of Don John
a thousand ducats.
Con.
Is it possible that any villany should be so
dear?
Bor.
Thou should'st rather ask, if it were possible
any villany should be so rich: for when rich villains
have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what
price they will.
Con.
I wonder at it.
Bor.
That shews, thou art unconfirm'd: Thou
knowest, that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a
cloak, is nothing to a man.
Con.
Yes, it is apparel.
Bor.
I mean, the fashion.
Con.
Yes, the fashion is the fashion.
Bor.
Tush! I may as well say, the fool's the fool. But
see'st thou not what a deform'd thief this fashion is?
&clquo;1. W.
&clquo;I know that Deform'd; he has been a vile
thief this seven year; note he goes up and down like
a gentleman: I remember his name.&crquo;
Bor.
Did'st thou not hear some body?
Con.
No; 'twas the vane note on the house.
Bor.
See'st thou not, I say, what a deform'd thief
this fashion is? how giddily he turns about all the
hot bloods, between fourteen and five and thirty?
-- 51 --
sometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh's soldiers in
the reechy painting; sometime, like god Bel's priests
in the old church-window; sometime, like the shaven
Hercules in the smirtcht worm-eaten tapestry, where his
cod-piece seems as massy as his club?
Con.
All this I see; and see note, that the fashion wears
out more apparel than the man: But art not thou thyself
giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast shifted
out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion?
Bor.
Not so neither: but know that I have to-night
wooed Margaret, the lady Hero's gentlewoman, by the
name of Hero; she leans me out at her mistress' chamber-window,
bids me a thousand times good-night,—
I tell this tale vilely: I should first tell thee, how the
prince, Claudio, and my master, planted, and placed,
and possessed by my master Don John, saw afar off in
the orchard this amiable encounter.
Con.
And thought they, Margaret note was Hero?
Bor.
Two of them did, the prince and Claudio,
but the devil my master knew she was Margaret; and
partly by his oaths, which first possess'd them, partly
by the dark night, which did deceive them, but chiefly
by my villany, which did confirm any slander that
Don John had made, away went Claudio enrag'd;
swore he would meet her, as he was appointed, next
morning at the temple, and there, before the whole
congregation, shame her with what he had seen
o'er night, and send her home again without a husband.
1. W. [starting out upon them.]
We charge you in the
prince's name, stand.
2. W.
Call up the right master constable: We have
-- 52 --
here recovered the most dangerous piece of lecnery
that ever was known in the common-wealth.
1. W.
And one Deform'd is one of them; I know
him, he wears a lock.
Con.
Masters, masters,—
2. W.
You'll be made bring Deform'd forth, I warrant
you.
Con.
Masters,—
1. W.
Never speak, we charge you, let us obey you
to go with us.
Bor.
We are like to prove a goodly commodity,
being taken up of these men's bills.
Con.
A commodity in question, I warrant you.—
Come, we'll obey you.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
A Room in Leonato's House.
Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula.
Her.
Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and
desire her to rise.
Urs.
I will, lady.
Her.
And bid her come hither.
Urs.
Well.
[Exit Ursula.
Mar.
Troth, I think, your other rebato were
better.
Her.
No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this.
Mar.
By my troth, 's not so good;14Q0170 and, I warrant,
your cousin will say so.
Her.
My cousin's a fool, and thou art another;
I'll wear none but this.
Mar.
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
-- 53 --
gown, that they praise so.
Her.
O, that exceeds, they say.
Mar.
By my troth, 's but a night-gown in respect note
of yours: Cloth o' gold, and cuts, and lac'd with
silver; set with pearls, down sleeves, side sleeves, and
skirts round, under-born with a blueish tinsel: but,
for a fine, queint, graceful, and excellent fashion, yours
is worth ten on 't.
Her.
God give me joy to wear it, for my heart is
exceeding heavy!
Mar.
'Twill be heavier soon, by the weight of a man.
Her.
Fie upon thee! art not asham'd?
Mar.
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: an
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, an it be the right husband, and the
right wife; otherwise, 'tis light, and not heavy; Ask
my lady Beatrice else, here she comes.
Enter Beatrice.
Her.
Good morrow, coz.
Bea.
Good morrow, sweet Hero.
Her.
Why, how now! do you speak in the sick
tune?
Bea.
I am out of all other tune, methinks.
Mar.
Clap's into—Light o' love; that goes without
a burden; do you sing it, and I'll dance it.
Bea.
Yes, Light note o' love note, with your heels!—then if
your husband have stables enough, you'll see he note shall
lack no barns.
-- 54 --
Mar.
O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with
my heels.
Bea.
'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; 'tis time you
were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill: hey ho!
Mar.
For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?
Bea.
For the letter that begins them all, H.
Mar.
Well, an you be not turn'd Turk, there's no
more sailing by the star.
Bea.
What means the fool, trow?
Mar.
Nothing I; but God send every one their
heart's desire!
Her.
These gloves the count sent me, they are an
excellent perfume.
Bea.
I am stuft, cousin, I cannot smell.
Mar.
A maid, and stuft! there's goodly catching
of cold!
Bea.
O, God help me! God help me! How long
have you profess'd apprehension?
Mar.
Ever since you left it; Doth not my wit become
me rarely?
Bea.
It is not seen enough, you should wear it in
your cap.—By my troth, I am sick.
Mar.
Get you some of this distill'd note Carduus Benedictus,
and lay it to your heart; it is the only thing
for a qualm.
Her.
There thou prick'st her with a thistle.
Bea.
Benedictus! Why Benedictus? You have some
moral in this Benedictus.
Mar.
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,
by 'r-lady, I am not such a fool to think what I list;
-- 55 --
nor I list not to think what I can; nor, indeed, I cannot
think, if I would think my heart out o'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.
Bea.
What pace is this that thy tongue keeps?
Mar.
Not a false gallop.
Re-enter Ursula.
Urs.
Madam, withdraw; the prince, the count,
signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the
town, are come to fetch you to church.
Her.
Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good
Ursula.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Another Room in the same.
Enter Leonato, Dogberry, and Verges.
Leo.
What would you with me, honest neighbour?
Dog.
Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with
you, that decerns you nearly.
Leo.
Brief, I pray you, for you see it is a busy
time with me.
Dog.
Marry, this it is, sir:
Ver.
Yes, in truth, it is, sir.
Leo.
What is it, my good friends?
Dog.
Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little of the note
matter: an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt,
as, God help, I would desire they were; but, in faith,
honest, as the skin between his brows.
-- 56 --
Ver.
Yes, I thank God, I am as honest as any man
living, that is an old man, and no honester than I.
Dog.
Comparisons are odorous, palabras, neighbour
Verges.
Leo.
Neighbours, you are tedious.
Dog.
It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the
poor duke's officers; but, truly, for mine own part,
if I were as tedious as a king, I could find in my heart
to bestow it all of your worship.
Leo.
All thy tediousness on me! ah!
Dog.
Yea, an 'twere a thousand pound more note than
'tis: for I hear as good exclamation on your worship,
as of any man in the city; and though I be but a poor
man, I am glad to hear it.
Ver.
And so am I.
Leo.
I would fain know what you have to say.
Ver.
Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your
worship's presence, have ta'en a couple of as arrant
knaves as any in Messina.
Dog.
A good old man, sir; he will be talking; as
they say, When the age is in, the wit is out; God
help us! it is a world to see!—Well said, i' faith,
neighbour Verges:—well, God's a good man; An two
men ride of a horse, note one must ride behind:—An honest
soul, i' faith, sir; by my troth, he is, as ever broke
bread: but, God is to be worship'd; All men are not
alike; alas, good neighbour!
Leo.
Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you.
Dog.
Gifts that God gives.
Leo.
I must leave you.
Dog.
One word, sir: our watch, sir, have, indeed,
comprehended two aspitious note persons, and we would have
-- 57 --
them this morning examined before your worship.
Leo.
Take their examination yourself, and bring
it me; I am now in great haste, as may note appear unto
you.
Dog.
It shall be suffigance.
Leo.
Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well.
Enter a Messenger.b
Mes.
My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter
to her husband.
Leo.
I'll wait upon them; I am ready.
[Exeunt Leonato, and Messenger.
Dog.
Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis Seacoal,
bid him bring his pen and ink-horn to the jail;
we are now to examination these note men.
Ver.
And we must do it wisely.
Dog.
We will spare for no wit, I warrant you;
here's that † shall drive some of them to a non-com14Q0171:
only get the learned writer to set down our excommunication,
and meet me at the jail.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
A Church.
Enter D. Pedro, D. John, Leonato, Friar, Claudio, Benedick, Hero, and Beatrice.
Leo.
Come, friar Francis, be brief; only to the
plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their
particular duties afterwards.
Fri.
You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady?
Cla.
No.
Leo.
To be marry'd to her, friar; you come to marry her.
-- 58 --
Fri.
Lady, you come hither to be marry'd to this
count?
Her.
I do.
Fri.
If either of you know any inward impediment
why you should not be conjoyned, I charge you,
on your souls, to utter it.
Cla.
Know you any, Hero?
Her.
None, my lord.
Fri.
Know you any, count?
Leo.
I dare make his answer, none.
Cla.
O, what men dare do! what men may do!
what men daily do! not knowing what they do. note
Ben.
How now! interjections? Why then, some
be of laughing, as, ha, ha, ha!
Cla.
Stand thee by, friar:—Father, by your leave,
Will you with free and unconstrained soul
Give me this maid your daughter?
Leo.
As freely, son, as God did give her me.
Cla.
And what have I to give you back, whose worth
May counterpoise this rich and precious gift?
D. Pe.
Nothing, unless you render her again.
Cla.
Sweet prince, you learn me noble thankfulness:—
There, Leonato, take her back again;
Give not this rotten orange to your friend;
She's but the sign and semblance of her honour:—
Behold, how like a maid she blushes here:
O, what authority and shew of truth
Can cunning sin cover itself withal!
Comes not that blood, as modest evidence
To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear,
All you that see her, that she were a maid,
By these exterior shews? But she is none:
-- 59 --
She knows the heat of a luxurious bed:
Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.
Leo.
What do you mean, my lord?
Cla.
Not to be marry'd;
Not knit note my soul to an approved wanton.
Leo.
Dear, dear my lord, if you in your own proof
Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth,
And made defeat of her virginity,—
Cla.
I know what you would say; If I have known her,
You will say, she did embrace me as a husband,
And so extenuate the forehand sin:
No, Leonato,
I never tempted her with word too large;
But, as a brother to his sister, shew'd
Bashful sincerity, and comely love.
Her.
And seem'd I ever otherwise to you?
Cla.
Out on thy seeming note!14Q0172 I will write against it:
You seem to me as Dian in her orb;
As chast as is the bud ere it be blown;
But you are more intemperate in your blood
Than Venus, or those pamper'd animals
That rage in savage sensuality.
Her.
Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?
Leo.
Sweet prince, why speak not you?
D. Pe.
What should I speak?
I stand dishonour'd, that have gone about
To link my dear friend to a common stale.
Leo.
Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?
D. Jo.
Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.
Ben.
This looks not like a nuptial.
Her.
True, o God!
Cla.
Leonato, Stand I here?
-- 60 --
Is this the prince? Is this the prince's brother?
Is this face Hero's? Are our eyes our own?
Leo.
All this is so; But what of this, my lord?
Cla.
Let me but move one question to your daughter;
And, by that fatherly and kindly power
That you have in her, bid her answer truly.
Leo.
I charge thee do so, note as thou art my child.
Her.
O God defend me! how am I beset!—
What kind of catechising call you this?
Cla.
To make note you answer truly to your name.
Her.
Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name
With any just reproach?
Cla.
Marry, that can Hero;
Hero itself note can blot out Hero's virtue.
What man was he talk'd with you yesternight
Out at your window, betwixt twelve and one?
Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.
Her.
I talk'd with no man at that hour, my lord.
D. Pe.
Why, then are you note no maiden.—Leonato,
I am sorry you must hear; Upon mine honour,
Myself, my brother, and this grieved count,
Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night,
Talk with a ruffian at her chamber-window;
Who hath, indeed, most like a liberal villain,
Confess'd the vile encounters they have had
A thousand times in secret.
D. Jo.
Fie, fie!—they are
Not to be nam'd, my lord, not to be spoke of; note
There is not chastity enough in language,
Without offence, to utter them:—Thus, pretty lady,
I am sorry for thy much misgovernment.
Cla.
O Hero! what a Hero had'st thou been,
-- 61 --
If half thy outward graces had been plac'd
About thy thoughts, and counsels of thy heart!
But, fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewel,
Thou pure impiety, and impious purity!
For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love;
And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang,
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,
And never shall it more be gracious.
Leo.
Hath no man's dagger here a point for me?
[Hero swoons.
Bea.
Why, how now, cousin? wherefore sink you down?
D. Jo.
Come, let us go: these things, come thus to light,
Smother her spirits up.
[Exeunt D. Pedro, D. John, and Claudio.
Ben.
How doth the lady?
Bea.
Dead, I think;—Help, uncle;—
Hero, why, Hero;—Uncle,—Signior Benedick,—
Friar,—
Leo.
O fate, take not away thy heavy hand!
Death is the fairest cover for her shame,
That may be wish'd for.
Bea.
How now, cousin Hero?
Fri.
Have comfort, lady.
Leo.
Dost thou look up?
Fri.
Yea; Wherefore should she not?
Leo.
Wherefore? Why, doth not every earthly thing
Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny
The story that is printed in her blood?—
Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes:
For did I think thou would'st not quickly dye,
Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,
Myself would, on the rear-ward note of reproaches,
-- 62 --
Strike at thy life.—Griev'd I, I had but one?14Q0173
Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame?
O, note one too much by thee! Why had I one?
Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?
Why had I not, with charitable hand,
Took up a beggar's issue at my gates;
Who smeared thus note, and mir'd with infamy,
I might have said, No part of it is mine,
This shame derives itself from unknown loins?
But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I prais'd,
And mine that I was proud on; mine so much,
That I myself was to myself not mine,
Valuing of her; why she, o, she, is fallen
Into a pit of ink! that the wide sea
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again;
And salt too little, which may season give
To her foul tainted flesh!
Ben.
Sir, sir, be patient:
For my part, I am so attir'd in wonder,
I know not what to say.
Bea.
O, on my soul, my cousin is bely'd!
Ben.
Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?
Bea.
No, truly, not; although, until last night,
I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.
Leo.
Confirm'd, confirm'd! O, that is stronger made,
Which was before bar'd up with ribs of iron!
Would the two princes note lye? and Claudio lye?
Who lov'd her so, that, speaking of her foulness,
Wash'd it with tears? Hence from her; let her dye.
Fri.
Hear me a little;
For I have only been silent so long,
And given way unto this course of fortune,
-- 63 --
By noting of the lady: I have mark'd
A thousand blushing apparitions
To start into her face; a thousand innocent shames
In angel whiteness bear away note those blushes;
And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire,
To burn the errors that these princes hold
Against her maiden truth: Call me a fool;
Trust not my reading, nor my observation, note
Which with experimental seal doth warrant
The tenour of my book; trust not my age,
My reverence, calling, nor divinity,
If this sweet lady lye not guiltless here
Under some biting error.
Leo.
Friar, it cannot be:
Thou seest note, that all the grace, that she hath left,
Is, that she will not add to her damnation
A sin of perjury; she not denies it:
Why seek'st thou then to cover with excuse
That which appears in proper nakedness?
Fri.
Lady, what man is he you are accus'd of?
Her.
They know, that do accuse me; I know none:
If I know more of any man alive,
Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant,
Let all my sins lack mercy!—O my father,
Prove you that any man with me convers'd
At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight
Maintain'd the change of words with any creature,
Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death.
Fri.
There is some strange misprision in the princes. note
Ben.
Two of them have the very bent of honour;
And if their wisdoms be misled in this,
The practise of it lives in John the bastard,
-- 64 --
Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies.
Leo.
I know not; If they speak but truth of her,
These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour,
The proudest of them shall well hear of it.
Time hath not yet so dry'd this blood of mine,
Nor age so eat up my invention,
Nor fortune made such havock of my means,
Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,
But they shall find,14Q0174 awak'd in such a kind,
Both strength of limb, and policy of mind,
Ability in means, and choice of friends,
To quit me of them throughly.
Fri.
Pause a while,
And let my counsel sway you in this case.
Your daughter here the princes left note for dead;
Let her a while be secretly kept in,
And publish it, that she is dead indeed;
Maintain a mourning ostentation;
And on your family's old monument
Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites
That appertain unto a burial.
Leo.
What shall become of this? What will this do?
Fri.
Marry, this, well carry'd, shall on her behalf
Change slander to remorse; that is some good:
But not for that dream I on this strange course,
But on this travail look for greater birth.
She dying, as it must be so maintain'd,
Upon the instant that she was accus'd,
Shall be lamented, pity'd, and excus'd,
Of every hearer: For it so falls out,
That what we have we prize not to the worth,
Whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd, and lost,
-- 65 --
Why, then we rack the note value; then we find
The virtue, that possession would not give us
Whiles it was ours:—So will it fare with Claudio:
When he shall hear she dy'd upon his words,
The idea of her life shall sweetly creep
Into his study of imagination;
And every lovely organ of her life
Shall come apparel'd in more precious habit,
More moving-delicate, and full of life,
Into the eye and prospect of his soul,
Than when she liv'd indeed: then shall he mourn,
(If ever love had interest in his liver)
And wish he had not so accused her;
No, though he thought his accusation true.
Let this be so, and doubt not but success
Will fashion the event in better shape
Than I can lay it down in likelihood.
But if all aim but this be level'd false,
The supposition of the lady's death
Will quench the wonder of her infamy:
And, if it sort not well, you may conceal her
(As best befits her wounded reputation)
In some reclusive note and religious life,
Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.
Ben.
Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you.
And though, you know, my inwardness and love
Is very much unto the prince and Claudio,
Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this
As secretly, and justly, as your soul
Should with your body.
Leo.
Being that, alas!
I flow in grief, the smallest twine may lead me.
-- 66 --
Fri.
'Tis well consented; presently away;
For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.—
Come, lady, dye to live: this wedding-day,
Perhaps, is but prolong'd; have patience, and endure.
[Exeunt Friar, Hero, and Leonato.
Ben.
Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?
Bea.
Yea, and I will weep a while longer.
Ben.
I will not desire that.
Bea.
You have no reason, I do it freely.
Ben.
Surely, I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.
Bea.
Ah, how much might the man deserve of me,
that would right her!
Ben.
Is there any way to shew such friendship?
Bea.
A very even way, but no such friend.
Ben.
May a man do it?
Bea.
It is a man's office, but not yours.
Ben.
I do love nothing in the world so well as you;
Is not that strange?
Bea.
As strange as the thing I know not: It were
as possible for me to say, I loved nothing so well as you:
but believe me not, and yet I lye not; I confess nothing,
nor I deny nothing:—I am sorry for my cousin.
Ben.
By my sword, Beatrice, thou lov'st me.
Bea.
Do not swear by it note, and eat it.
Ben.
I will swear by it, that you love me; and I
will make him eat it, that says, I love not you.
Bea.
Will you not eat your word?
Ben.
With no sauce that can be devised to it: I
protest, I love thee.
Bea.
Why then, God forgive me!
Ben.
What offence, sweet Beatrice?
Bea.
You have stayed me in a happy hour; I was
-- 67 --
about to protest, I loved you.
Ben.
And do it with all thy heart.
Bea.
I love you with so much of my heart, that
none is left to protest.
Ben.
Come, bid me do any thing for thee.
Bea.
Kill Claudio.
Ben.
Ha! not for the wide world.
Bea.
You kill me to deny it: note Farewel.
Ben.
Tarry, sweet Beatrice.
Bea.
I am gone, though I am here:—There is no
love in you:—Nay, I pray you, let me go.
Ben.
Beatrice,—
Bea.
In faith, I will go.
Ben.
We'll be friends first.
Bea.
You dare easier be friends with me, than fight
with mine enemy.
Ben.
Is Claudio thine enemy?
Bea.
Is he not approved in the height a villain,
that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman?—O,
that I were a man!—What, bear her
in hand until they come to take hands; and then with
publick accusation, uncover'd slander, unmitigated
rancour,—O God, that I were a man! I would eat his
heart in the market-place.
Ben.
Hear me, Beatrice:
Bea.
Talk with a man out at a window?—a proper
saying!
Ben.
Nay but, Beatrice;
Bea.
Sweet Hero!—she is wrong'd, she is slandered,
she is undone.
Ben.
Beat note—
Bea.
Princes, and counts! note Surely, a princely testimony;14Q0175
-- 68 --
a goodly count-confect note; a sweet gallant, surely!
O, that I were a man for his sake! or that I had
any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood
is melted into court'sies, valour into compliment; and
men are only turned into tongue note, and trim ones too:
he is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lye,
and swears it:—I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore
I will dye a woman with grieving.
Ben.
Tarry, sweet Beatrice: By this hand, I love
thee.
Bea.
Use it for my love some other way than swearing
by it.
Ben.
Think you in your soul, the count Claudio
hath wrong'd Hero?
Bea.
Yea, as sure as I have a thought, or a soul.
Ben.
Enough, I am engag'd, I will challenge him;
I will kiss your hand, and so leave you note: By this hand,
Claudio shall render me a dear note account: As you hear
of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin: I
must say, she is dead; and so, farewel.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A Jail.
Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton, in Gowns;
and Watch, with Conrade, and Borachio.
Dog.
Is our whole dissembly appear'd?14Q0176
Ver.
O, a stool and a cushion note for the sexton.
Sex.
Which be the malefactors?
Dog.
Marry, that am I, and my partner.
Ver.
Nay, that's certain; we have the exhibition
to examine.
Sex.
But which are the offenders that are to be examined?
let them come before master constable.
-- 69 --
Dog.
Yea, marry, let them come before me.—What
is your name, friend?
Bor.
Borachio.
Dog.
Pray, write down—Borachio.—Yours, sirrah?
Con.
I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.
Dog.
Write down—master gentleman Conrade.—
Masters, do you serve God?
Con. Bor.
Yea, sir, we hope. note
Dog.
Write down—that they hope they serve God:—
and write, God, first; for God defend but God should
go before such villains!—Masters, it is proved already
that you are little better than false knaves, and it will
go near to be thought so shortly; How answer you
for yourselves?
Con.
Marry, sir, we say, we are none.
Dog.
A marvelous witty fellow, I assure you; but
I will go about with him.—Come you hither, sirrah;
a word in your ear, sir; I say to you, it is thought
you are false knaves.
Bor.
Sir, I say to you, we are none.
Dog.
Well, stand aside.—'Fore God, they are both in
a tale:—Have you writ down note—that they are none?
Sex.
Master constable, you go not the way to examine;
you must call forth the watch that are their accusers.
Dog.
Yea, marry, that's the eftest way:—Let the
watch come forth:—Masters, I charge you in the prince's
name accuse these men.
1. W.
This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince's
brother, was a villain.
Dog.
Write down—prince John a villain:—Why, this
is flat perjury, to call a prince's brother—villain.
-- 70 --
Bor.
Master constable,—
Dog.
Pray thee, fellow, peace; I do not like thy
look, I promise thee.
Sex.
What heard you him say else?
2. W.
Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats
of Don John, for accusing the lady Hero wrongfully.
Dog.
Flat burglary, as ever was committed.
Ver.
Yea, by th' mass note, that it is.
Sex.
What else, fellow?
1. W.
And that count Claudio did mean, upon his
words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and
not marry her.
Dog.
O villain! thou wilt be condemn'd into everlasting
redemption for this.
Sex.
What else?
2. W.
This is all.
Sex.
And this is more, masters, than you can deny:
prince John is this morning secretly stoln away;
Hero was in this manner accus'd, in this very manner
refus'd, and upon the grief of this suddenly dy'd.—
Master constable, let these men be bound, and brought
to Leonato's; note I will go before, and shew him their examination.
[Exit Sexton.
Dog.
Come, let them be opinion'd.
Ver.
Let them note be in bands.14Q0177
Con.
Off, coxcomb!
Dog.
God's my life! where's the sexton? let him
write down—the prince's officer, coxcomb.—Come,
bind them:—Thou naughty varlet!
Con.
Away! you are an ass, you are an ass.
Dog.
Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou
-- 71 --
not suspect my years?—O, that he were here to write
me down—an ass!—but, masters, remember that I
am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget
not that I am an ass:—no, thou villain, thou
art full of piety, as shall be prov'd upon thee by good
witness: I am a wise fellow; and, which is more, an
officer; and, which is more, a householder; and,
which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in note
Messina; and one that knows the law, go to; and a
rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had
losses, and one that hath two gowns, and every thing
handsome about him:—Bring him away. O, that I
had been writ down—an ass!
[Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
Before Leonato's House.
Enter Leonato, and Antonio.
Ant.
If you go on thus, you will kill yourself;
And 'tis not wisdom, thus to second grief
Against yourself.
Leo.
I pray thee, cease thy counsel,
Which falls into mine ears as profitless
As water in a sieve: give not me counsel;
Nor let no comforter delight note mine ear,
But such a one whose wrongs do suit note with mine:
Bring me a father, that so lov'd his child,
Whose joy of her is overwhelm'd like mine,
And bid him speak of patience;
Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine,
And let it answer every strain for strain;
-- 72 --
As thus for thus, and such a grief for such,
In every lineament, branch, shape and form:
If such a one will smile, and stroak his beard;
Bid sorrow, wag; note14Q0178 cry, hem! when he should groan;
Patch grief with proverbs; make misfortune drunk
With candle-wasters; bring him yet to me,
And I of him will gather patience.
But there is no such man: For, brother, men
Can counsel, and speak comfort to that grief
Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,
Their counsel turns to passion, which before
Would give preceptial medecine to rage,
Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,
Charm ach with air, and agony with words:
No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience
To those that wring under the load of sorrow;
But no man's virtue, nor sufficiency,
To be so moral, when he shall endure
The like himself: therefore give me no counsel;
My griefs cry louder than advertisement.
Ant.
Therein do men from children nothing differ.
Leo.
I pray thee, peace; I will be flesh and blood;
For there was never yet philosopher,
That could endure the tooth-ach patiently;
However they have writ the stile of gods,
And made a pish at note chance and sufferance.
Ant.
Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself;
Make those, that do offend you, suffer too.
Leo.
There thou speak'st reason: nay, I will do so:
My soul doth tell me, Hero is bely'd;
And that shall Claudio know, so shall the prince,
And all of them that thus dishonour her.
-- 73 --
Ant.
Here comes the prince, and Claudio, hastily.
Enter D. Pedro, and Claudio.
D. Pe.
Good den, good den.
Cla.
Good day to both of you.
Leo.
Hear you, my lords,—
D. Pe.
We have some haste, Leonato.
Leo.
Some haste, my lord!—well, fare you well, my lord:—
Are you so hasty now?—well, all is one.
D. Pe.
Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man.
Ant.
If he could right himself note with quarreling,
Some of us would lye low.
Cla.
Who wrongs him, sir?
Leo.
Marry, thou dost wrong me, thou dissembler, thou:—
Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword,
I fear thee not.
Cla.
Marry, beshrew my hand,
If it should give your age such cause of fear:
In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.
Leo.
Tush, tush, man, never fleer and jest at me;
I speak not like a dotard, nor a fool;
As, under priviledge of age, to brag
What I have done being young, or what would do
Were I not old: Know, Claudio, to thy head,
Thou hast so wrong'd mine innocent note child, and me,
That I am forc'd to lay my reverence by;
And, with grey hairs, and bruise of many days,
Do challenge thee to trial of a man.
I say, thou hast bely'd mine innocent child;
Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart,
And she lies bury'd with her ancestors:
O! in a tomb where never scandal slept,
Save this of hers, fram'd by thy villany.
-- 74 --
Cla.
My villany?
Leo.
Thine, Claudio, thine, I say.
D. Pe.
You say not right, old man.
Leo.
My lord, my lord,
I'll prove it on his body, if he dare;
Despight his nice fence, and his active practice,
His May of youth, and bloom of lustyhood.
Cla.
Away, I will not have to do with you.
Leo.
Can'st thou so daffe me? Thou hast kill'd my child,
If thou kill'st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.
Ant.
He shall kill two of us, and men indeed:
But that's no matter; let him kill one first,—
Win me, and wear me,—let him answer me:—
Come, follow me, boy; come, sir boy, follow me note:
Sir boy, I'll whip you from your foyning fence;
Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will.
Leo.
Brother,—
Ant.
Content yourself: God knows, I lov'd my niece;
And she is dead, slander'd to death by villains;
That dare as well answer a man indeed,
As I dare take a serpent by the tongue:
Boys, apes, braggárts, Jacks, note milk-sops,—
Leo.
Brother Antony,—
Ant.
Hold you content; What, man! I know them; yea,
And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple:
Scambling, out-facing, fashion-mong'ring note boys,
That lye, and cog, and flout, deprave and slander,
Go antickly, and shew note outward hideousness,
And speak off half note a dozen dangerous words,
How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst,
And this is all.
Leo.
But, brother Antony,—
-- 75 --
Ant.
Come, 'tis no matter;
Do not you meddle, let me deal in this.
D. Pe.
Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience.—14Q0179
My heart is sorry for your daughter's death;
But, on my honour, she was charg'd with nothing
But what note was true, and very full of proof.
Leo.
My lord, my lord,—
D. Pe.
I will not hear you.
Leo.
No?—
Come, brother, away:—I will be heard:
Ant.
And shall,
Or some of us will smart for it.
[Exeunt Leonato, and Antonio.
D. Pe.
See, see,
Here comes the man we went to seek.
Enter Benedick.
Cla.
Now, signior!
What news?
Ben.
Good day, my lord.
[to D. Pedro.
D. Pe.
Welcome signior:
You are almost come to part almost a fray.
Cla.
We had like to note have had our two noses snapt
off with two old men without teeth.
D. Pe.
Leonato, and his brother: What think'st thou?
had we fought, I doubt we should have been too young
for them.
Ben.
In a false quarrel there is no true valour.
I came to seek you both.
Cla.
We have been up and down to seek thee; for
we are high-proof melancholy, and would fain have it
beaten away: Wilt thou use thy wit?
Ben.
It is in my scabbard; Shall I draw it?
-- 76 --
D. Pe.
Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side?
Cla.
Never any did so, though very many have
been beside their wit.—I will bid thee draw, as we do
the minstrels; draw, to pleasure us.
D. Pe.
As I am an honest man, he looks pale:—
Art thou sick, or angry?
Cla.
What! courage, man! What, though care kill'd
a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.
Ben.
Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, an
you charge it against me; I pray you, choose another
subject.
Cla.
Nay, then give him another staff14Q0180; this last
was broke cross.
D. Pe.
By this light, he changes more and more;
I think, he be angry indeed.
Cla.
If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle.
Ben.
Shall I speak a word in your ear?
Cla.
God bless me from a challenge!
Ben.
You are a villain;—I jest not;—I will make
it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when
you dare: Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice:
You have kill'd a sweet lady, and her death shall fall
heavy on you: Let me hear from you.
Cla.
Well, I will meet you, so I may have good cheer.
D. Pe.
What, a feast? a feast? note
Cla.
I' faith, note I thank him; he hath bid me to a
calves-head, and a cap-on; the which if I do not
carve most curiously, say, my knife's naught.—Shall
I not find a woodcock too?
Ben.
Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily.
D. Pe.
I'll tell thee, how Beatrice prais'd thy wit
the other day: I said, thou had'st a fine wit; True,
-- 77 --
says she, note a fine little one; No, said I, a great wit;
Right, says she, a great gross one; Nay, said I, a good
wit; Just, said she, it hurts no body; Nay, said I, the
gentleman is wise; Certain, said she, a wise gentleman;
Nay, said I, he hath the tongues; That I believe,
said she; for he swore a thing to me on monday night,
which he forswore on tuesday morning; there's a double
tongue, there's two note tongues: Thus did she, an hour together,
trans-shape thy particular virtues; yet, at last,
she concluded with a sigh, thou wast the properest man
in Italy.
Cla.
For the which she wept heartily, and said,
she car'd not.
D. Pe.
Yea, that she did; but yet, for all that, an
if she did not hate him deadly, she would love him
dearly: the old man's daughter told us all.
Cla.
All, all; and moreover, God saw him when
he was hid in the garden.
D. Pe.
But when shall we set the savage bull's horns
on the sensible Benedick's head?
Cla.
Yea, and text underneath, Here dwells Benedick
the marry'd man.
Ben.
Fare you well, boy; you know my mind; I
will leave you now to your gossip-like humour: you
break jests at braggarts do their blades, which, God be
thanked, hurt not.—My lord, for your many courtesies
I thank you; I must discontinue your company: your
brother the bastard is fled from Messina; you have,
among you, kill'd a sweet and innocent lady: For my
lord Lack-beard there, he and I shall meet; and 'till
then, peace be with him.
[Exit Benedick.
D. Pe.
He is in earnest.
-- 78 --
Cla.
In most profound earnest; and, I'll warrant
you, for the love of Beatrice.
D. Pe.
And hath challeng'd thee?
Cla.
Most sincerely.
D. Pe.
What a pretty thing man is, when he goes
in his doublet and hose, and leaves off his wit!
Enter Dogberry, Verges, and the Watch, note
with Conrade, note and Borachio.
Cla.
He is then a giant to an ape: but then is an
ape a doctor to such a man.
D. Pe.
But, soft you, let be; note note pluck up my heart,
and be sad: Did he not say, my brother was fled?
Dog.
Come you, sir; if justice cannot tame you,
she shall ne'er weigh more reasons in her balance:
nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be
look'd to.
D. Pe.
How now, two of my brother's men bound!
Borachio one!
Cla.
Hearken after their offence, my lord!
D. Pe.
Officers, what offence have these men done?
Dog.
Marry, sir, they have committed false report;
moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily,
they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have bely'd a
lady; thirdly, they have verify'd unjust things; and,
to conclude, they are lying knaves.
D. Pe.
First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly,
I ask thee what's their offence; sixth and lastly,
why they are committed; and, to conclude, what you
lay to their charge.
Cla.
Rightly reason'd, and in his own division;
and, by my troth, there's one meaning well suited.
D. Pe.
Who have note you offended, masters, that you
-- 79 --
are thus bound to your answer? this learned constable
is too cunning to be understood: What's your offence?
Bor.
Sweet prince, let me go no farther to mine
answer; do you hear me, and let this count kill me.
I have deceived even your very eyes: what your wisdoms
could not discover, these shallow fools have brought
to light; who, in the night, overheard me confessing to
this † man, how Don John your brother incensed me
to slander the lady Hero; how you were brought into
the orchard, and saw me court Margaret in Hero's garments;
how you disgrac'd her, when you should marry
her: my villany they have upon record; which I had
rather seal with my death, than repeat over to my
shame: the lady is dead upon mine and my master's
false accusation; and, briefly, I desire nothing but the
reward of a villain.
D. Pe.
Runs not this speech like iron through your blood?
Cla.
I have drunk poison, whiles he utter'd it.
D. Pe.
But did my brother set thee on to this?
Bor.
Yea, and pay'd me richly for note the practice of it.
D. Pe.
He is compos'd and fram'd of treachery:—
And fled he is upon this villany.
Cla.
Sweet Hero! now thy image doth appear
In the rare semblance that I lov'd it first.
Dog.
Come, bring away the plaintiffs; by this
time, our sexton hath reformed signior Leonato of the
matter: And, masters, do not forget to specify, when
time and place shall serve, that I am an ass.
Ver.
Here, here comes master signior Leonato, and
the sexton too.
Re-enter Leonato, and Antonio; Sexton note attending.
-- 80 --
Leo.
Which is the villain? Let me see his eyes;
That when I note another man like him,
I may avoid him: Which of these is he?
Bor.
If you would know your wronger, look on me.
Leo.
Art thou note the slave, that with thy breath hast kill'd
Mine innocent child?
Bor.
Yea, even I alone.
Leo.
No, not so, villain; thou bely'st thyself;
Here stand a pair of honourable men,
A third is fled, that had a hand in it:—
I thank you, princes, for my daughter's death;
Record it with your high and worthy deeds;
'Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.
Cla.
I know not how to pray your patience,
Yet I must speak: Choose your revenge yourself;
Impose me to note what penance14Q0181 your invention
Can lay upon my sin: yet sin'd I not,
But in mistaking.
D. Pe.
By my soul, nor I;
And yet, to satisfy this good old man,
I would bend under any heavy weight
That he'll enjoin me to.
Leo.
I cannot bid you bid my note daughter live,
That were impossible; but, I pray you both,
Possess the people in Messina here
How innocent she dy'd: and, if your love
Can labour ought in sad invention,
Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb,
And sing it to her bones; sing it to-night:—
To-morrow morning come you to my house;
And since you could not be my son-in-law,
Be yet my nephew: my brother hath a daughter,
-- 81 --
Almost the copy of my child that's dead,
And she alone is heir to both of us;
Give her the right you should have given her cousin,
And so dies my revenge.
Cla.
O noble sir,
Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me!
I do embrace your offer; and dispose
For henceforth of poor Claudio.
Leo.
To-morrow then I will expect your coming;
To-night I take my leave.—This naughty man
Shall face to face be brought to Margaret,
Who, I believe, was packt in all this wrong,
Hir'd to it by your brother.
Bor.
No, by my soul, she was not;
Nor knew not what she did, when she spoke to me:
But always hath been just and virtuous,
In any thing that I do know by her.
Dog.
Moreover, sir, (which, indeed, is not under
white and black) this plaintiff here, the offender,
did call me ass; I beseech you, let it be remember'd
in his punishment: And also, the watch heard them
talk of one Deform'd: they say, he wears a key in his
ear, and a lock hanging by it; and borrows money in
God's name; the which he hath us'd so long, and never
payed, that now men grow hard-hearted, and will lend
nothing for God's sake: pray you, examine him upon
that point.
Leo.
I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.
Dog.
Your worship speaks like a most thankful and
reverend youth; and I praise God for you.
Leo.
There's &dagger2; for thy pains.
Dog.
God save the foundation!
-- 82 --
Leo.
Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I
thank thee.
Dog.
I leave an arrant knave with your worship;
which I beseech your worship to correct yourself, for
the example of others. God keep your worship; I wish
your worship well; God restore you to health: I humbly
give you leave to depart; and if a merry meeting may
be wish'd, God prohibit it.—Come, neighbour.
[Exeunt Dogberry, Verges, and Watch note.
Leo.
Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewel.
Ant.
Farewel, my lords; we look for you to-morrow.
D. Pe.
We will not fail.
Cla.
To-night I'll mourn with Hero.
[Exeunt D. Pedro, and Claudio.
Leo.
Bring you these fellows on; we'll talk with Margaret,
How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A Room in the same.
Enter Benedick, and Margaret, meeting.
Ben.
Pray thee, sweet mistress Margaret, deserve well
at my hands, by helping me to the speech of Beatrice.
Mar.
Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of
my beauty?
Ben.
In so high a stile, Margaret, that no man living
shall come over it; for, in most comely truth, thou
deservest it.
Mar.
To have no man come over me? why, shall I
always keep above stairs note?14Q0182
Ben.
Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's mouth,
it catches.
Mar.
And yours as blunt as the fencer's foils, which
-- 83 --
hit, but hurt not.
Ben.
A most manly wit, Margaret, it will not hurt
a woman; and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice: I give
thee the bucklers.
Mar.
Give us the swords, we have bucklers of our own.
Ben.
If you use them, Margaret, you must put in
the pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons
for maids.
Mar.
Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who, I think,
hath legs.
[Exit Margaret.
Ben.
And therefore will come.—
The god of love,
[singing.
that fits above,
and knows me, and knows me,
how pitiful I deserve,—
I mean, in singing; but in loving,—Leander the good
swimmer, Troilus the first employer of pandars, and a
whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers,
whose names note yet run smoothly in the even road of a
blank verse, why, they were never so truly turn'd over
and over, note as my poor self, in love: Marry, I cannot shew
it in rime; note I have try'd; I can find out no rime to lady,
but bady, note an innocent's rime; for scorn, horn, a hard
rime; for school, fool, a babbling rime; very ominous
endings: No, I was not born under a riming planet;
nor I note cannot woo in festival terms.—
Enter Beatrice.
Sweet Beatrice, would'st thou come when I call'd thee?
Bea.
Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me.
Ben.
O, stay but 'till then!
Bea.
Then, is spoken; fare you well now:—and
yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for, which is,
-- 84 --
with knowing what hath pass'd between you and Claudio.
Ben.
Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee.
Bea.
Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is
but foul breath, and foul breath is noysome; therefore
I will depart unkist.
Ben.
Thou hast frighted the word out of his right
sense, so forcible 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 did'st thou first fall in love with me?
Bea.
For them all together; which maintain'd note so
politick 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?
Ben.
Suffer love; a good epithet! I do suffer love,
indeed, for I love thee against my will.
Bea.
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.
Ben.
Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
Bea.
It appears not in this confession; there's not
one wise man among twenty, that will praise himself.
Ben.
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 monument, note than the bell rings, and the
widow weeps.
Bea.
And how long is that, think you?
Ben.
Question? Why, an hour in clamour, and a
quarter in rheum: Therefore is it most expedient for
the wise, (if Don Worm, his conscience, find no impediment
-- 85 --
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 praise-worthy)
and now tell me, How doth your cousin?
Bea.
Very ill.
Ben.
And how do you?
Bea.
Very ill too.
Ben.
Serve God, love me, and mend: there will I
leave you too, for here comes one in haste.
Enter Ursula.
Urs.
Madam, you must come to your uncle: yonder's
old coil at home: 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: Will you come presently?
Bea.
Will you go hear this news, signior?
Ben.
I will live in thy heart, dye in thy lap, and be
bury'd in thy eyes; and, moreover, I will go with thee
to thy uncle. note
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A Church. A stately Monument in the Front.
Enter, with Attendants, and Musick, D. Pedro, Claudio, and Others, bearing Tapers.
Cla.
Is this the monument of Leonato?
Att.
It is, my lord.
Cla.
[reading out of a Scrowl.
Done to death with sland'rous note tongues
was the Hero that here lies:
death, in guerdon of her wrongs,
gives her fame which never dies:
so the life, that dy'd with shame,
lives in death with glorious fame.
-- 86 --
Hang thou there14Q0183 upon the tomb,
[affixing it.
Praising her when I am dumb. note—
Now, musick, found, and sing your solemn hymn.
Song.
Pardon, goddess of the night,
those that slew thy virgin knight;
for the which, with songs of woe,
round about her tomb they go:—
Midnight, assist our moan,
help us to sigh and groan,
heavily, heavily:
graves, yawn, and yield your dead,
'till death be uttered,
heavily, heavily. note
Cla.
Now note unto thy bones good night!
Yearly will I do this rite.
D. Pe.
Good morrow, masters; put your torches out:
The wolves have prey'd; and, look, the gentle day,
Before the wheels of Phœbus, round about
Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey:
Thanks to you all, and leave us; fare you well.
Cla.
Good morrow, masters; each his several way.
D. Pe.
Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds;
And then to Leonato's we will go.
Cla.
And, Hymen, now with luckier issue speed's, note
Than this, for whom we render'd up this woe.
SCENE IV.
A Room in Leonato's House.
Enter Leonato, Antonio, Benedick, Hero,
Beatrice, Ursula, Margaret, note and Friar.
Fri.
Did I not tell you she was innocent?
Leo.
So are the prince and Claudio, who accus'd her,
-- 87 --
Upon the error that you heard debated:
But Margaret was in some fault for this;
Although against her will, as it appears
In the true course of all the question.
Ant.
Well, I am glad that all things sort note so well.
Ben.
And so am I, being else by faith enforc'd
To call young Claudio to a reck'ning for it.
Leo.
Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen note all,
Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves,
And, when I send for you, come hither mask'd:
The prince and Claudio promis'd by this hour
To visit me;—You know your office, brother;
You must be father to your brother's daughter,
And give her to young Claudio.
Ant.
Which I will do with confirm'd countenance.
[Exeunt Ladies.
Ben.
Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.
Fri.
To do what, signior?
Ben.
To bind me, or undo me, one of them.—
Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior,
Your niece regards me with an eye of favour.
Leo.
That eye note my daughter lent her;—'Tis most true.
Ben.
And I do with an eye of love requite her.
Leo.
The sight whereof, I think, you had from me,
From Claudio, and the prince; But what's your will?
Ben.
Your answer, sir, is enigmatical:
But, for my will, my will is, your good will
May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin'd
I' the state of honourable marriage;—
In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.
Leo.
My heart is with your liking.
Fri.
And my help.
-- 88 --
Here comes the prince, and Claudio. note
Enter D. Pedro, Claudio, and Attendants.
D. Pe.
Good morrow to this fair assembly.
Leo.
Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Claudio,
We here attend you; Are you yet determin'd
To-day to marry with my brother's daughter?
Cla.
I'll hold my mind, were she an Ethiope.
Leo.
Call her forth, brother, here's the friar ready.
[Exit Antonio.
D. Pe.
Good morrow, Benedick: Why, what's the matter,
That you have such a February face,
So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness?
Cla.
I think, he thinks upon the savage bull:—
Tush, fear not, man, we'll tip thy horns with gold,
And all Europa shall rejoyce at thee;
As once Europa did at lusty Jove,
When he would play the noble beast in love.
Ben.
Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low;
And some such strange bull leapt your father's cow,
And got note a calf in that same noble feat,
Much like to you, for you have just his bleat.
Cla.
For this I owe you: here comes other reck'nings.—
Re-enter Antonio, with the Ladies mask'd.
Which is the lady I must seize upon?
Ant.
This note same is she,14Q0184 † and I do give you her.
Cla.
Why, then she's mine:—Sweet, let me see your face.
Leo.
No, that you shall not, 'till you take her hand
Before this friar, and swear to marry her.
Cla.
Give me your hand before this holy friar;
I am your husband, if you like of me.
Her.
And when I liv'd, [unmasking] I was your other wife:
And when you lov'd, you were my other husband.
-- 89 --
Cla.
Another Hero?
Her.
Nothing certainer:
One Hero dy'd defil'd; note but I do live,
And, surely as I live, I am a maid.
D. Pe.
The former Hero! Hero that is dead!
Leo.
She dy'd, my lord, but whiles her slander liv'd.
Fri.
All this amazement can I qualify;
When, after that the holy rites are ended,
I'll tell you largely of fair Hero's death:
Mean time let wonder seem familiar,
And to the chapel let us presently.
Ben.
Soft and fair, friar:—Which is Beatrice?
Bea.
I answer to that name; [unmasking] What is your will?
Ben.
Do not you love me?
Bea.
Why, no, no more than reason.
Ben.
Why, then your uncle, and the prince, and Claudio,
Have been deceived; for they swore, you did.
Bea.
Do not you love me?
Ben.
Troth, no, no more than reason.
Bea.
Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula,
Are much deceiv'd; for they did swear, you did.
Ben.
They swore, that note you were almost sick for me.
Bea.
They swore, that note you were well nigh dead for me.
Ben.
'Tis no such note matter:—Then, you do not love me?
Bea.
No, truly, but in friendly recompence.
Her.
Come note, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.
Cla.
And I'll be sworn upon't, that he loves her;
For here's a paper &dagger2;, written in his hand,
A halting sonnet of his own pure brain,
Fashion'd to Beatrice.
Her.
And here's &dagger2; another,
Writ in my cousin's hand, stoln from her pocket,
-- 90 --
Containing her affection unto Benedick.
Ben.
A miracle! here's our own hands against our
hearts!—Come, I will have thee; but, by this light,
I take thee for pity.
Bea.
I would not deny note you;—but, by this good
day, I yield upon great persuasion; and, partly,
to save your life, for I was told, you were in a consumption.
Ben.
Peace note, I will stop your mouth.
[kissing her.
D. Pe.
How dost thou, Benedick the marry'd man?
Ben.
I'll tell thee what, prince; a colledge of
wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour: Dost
thou think, I care for a satire, or an epigram? No:
if a man will be beaten with brains, he shall wear nothing
handsome about him: In brief, since I do purpose
to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose
that the world can say against it: and therefore never
flout at me for what note I have said against it; for man is
a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.—For thy
part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee; but,
in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruis'd,
and love my cousin.
Cla.
I had well hop'd, thou would'st have deny'd
Beatrice, that I might have cudgel'd thee out of thy
single life, to make thee a double dealer; which, out
of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look exceeding
narrowly to thee.
Ben.
Come, come, we are friends:—let's have a
dance ere we are marry'd, that we may lighten our
own hearts, and our wives' heels.
Leo.
We'll have dancing afterward. note
Ben.
First, o' my word; therefore, play, musick.—
-- 91 --
Prince, thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a
wife: there is no staff more reverend than one tipt
with horn.
Enter a Messenger.c
Mes.
My lord, your brother John is ta'en in flight,
And brought with armed men back to Messina.
Ben.
Think not on him 'till to-morrow; I'll devise
thee brave punishments for him.—Strike up,
pipers.
[Dance.
