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.
Edward Capell [1767], Mr William Shakespeare his comedies, histories, and tragedies, set out by himself in quarto, or by the Players his Fellows in folio, and now faithfully republish'd from those Editions in ten Volumes octavo; with an introduction: Whereunto will be added, in some other Volumes, notes, critical and explanatory, and a Body of Various Readings entire (Printed by Dryden Leach, for J. and R. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S10601].
