Pedro.
Come, shall we hear this musick?

Claud.
Yea, my good lord; how still the evening is,
As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony.

Pedro.
See you where Benedick hath hid himself?

Claud.
O very well, my lord; the musick ended,
We'll fit the kid-fox with a penny-worth.

Pedro.
Come Balthazar, we'll hear that song again.

Balth.
O good my lord, tax not so bad a voice
To slander musick any more than once.

Pedro.
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 more.* ^note

The SONG.
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,
  And be you blith and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
  Into hey nony, nony.
Sing no more ditties, sing no more,
  Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The frauds of men were never so,
  Since summer first was leafy:
Then sigh not so, &c.

Pedro.

By my troth a good song.

Balth.

And an ill singer, my lord.

Pedro.

Ha, no; no faith; thou sing'st well enough for a shift.

Bene.

If 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.

Pedro.

Yea marry, dost thou hear Balthazar? I pray thee

get us some excellent musick; for to-morrow we would have it at the lady Hero's chamber window.

Balth.

The best I can, my lord.

Pedro.

Do so: farewell. Come hither Leonato; what was it you told me of to-day, that your neice Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?

Claud.

O ay, stalk on; stalk on, the fowl sits. I did never think that lady would have loved any man.

Leon.

No, nor I neither; but most wonderful, that she should so doat on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours seem'd ever to abhor.

Bene.

Is't possible, sits the wind in that corner?

Leon.

By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it; but that she loves him with an inraged affection, it is past the infinite of thought.

Pedro.

May be she doth but counterfeit.

Claud.

Faith like enough.

Leon.

O God! counterfeit? there was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it.

Pedro.

Why, what effects of passion shews she?

Claud.

Bait the hook well, the fish will bite.

Leon.

What effects, my lord? she will sit you, you heard my daughter tell you how.

Claud.

She did indeed.

Pedro.

How, how, I pray you? you amaze me: I would have thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection.

Leon.

I would have sworn it had, my lord, especially against Benedick.

Bene.

I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it; knavery cannot sure hide himself in such reverence.

Claud.

He hath ta'en th' infection, hold it up.

Pedro.

Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?

Leon.

No, and swears she never will, that's her torment.

Claud.

'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?

Leon.

This says she now, when she is beginning to write to him; for she'll be up twenty times a-night, and there will she sit in her smock, 'till she have writ a sheet of paper; my daughter tells us all.

Claud.

Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your daughter told us of.

Leon.

O, when she had writ it, and was reading it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet.

Claud.

That.

Leon.

O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence, rail'd at her self, that she should be so immodest, to write to one that she knew wou'd 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.

Claud.

Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses; O sweet Benedick! God give me patience!

Leon.

She doth indeed, my daughter says so, and the ecstasie hath so much overborn her, that my daughter is sometime afraid she will do a desperate outrage to her self; it is very true.

Pedro.

It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will not discover it.

Claud.

To what end? he would but make a sport of it, and torment the poor lady worse.

Pedro.

If he should, it were an alms to hang him; she's an excellent sweet lady, and (out of all suspicion) she is virtuous.

Claud.

And she is exceeding wise.

Pedro.

In every thing, but in loving Benedick.

Leon.

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 cause, being her uncle and her guardian.

Pedro.

I would she had bestow'd this dotage on me; I would have dofft all other respects, and made her half my self; I pray you tell Benedick of it, and hear what he will say.

Leon.

Were it good, think you?

Claud.

Hero thinks surely she will die, for she says she will die if he love her not, and she will die ere she make her love known; and she will die if he woo her, rather than she will bate one breath of her accustom'd crossness.

Pedro.

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.

Claud.

He is a very proper man.

Pedro.

He hath indeed a good outward happiness.

Claud.

'Fore God, and in my mind very wise.

Pedro.

He doth indeed shew some sparks that are like wit.

Leon.

And I take him to be valiant.

Pedro.

As Hector, I assure you; and in the managing of quarrels you may see he is wise, for either he avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes them with a christian-like fear.* ^note

Claud.

Never tell him, my lord, let her wear it out with good counsel.

Leon.

Nay, that's impossible, she may wear her heart out first.

Pedro.

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 so good a lady.

Leon.

My Lord, will you walk? dinner is ready.

Claud.

If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation.

Pedro.

Let there be the same net spread for her, and that must your daughter and her gentlewoman carry; the sport will be, when they hold an opinion of one 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 dinner.