Pedro.

I do but stay 'till your marriage be consummate, and then I go toward Arragon.

Claud.

I'll bring you thither my lord, if you'll vouchsafe me.

Pedro.

Nay, that would be as great a soil 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 sole 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.

Bene.

Gallants, I am not as I have been.

Leon.

So say I; methinks you are sadder.

Claud.

I hope he is in love.

Pedro.

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 mony.

Bene.

I have the tooth-ach.

Pedro.

Draw it.

Bene.

Hang it.

Claud.

You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards.

Pedro.

What? sigh for the tooth-ach!

Leon.

Which is but a humour, or a worm.

Bene.

Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.

Claud.

Yet say I he is in love.

Pedro.

There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises, as to be a Dutch man to-day, a French man to-morrow; unless he have a fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no fool for fancy, as you would have it to appear he is.

Claud.

If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs; he brushes his hat a-mornings: what should that bode?

Pedro.

Hath any man seen him at the barber's?

Claud.

No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him, and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuft tennis balls.

Leon.

Indeed he looks younger than he did by the loss of a beard.

Pedro.

Nay he rubs himself with civet, can you smell him out by that?

Claud.

That's as much as to say, the sweet youth's in love.

Pedro.

The greatest note of it is his melancholy.

Claud.

And when was he wont to wash his face?

Pedro.

Yea, or to paint himself? for the which I hear what they say of him.

Claud.

Nay, but his jesting spirit, which is now crept into a lute-string, and now govern'd by stops—

Pedro.

Indeed that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude he is in love.

Claud.

Nay, but I know who loves him.

Pedro.

That would I know too: I warrant one that knows him not.

Claud.

Yes, and his ill conditions, and in despight of all, dies for him.

Pedro.

She shall be bury'd with her face upwards.

Bene.

Yet is this no charm for the tooth-ach. Old Signior, walk aside with me, I have study'd eight or nine wise words to speak to you which these hobby-horses must not hear.

Pedro.

For my life to break with him about Beatrice.

Claud.

'Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this play'd their parts with Beatrice, and then the two bears will not bite one another when they meet.

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