Hero.

Good morrow, coz.

Beat.

Good morrow, sweet Hero.

Hero.

Why how now? do you speak in the sick tune?

Beat.

I am out of all other tune, methinks.

Marg.

Clap us into Light o' love; that goes without a burden; do you sing it, and I'll dance it.

Beat.

Yes light o'love with your heels; then if your husband have stables enough, you'll look he shall lack no barns.

Marg.

O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.

Beat.

'Tis almost five a clock, cousin; 'tis time you were ready: by my troth I am exceeding ill, hey ho!

Marg.

For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?

Beat.

For the letter that begins them all, H.

Marg.

Well, if you be not turn'd Turk, there's no more sailing by the star.

Beat.

What means the fool, trow?

Marg.

Nothing I, but God send every one their heart's desire.

Hero.

These gloves the Count sent me, they are an excellent perfume.

Beat.

I am stuft, cousin, I cannot smell.

Marg.

A maid and stuft! there's a goodly catching of cold.

Beat.

O God help me, God help me, how long have you profest apprehension?

Marg.

Ever since you left it; doth not my wit become me rarely?

Beat.

It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick.

Marg.

Get you some of this distill'd Carduus Benedictus, and lay it to your heart, it is the only thing for a qualm.

Hero.

There thou prick'st her with a thistle.

Beat.

Benedictus? why Benedictus? you have some moral in this Benedictus.

Marg.

Moral? no by my troth, I have no moral meaning, I meant plain holy-thistle; you may think perchance that I think you are in love, nay, birlady, I am not such a fool to think what I list; nor I list not to think what I can, nor indeed I cannot think, if I would think my heart out with thinking, that you are in love, or that you will be in love, or that you can be in love: yet Benedick was such another, and now is he become a man; he swore he would never marry, and yet now in

despight of his heart he eats his meat without grudging; and how you may be converted I know not, but methinks you look with your eyes as other women do.

Beat.

What pace is this that thy tongue keeps?

Marg.

Not a false gallop.

Ursu.

Madam withdraw; the Prince, the Count, Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the town are come to fetch you to church.

Hero.

Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula.