Bene.
How doth the lady?

Beat.
Dead I think; help, uncle.
Hero! why Hero! uncle! Signior Benedick! friar!

Leon.
O fate? take not away thy heavy hand,
Death is the fairest cover for her shame
That may be wish'd for.

Beat.
How now, cousin Hero?

Friar.
Have comfort, Lady.

Leon.
Dost thou look up?

Friar.
Yea, wherefore should she not?

Leon.
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 wouldst not quickly die,
Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,
My self would on the rereward of reproaches
Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but one?
Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame?
I've one too much by thee. Why had I one?
Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?
Why had not I, with charitable hand,
Took up a beggar's issue at my gates?
Who smeered thus, and mir'd with infamy,
I might have said, no part of it is mine,
This shame derives it self 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 my self was to my self not mine,
Valuing of her; why she, O she is fall'n

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.

Bene.
Sir, Sir, be patient;
For my part, I am so attir'd in wonder,
I know not what to say.

Beat.
O, on my soul my cousin is bely'd.

Bene.
Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?

Beat.
No truly, not; altho' until last night
I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.

Leon.
Confirm'd, confirm'd! O that is stronger made,
Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron.
Would the Prince lie? and Claudio would he lie,
Who lov'd her so, that speaking of her foulness,
Wash'd it with tears? hence from her, let her die.

Friar.
Hear me a little,
For I have only been silent so long,
And given way unto this course of fortune,
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 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 observations,
Which with experimental seal doth warrant
The tenure of my book; trust not my age,
My reverence, calling, nor divinity,
If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here,
Under some biting error.

Leon.
Friar, it cannot be;

Thou seest 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?

Friar.
Lady, what man is he you are accus'd of?

Hero.
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.

Friar.
There is some strange misprision in the Princes.

Bene.
Two of them have the very bent of honour,
And if their wisdoms be mis-led in this,
The practice of it lives in John the bastard,
Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies.

Leon.
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 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.

Friar.
Pause a while,
And let my counsel sway you in this case.
Your daughter here the princess (left for dead)

Let her awhile 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.

Leon.
What shall become of this? what will this do?

Friar.
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 travel 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,
Why then we rack the value, then we find
The virtue that possession would not shew us
Whilst it was ours; so will it fare with Claudio:
&plquo;When he shall hear she dy'd upon his words,
&plquo;Th' idea of her ^{a note}love shall sweetly creep
&plquo;Into his study of imagination,
&plquo;And every lovely organ of her life
&plquo;Shall come apparel'd in more precious habit;
&plquo;More moving, delicate, and full of life,
&plquo;Into the eye and prospect of his soul,
&plquo;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, tho' 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 levell'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 and religious life,
Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.

Bene.
Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you:
And tho' 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.

Leon.
Being that I flow in grief,
The smallest twine may lead me.

Friar.
'Tis well consented, presently away,
  For to strange sores, strangely they strain the cure.
Come lady, die to live; this wedding-day
  Perhaps is but prolong'd: have patience and endure. [Exeunt.

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