SCENE I.
A Hall in Leonato's House.
Enter Leonato, Antonio, Hero, Beatrice, and others.
Leon.
Was not count John here at supper?
Ant.
I saw him not.
Beat.
How tartly that gentleman looks: I never can
see him, but I am heart-burned an hour after.
Hero.
He is of a very melancholy disposition.
Beat.
He were an excellent man, that were made just
in the mid-way between him and Benedick: the one is
too like an image, and says nothing; and the other too
like my lady's eldest son, evermore tattling.
Leon.
Then, half signior Benedick's tongue in count
John's mouth, and half count John's melancholy in signior
Benedick's face,—
Beat.
With a good leg, and a good foot, uncle, and
money enough in his purse, such a man would win any
woman in the world,—if a' could get her good will.
Leon.
By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a
husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.
Ant.
In faith, she's too curst.
Beat.
Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen
God's sending that way, for it is said, “God sends a curst
cow short horns;” but to a cow too curst he sends none.
Leon.
So, by being too curst, God will send you no
horns?
Beat.
Just, if he send me no husband; for the which
blessing, I am at him upon my knees every morning and
evening. Lord! I could not endure a husband with a
beard on his face: I had rather lie in the woollen.
Leon.
You may light on a husband that hath no
beard.
Beat.
What should I do with him? dress him in my
-- 202 --
apparel, and make him my waiting gentlewoman? He
that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that
hath no beard is less than a man; and he that is more
than a youth is not for me; and he that is less than a
man I am not for him: therefore I will even take sixpence
in earnest of the bear-ward2 note, and lead his apes
into hell.
Leon.
Well then, go you into hell?
Beat.
No; but to the gate; and there will the devil
meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head,
and say, “Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven;
here's no place for you maids:” so, deliver I up
my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the heavens: he
shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as
merry as the day is long.
Ant.
Well, niece, [to Hero,] I trust, you will be
ruled by your father.
Beat.
Yes, faith; it is my cousin's duty to make
courtesy, and say, “Father, as it please you: 11Q0163” but yet
for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or
else make another courtesy, and say, “Father, as it
please me.”
Leon.
Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted
with a husband.
Beat.
Not till God make men of some other metal
than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered
with a piece of valiant dust? to make an
account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No,
uncle, I'll none: Adam's sons are my brethren; and
truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.
Leon.
Daughter, remember, what I told you: if the
prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your
answer.
-- 203 --
Beat.
The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be
not woo'd in good time: if the prince be too important3 note,
tell him, there is measure in every thing, and so dance
out the answer: for, hear me, Hero; wooing, wedding,
and repenting 11Q0164, is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a
cinque-pace: the first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch
jig, and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly, modest,
as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then
comes repentance, and with his bad legs falls into the
cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sink into his
grave.
Leon.
Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.
Beat.
I have a good eye, uncle: I can see a church
by day-light.
Leon.
The revellers are entering, brother. Make good
room!
Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, Balthazar; John4 note, Borachio, Margaret, Ursula, and maskers5 note.
D. Pedro.
Lady, will you walk about with your
friend?
Hero.
So you walk softly, and look sweetly, and say
nothing, I am yours for the walk; and, especially, when
I walk away.
D. Pedro.
With me in your company?
Hero.
I may say so, when I please.
D. Pedro.
And when please you to say so?
Hero.
When I like your favour; for God defend, the
lute should be like the case6 note!
-- 204 --
D. Pedro.
My visor is Philemon's roof; within the
house is 11Q01657 note.
Hero.
Why, then your visor should be thatch'd.
D. Pedro.
Speak low, if you speak love.
[Takes her aside.
Bene.
Well, I would you did like me.
Marg.
So would not I, for your own sake; for I
have many ill qualities.
Bene.
Which is one?
Marg.
I say my prayers aloud.
Bene.
I love you the better; the hearers may cry
Amen.
Marg.
God match me with a good dancer!
Balth.
Amen.
Marg.
And God keep him out of my sight, when the
dance is done!—Answer, clerk.
Balth.
No more words: the clerk is answered.
Urs.
I know you well enough: you are signior Antonio.
Ant.
At a word, I am not.
Urs.
I know you by the waggling of your head.
Ant.
To tell you true, I counterfeit him.
Urs.
You could never do him so ill-well, unless you
were the very man. Here's his dry hand up and down:
you are he, you are he.
Ant.
At a word, I am not.
Urs.
Come, come: do you think I do not know you
by your excellent wit? Can virtue hide itself? Go to,
mum, you are he: graces will appear, and there's an
end.
Beat.
Will you not tell me who told you so?
Bene.
No, you shall pardon me.
Beat.
Nor will you not tell me who you are?
Bene.
Not now.
-- 205 --
Beat.
That I was disdainful, and that I had my
good wit out of the “Hundred merry Tales8 note.”—Well,
this was signior Benedick that said so.
Bene.
What's he?
Beat.
I am sure, you know him well enough.
Bene.
Not I, believe me.
Beat.
Did he never make you laugh?
Bene.
I pray you, what is he?
Beat.
Why, he is the prince's jester: a very dull
fool, only his gift is in devising impossible slanders:
none but libertines delight in him; and the commendation
is not in his wit, but in his villainy, for he both
pleases men, and angers them, and then they laugh at
him, and beat him. I am sure, he is in the fleet; I
would he had boarded me!
Bene.
When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him
what you say.
Beat.
Do, do: he'll but break a comparison or two
on me; which, peradventure, not marked, or not laughed
at, strikes him into melancholy; and then there's a
partridge' wing saved, for the fool will eat no supper
that night. [Music within.] We must follow the
leaders.
Bene.
In every good thing.
Beat.
Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them
at the next turning.
[Dance. Then, exeunt all but John, Borachio, and Claudio.
John.
Sure, my brother is amorous on Hero, and hath
withdrawn her father to break with him about it. The
ladies follow her, and but one visor remains.
Bora.
And that is Claudio: I know him by his
bearing.
-- 206 --
John.
Are not you signior Benedick?
Claud.
You know me well: I am he.
John.
Signior, you are very near my brother in his
love: he is enamoured on Hero. I pray you, dissuade
him from her; she is no equal for his birth: you may
do the part of an honest man in it.
Claud.
How know you he loves her?
John.
I heard him swear his affection.
Bora.
So did I too; and he swore he would marry
her to-night.
John.
Come, let us to the banquet.
[Exeunt John and Borachio.
Claud.
Thus answer I in name of Benedick,
But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.
'Tis certain so:—the prince woos for himself.
Friendship is constant in all other things,
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore, all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself,
And trust no agent, for beauty is a witch,
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.
This is an accident of hourly proof,
Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero! 11Q0166
Re-enter Benedick.
Bene.
Count Claudio?
Claud.
Yea, the same.
Bene.
Come, will you go with me?
Claud.
Whither?
Bene.
Even to the next willow, about your own
business, county. What fashion will you wear the garland
of? About your neck, like an usurer's chain9 note,
or under your arm, like a lieutenant's scarf? You must
wear it one way, for the prince hath got your Hero.
-- 207 --
Claud.
I wish him joy of her.
Bene.
Why, that's spoken like an honest drover: so
they sell bullocks. But did you think, the prince would
have served you thus?
Claud.
I pray you, leave me.
Bene.
Ho! now you strike like the blind man: 'twas
the boy that stole your meat, and you'll beat the post.
Claud.
If it will not be, I'll leave you.
[Exit.
Bene.
Alas, poor hurt fowl 11Q0167! Now will he creep into
sedges.—But, that my lady Beatrice should know
me, and not know me! The prince's fool!—Ha! it
may be, I go under that title, because I am merry.—
Yea 11Q0168; but so I am apt to do myself wrong: I am not
so reputed: it is the base, though bitter disposition10 note of
Beatrice, that puts the world into her person, and so
gives me out. Well, I'll be revenged as I may.
Re-enter Don Pedro.
D. Pedro.
Now, signior, where's the count? Did
you see him?
Bene.
Troth, my lord, I have played the part of lady
Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in
a warren: I told him, and, I think, I told him true,
that your grace had got the good will of this young
lady; and I offered him my company to a willow tree,
either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or to
bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped.
D. Pedro.
To be whipped! What's his fault?
Bene.
The flat transgression of a school-boy; who,
being overjoy'd with finding a bird's nest, shows it his
companion, and he steals it.
D. Pedro.
Wilt thou make a trust a transgression?
The transgression is in the stealer.
-- 208 --
Bene.
Yet it had not been amiss, the rod had been
made, and the garland too; for the garland he might
have worn himself, and the rod he might have bestow'd
on you, who, as I take it, have stolen his bird's nest.
D. Pedro.
I will but teach them to sing, and restore
them to the owner.
Bene.
If their singing answer your saying, by my
faith, you say honestly.
D. Pedro.
The lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you:
the gentleman, that danced with her, told her she is
much wronged by you.
Bene.
O! she misused me past the endurance of a
block: an oak, but with one green leaf on it, would
have answered her: my very visor began to assume
life, and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I
had been myself, that I was the prince's jester; that I
was duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest,
with such impossible 11Q0169 conveyance, upon me, that I stood
like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at
me. She speaks poignards, and every word stabs: if
her breath were as terrible as her terminations1 note, there
were no living near her; she would infect to the north
star. I would not marry her, though she were endowed
with all that Adam had left him before he transgressed:
she would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea,
and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come,
talk not of her; you shall find her the infernal Até in
good apparel2 note. I would to God, some scholar would
conjure her; for, certainly, while she is here, a man
may live as quiet in hell, as in a sanctuary; and people
sin upon purpose, because they would go thither, so,
indeed, all disquiet, horror, and perturbation follow
her.
-- 209 --
Enter Claudio, Beatrice, Hero, and Leonato.
D. Pedro.
Look, here she comes.
Bene.
Will your grace command me any service to
the world's end? I will go on the slightest errand
now to the Antipodes, that you can devise to send me
on: I will fetch you a toothpicker now from the
farthest inch of Asia; bring you the length of Prester
John's foot; fetch you a hair of the great Cham's
beard3 note; do you any embassage to the Pigmies, rather
than hold three words' conference with this harpy. You
have no employment for me?
D. Pedro.
None, but to desire your good company.
Bene.
O God, sir, here's a dish I love not: I cannot
endure my lady Tongue4 note.
[Exit.
D. Pedro.
Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart
of signior Benedick.
Beat.
Indeed, my lord, he lent it me a while; and I
gave him use for it, a double heart for his single one:
marry, once before he won it of me with false dice,
therefore your grace may well say I have lost it.
D. Pedro.
You have put him down, lady; you have
put him down.
Beat.
So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest
I should prove the mother of fools. I have brought
count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.
D. Pedro.
Why, how now, count? wherefore are
you sad?
Claud.
Not sad, my lord.
D. Pedro.
How then? Sick?
Claud.
Neither, my lord.
Beat.
The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry,
nor well; but civil, count, civil as an orange, and
something of that jealous complexion 11Q01705 note.
-- 210 --
D. Pedro.
I'faith, lady, I think your blazon to be
true; though, I'll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is
false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and
fair Hero is won; I have broke with her father, and,
his good will obtained, name the day of marriage, and
God give thee joy!
Leon.
Count, take of me my daughter, and with her
my fortunes: his grace hath made the match, and all
grace say Amen to it!
Beat.
Speak, count, 'tis your cue.
Claud.
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I
were but little happy, if I could say how much.—Lady,
as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for
you, and dote upon the exchange.
Beat.
Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his
mouth with a kiss, and let him not speak neither.
D. Pedro.
In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.
Beat.
Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps
on the windy side of care.—My cousin tells him in his
ear, that he is in her heart.
Claud.
And so she doth, cousin.
Beat.
Good lord! for alliance thus goes every one
to the world but I6 note, and I am sun-burned: I may sit
in a corner, and cry, heigh ho! for a husband.
D. Pedro.
Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.
Beat.
I would rather have one of your father's getting.
Hath your grace ne'er a brother like you? Your
father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by
them.
D. Pedro.
Will you have me, lady?
Beat.
No, my lord, unless I might have another for
working-days: your grace is too costly to wear every
-- 211 --
day.—But, I beseech your grace, pardon me; I was
born to speak all mirth, and no matter.
D. Pedro.
Your silence most offends me, and to be
merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were
born in a merry hour.
Beat.
No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then
there was a star danced, and under that was I born.—
Cousins, God give you joy!
Leon.
Niece, will you look to those things I told you
of?
Beat.
I cry you mercy, uncle.—By your grace's
pardon.
[Exit Beatrice.
D. Pedro.
By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.
Leon.
There's little of the melancholy element in her,
my lord: she is never sad, but when she sleeps; and
not ever sad then, for I have heard my daughter say,
she hath often dreamed of unhappiness, and waked
herself with laughing.
D. Pedro.
She cannot endure to hear tell of a
husband.
Leon.
O! by no means, she mocks all her wooers out
of suit.
D. Pedro.
She were an excellent wife for Benedick.
Leon.
O lord! my lord, if they were but a week married,
they would talk themselves mad.
D. Pedro.
County Claudio, when mean you to go to
church?
Claud.
To-morrow, my lord. Time goes on crutches,
till love have all his rites.
Leon.
Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence
a just seven-night; and a time too brief, too, to have all
things answer my mind7 note.
D. Pedro.
Come, you shake the head at so long a
breathing; but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall
not go dully by us. I will, in the interim, undertake
one of Hercules' labours, which is, to bring signior
-- 212 --
Benedick and the lady Beatrice into a mountain of
affection, the one with the other. I would fain have it
a match; and I doubt not but to fashion it, if you three
will but minister such assistance as I shall give you
direction.
Leon.
My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten
nights' watchings.
Claud.
And I, my lord.
D. Pedro.
And you too, gentle Hero?
Hero.
I will do any modest office, my lord, to help
my cousin to a good husband.
D. Pedro
And Benedick is not the unhopefullest
husband that I know. Thus far can I praise him: he is
of a noble strain, of approved valour, and confirmed
honesty. I will teach you how to humour your cousin,
that she shall fall in love with Benedick;—and I, with
your two helps, will so practise on Benedick, that, in
despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he shall
fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this, Cupid is
no longer an archer: his glory shall be ours, for we are
the only love-gods. Go in with me, and I will tell you
my drift.
[Exeunt.
J. Payne Collier [1842–1844], The works of William Shakespeare. The text formed from an entirely new collation of the old editions: with the various readings, notes, a life of the poet, and a history of the Early English stage. By J. Payne Collier, Esq. F.S.A. In eight volumes (Whittaker & Co. [etc.], London) [word count] [S10101].
