THE SONG.
Balth.
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,
-- 217 --
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into, Hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no mo
Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy. 11Q0174
Then sigh not so, &c.
D. Pedro.
By my troth, a good song.
Balth.
And an ill singer, my lord.
D. Pedro.
Ha? no, no; faith, thou singest well
enough for a shift.
Bene. [Aside.]
An he had been a dog that should
have howled 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.
D. Pedro.
Yea, marry; dost thou hear, Balthazar?
I pray thee, get us some excellent music, for to-morrow
night we would have it at the lady Hero's chamber
window.
Balth.
The best I can, my lord.
D. Pedro.
Do so: farewell. [Exeunt Balthazar
and musicians.] Come hither, Leonato: what was it you
told me of to-day? that your niece Beatrice was in
love with signior Benedick?
Claud. [Aside to Pedro.]
O, ay:—stalk on, stalk on;
the fowl sits2 note. [Aloud.] I did never think that lady
would have loved any man.
Leon.
No, nor I neither; but most wonderful, that
she should so dote on signior Benedick, whom she hath
in all outward behaviours seemed ever to abhor.
Bene. [Aside.]
Is't possible? Sits the wind in that
corner?
-- 218 --
Leon.
By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to
think of it, but that she loves him with an enraged
affection: it is past the infinite of thought.
D. 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.
D. Pedro.
Why, what effects of passion shows
she?
Claud. [Aside.]
Bait the hook well: this fish will
bite.
Leon.
What effects, my lord? She will sit you,—
you heard my daughter tell you how.
Claud.
She did, indeed.
D. 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. [Aside.]
I should think this a gull, but that
the white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot,
sure, hide himself in such reverence3 note.
Claud. [Aside.]
He hath ta'en the infection: hold
it up.
D. 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 encountered 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
-- 219 --
there will she sit in her smock, till she have writ a sheet
of paper 11Q0175.—My daughter tells us all.
Claud.
Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember
a pretty jest your daughter told us of4 note.
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;
railed at herself, that she should be so immodest
to write to one that she knew would 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 ecstasy hath so much overborne her, that my
daughter is sometimes afeard she will do a desperate
outrage to herself. It is very true.
D. 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.
D. Pedro.
An 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.
D. 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.
D. Pedro.
I would, she had bestowed this dotage on
me; I would have daff'd5 note all other respects, and made
-- 220 --
her half myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and
hear what a' 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 accustomed
crossness.
D. 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 spirit6 note.
Claud.
He is a very proper man.
D. Pedro.
He hath, indeed, a good outward happiness.
Claud.
Before God, and in my mind, very wise.
D. Pedro.
He doth, indeed, show some sparks that
are like wit.
Leon.
And I take him to be valiant.
D. Pedro.
As Hector, I assure you: and in the
managing of quarrels you may say he is wise; for either
he avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes them
with a most Christian-like fear.
Leon.
If he do fear God, he must necessarily keep
peace: if he break the peace, he ought to enter into a
quarrel with fear and trembling.
D. Pedro.
And so will he do; for the man doth fear
God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests
he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall
we go seek Benedick7 note, and tell him of her love?
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.
D. Pedro.
Well, we will hear farther of it by your
-- 221 --
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 so good a lady8 note.
Leon.
My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready.
Claud. [Aside.]
If he do not dote on her upon this,
I will never trust my expectation.
D. Pedro. [Aside.]
Let there be the same net spread
for her; and that must your daughter and her gentlewomen
carry9 note. The sport will be, when they hold one
an opinion of another's dotage, and no such matter:
that's the scene that I would see, which will be merely
a dumb show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner.
[Exeunt Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato.
Bene. [advancing from the Arbour.]
This can be no
trick: the conference was sadly borne10 note.—They have the
truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady:
it seems, her affections have their full bent. Love me!
why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured:
they say, I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the
love come from her: they say, too, that she will rather
die than give any sign of affection.—I did never think to
marry.—I must not seem proud.—Happy are they that
hear their detractions, and can put them to mending.
They say, the lady is fair; 'tis a truth, I can bear them
witness: and virtuous; 'tis so, I cannot reprove it: and
wise, but for loving me; by my troth, it is no addition
to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for I will
be horribly in love with her. I may chance have some
odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because
I have railed so long against marriage; but doth not the
appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth,
that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips, and
-- 222 --
sentences, and these paper bullets of the brain, awe a
man from the career of his humour? No; the world
must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor,
I did not think I should live till I were married.—
Here comes Beatrice. By this day, she's a fair lady:
I do spy some marks of love in her.
Enter Beatrice.
Beat.
Against my will, I am sent to bid you come
in to dinner.
Bene.
Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.
Beat.
I took no more pains for those thanks, than
you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I
would not have come.
Bene.
You take pleasure, then, in the message?
Beat.
Yea, just so much as you may take upon a
knife's point, and choke a daw withal. 11Q0176—You have no
stomach, signior: fare you well.
[Exit.
Bene.
Ha! “Against my will I am sent to bid you
come in to dinner11 note”—there's a double meaning in that.
“I took no more pains for those thanks, than you took
pains to thank me”—that's as much as to say, any pains
that I take for you is as easy as thanks.—If I do not
take pity of her, I am a villain: if I do not love her, I
am a Jew. I will go get her picture.
[Exit.
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].
