Ursula.
Hero.
Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and
desire her to rise.
Urs.
I will, lady.
Hero.
And bid her come hither.
Urs.
Well.
[Exit Ursula.
Marg.
Troth, I think, your other rabato1 note were better.
Hero.
No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this.
Marg.
By my troth, it's not so good; and I warrant,
your cousin will say so.
Hero.
My cousin's a fool, and thou art another. I'll
wear none but this.
Marg.
I like the new tire within excellently, if the
hair were a thought browner; and your gown's a most
rare fashion, i'faith. I saw the duchess of Milan's gown,
that they praise so.
Hero.
O, that exceeds, they say.
-- 237 --
Marg.
By my troth, it's but a night-gown in respect
of yours: cloth o' gold, and cuts, and laced with silver,
set with pearls, down sleeves, side sleeves2 note, and skirts
round, under-borne with a bluish tinsel; but for a fine,
quaint, graceful, and excellent fashion, yours is worth
ten on't.
Hero.
God give me joy to wear it, for my heart is
exceeding heavy!
Marg.
'Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a
man.
Hero.
Fie upon thee! art not ashamed?
Marg.
Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is
not marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your
lord honourable without marriage? I think, you would
have me say, saving your reverence,—a husband: an
bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I'll offend no
body. Is there any harm in—the heavier for a husband?
None, I think, an it be the right husband, and
the right wife; otherwise 'tis light, and not heavy:
ask my lady Beatrice else; here she comes.
Enter Beatrice.
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' love3 note;” that goes
without a burden: do you sing it, and I'll dance it.
Beat.
Yea, “Light o' love,” with your heels!—then,
if your husband have stables enough, you'll see he shall
lack no barns.
-- 238 --
Marg.
O illegitimate construction! I scorn that
with my heels.
Beat.
'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin: 'tis time you
were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill.—Heigh
ho!
Marg.
For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?
Beat.
For the letter that begins them all, H4 note.
Marg.
Well, an you be not turned 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 stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell.
Marg.
A maid, and stuffed! there's goodly catching
of cold.
Beat.
O, God help me! God help me! how long
have you profess'd 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 distilled carduus benedictus5 note,
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,
-- 239 --
perchance, that I think you are in love: nay, by'r lady,
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 of 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 despite 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.
Re-enter Ursula.
Urs.
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.
[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].
