Margaret, meeting.
Bene.
Pray thee, sweet mistress Margaret, deserve
well at my hands by helping me to the speech of
Beatrice.
Marg.
Will you, then, write me a sonnet in praise of
my beauty?
Bene.
In so high a style, Margaret, that no man
living shall come over it; for, in most comely truth,
thou deservest it.
Marg.
To have no man come over me? why shall I
always keep below stairs?
Bene.
Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's mouth;
it catches.
Marg.
And your's as blunt as the fencer's foils, which
hit, but hurt not.
Bene.
A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt
a woman: and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice. I give
thee the bucklers3 note.
Marg.
Give us the swords, we have bucklers of our
own.
Bene.
If you use them, Margaret, you must put in
the pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons
for maids.
-- 268 --
Marg.
Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who, I think,
hath legs.
[Exit Margaret.
Bene.
And therefore will come.
The god of love,
[Singing.]
That sits above,
And knows me, and knows me,
How pitiful I deserve4 note,—
I mean, in singing; but in loving, Leander the good
swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and a
whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers,
whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a
blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned over
and over as my poor self, in love. Marry, I cannot
show it in rhyme; I have tried: I can find out no
rhyme to “lady” but “baby,” an innocent rhyme; for
“scorn,” “horn,” a hard rhyme; for “school,” “fool,” a
babbling rhyme—very ominous endings. No, I was
not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo in
festival terms.—
Enter Beatrice.
Sweet Beatrice, would'st thou come when I called
thee?
Beat.
Yea, signior; and depart when you bid me.
Bene.
O, stay but till then!
Beat.
“Then” is spoken; fare you well now:—and
yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for5 note; which is,
with knowing what hath passed between you and
Claudio.
Bene.
Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss
thee.
Beat.
Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is
-- 269 --
but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I
will depart unkissed.
Bene.
Thou hast frighted the word out of his right
sense, so forcible is thy wit. But, I must tell thee
plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge, and either I
must shortly from him, or I will subscribe him a
coward. And, I pray thee now, tell me, for which of
my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?
Beat.
For them all together; which maintained so
politic a state of evil, that they will not admit any good
part to intermingle with them. But for which of my
good parts did you first suffer love for me?
Bene.
Suffer love! a good epithet. I do suffer
love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.
Beat.
In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor
heart! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for
yours; for I will never love that which my friend
hates.
Bene.
Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
Beat.
It appears not in this confession: there's not
one wise man among twenty that will praise himself.
Bene.
An old, an old instance6 note, Beatrice, that lived
in the time of good neighbours. If a man do not
erect, in this age, his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live
no longer in monument, than the bell rings, and the
widow weeps.
Beat.
And how long is that, think you?
Bene.
Question:—why an hour in clamour, and a
quarter in rheum: therefore is it most expedient for
the wise, (if Don Worm, his conscience, find no impediment
to the contrary,) to be the trumpet of his own
virtues, as I am to myself. So much for praising
myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy.
And now tell me, how doth your cousin?
Beat.
Very ill.
-- 270 --
Bene.
And how do you?
Beat.
Very ill too.
Bene.
Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I
leave you too, for here comes one in haste.
Enter Ursula.
Urs.
Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder's
old coil at home7 note: it is proved, my lady Hero hath been
falsely accused, the prince and Claudio mightily abused;
and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone.
Will you come presently?
Beat.
Will you go hear this news, signior?
Bene.
I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be
buried in thy eyes8 note; and, moreover, I will go with thee
to thy uncle's.
[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].
