Enter Hero, and Margaret and 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.]

Marg. Troth, I think your other rebato were better.

Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this.

Marg. By my troth, '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.

Marg. By my troth, 's but a nightgown in respect of yours—

cloth-o'-gold and cuts, and lac'd with silver, set with pearls

down sleeves, side-sleeves, and skirts, round underborne with

a blush 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 nobody. 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's into 'Light o' love.' 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 barnes.

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. Hey-ho!

Marg. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?

Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H.

Marg. Well, an you be not turn'd 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 stuff'd, cousin; I cannot smell.

Marg. A maid, and stuff'd! 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 distill'd carduus benedictus 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 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.

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.]

Scene V. The hall in Leonato's house.

Enter Leonato and the Constable [Dogberry] and the Headborough [verges].

Leon. What would you with me, honest neighbour?

Dog. Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you that decerns

you nearly.

Leon. Brief, I pray you; for you see it is a busy time with me.

Dog. Marry, this it is, sir.

Verg. Yes, in truth it is, sir.

Leon. What is it, my good friends?

Dog. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter—an old

man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, I would

desire they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin between his

brows.

Verg. Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man living that is an

old man and no honester than I.

Dog. Comparisons are odorous. Palabras, neighbour Verges.

Leon. Neighbours, you are tedious.

Dog. It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor Duke's

officers; but truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a

king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all of your worship.

Leon. All thy tediousness on me, ah?

Dog. Yea, in 'twere a thousand pound more than 'tis; for I hear as

good exclamation on your worship as of any man in the city; and

though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it.

Verg. And so am I.

Leon. I would fain know what you have to say.

Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your worship's

presence, ha' ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in

Messina.

Dog. A good old man, sir; he will be talking. As they say, 'When

the age is in, the wit is out.' God help us! it is a world to

see! Well said, i' faith, neighbour Verges. Well, God's a good

man. An two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An honest

soul, i' faith, sir, by my troth he is, as ever broke bread; but

God is to be worshipp'd; all men are not alike, alas, good

neighbour!

Leon. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you.

Dog. Gifts that God gives.

Leon. I must leave you.

Dog. One word, sir. Our watch, sir, have indeed comprehended two

aspicious persons, and we would have them this morning examined

before your worship.

Leon. Take their examination yourself and bring it me. I am now in

great haste, as it may appear unto you.

Dog. It shall be suffigance.

Leon. Drink some wine ere you go. Fare you well.

[Enter a Messenger.]

Mess. My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to her

husband.

Leon. I'll wait upon them. I am ready.

[Exeunt Leonato and Messenger.]

Dog. Go, good partner, go get you to Francis Seacoal; bid him bring

his pen and inkhorn to the jail. We are now to examination these

men.

Verg. And we must do it wisely.

Dog. We will spare for no wit, I warrant you. Here's that shall

drive some of them to a non-come. Only get the learned writer to

set down our excommunication, and meet me at the jail.

[Exeunt.]

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ACT IV. Scene I. A church.

Enter Don Pedro, [John the] Bastard, Leonato, Friar [Francis], Claudio,

Benedick, Hero, Beatrice, [and Attendants].

Leon. Come, Friar Francis, be brief. Only to the plain form of

marriage, and you shall recount their particular duties

afterwards.

Friar. You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady?

Claud. No.

Leon. To be married to her. Friar, you come to marry her.

Friar. Lady, you come hither to be married to this count?

Hero. I do.

Friar. If either of you know any inward impediment why you should

not be conjoined, I charge you on your souls to utter it.

Claud. Know you any, Hero?

Hero. None, my lord.

Friar. Know you any, Count?

Leon. I dare make his answer—none.

Claud. O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not

knowing what they do!

Bene. How now? interjections? Why then, some be of laughing, as,

ah, ha, he!

Claud. Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your leave:

Will you with free and unconstrained soul

Give me this maid your daughter?

Leon. As freely, son, as God did give her me.

Claud. And what have I to give you back whose worth

May counterpoise this rich and precious gift?

Pedro. Nothing, unless you render her again.

Claud. Sweet Prince, you learn me noble thankfulness.

There, Leonato, take her back again.

Give not this rotten orange to your friend.

She's but the sign and semblance of her honour.

Behold how like a maid she blushes here!

O, what authority and show of truth

Can cunning sin cover itself withal!

Comes not that blood as modest evidence

To witness simple virtue, Would you not swear,

All you that see her, that she were a maid

By these exterior shows? But she is none:

She knows the heat of a luxurious bed;

Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.

Leon. What do you mean, my lord?

Claud. Not to be married,

Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton.

Leon. Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof,

Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth

And made defeat of her virginity—

Claud. I know what you would say. If I have known her,

You will say she did embrace me as a husband,

And so extenuate the forehand sin.

No, Leonato,

I never tempted her with word too large,

But, as a brother to his sister, show'd

Bashful sincerity and comely love.

Hero. And seem'd I ever otherwise to you?

Claud. Out on the seeming! I will write against it.

You seem to me as Dian in her orb,

As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;

But you are more intemperate in your blood

Than Venus, or those pamp'red animals

That rage in savage sensuality.

Hero. Is my lord well that he doth speak so wide?

Leon. Sweet Prince, why speak not you?

Pedro. What should I speak?

I stand dishonour'd that have gone about

To link my dear friend to a common stale.

Leon. Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?

John. Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.

Bene. This looks not like a nuptial.

Hero. 'True!' O God!

Claud. Leonato, stand I here?

Is this the Prince, Is this the Prince's brother?

Is this face Hero's? Are our eyes our own?

Leon. All this is so; but what of this, my lord?

Claud. Let me but move one question to your daughter,

And by that fatherly and kindly power

That you have in her, bid her answer truly.

Leon. I charge thee do so, as thou art my child.

Hero. O, God defend me! How am I beset!

What kind of catechising call you this?

Claud. To make you answer truly to your name.

Hero. Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name

With any just reproach?

Claud. Marry, that can Hero!

Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue.

What man was he talk'd with you yesternight,

Out at your window betwixt twelve and one?

Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.

Hero. I talk'd with no man at that hour, my lord.

Pedro. Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato,

I am sorry you must hear. Upon my honour,

Myself, my brother, and this grieved Count

Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night

Talk with a ruffian at her chamber window,

Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain,

Confess'd the vile encounters they have had

A thousand times in secret.

John. Fie, fie! they are not to be nam'd, my lord—

Not to be spoke of;

There is not chastity, enough in language

Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady,

I am sorry for thy much misgovernment.

Claud. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been

If half thy outward graces had been plac'd

About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart!

But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! Farewell,

Thou pure impiety and impious purity!

For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love,

And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang,

To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,

And never shall it more be gracious.

Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me?

[Hero swoons.]

Beat. Why, how now, cousin? Wherefore sink you down?

John. Come let us go. These things, come thus to light,

Smother her spirits up.

[Exeunt Don Pedro, Don Juan, and Claudio.]

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,

Myself would on the rearward of reproaches

Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but one?

Child I for that at frugal nature's frame?

O, one too much by thee! Why had I one?

Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?

Why had I not with charitable hand

Took up a beggar's issue at my gates,

Who smirched thus and mir'd with infamy,

I might have said, 'No part of it is mine;

This shame derives itself 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 myself was to myself 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 belied!

Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?

Beat. No, truly, not; although, 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 two princes lie? and Claudio 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 beat 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 observation,

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 misled 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 dried this blood of mine,

Nor age so eat up my invention,

Nor fortune made such havoc 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 awhile

And let my counsel sway you in this case.

Your daughter here the princes 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 carried 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 travail look for greater birth.

She dying, as it must be so maintain'd,

Upon the instant that she was accus'd,

Shall be lamented, pitied, 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 show us

Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio.

When he shall hear she died upon his words,

Th' idea of her life shall sweetly creep

Into his study of imagination,

And every lovely organ of her life

Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit,

More moving, delicate, and full of life,

Into the eye and prospect of his soul

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, though be 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 though 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 [all but Benedick and Beatrice].

Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?

Beat. Yea, and I will weep a while longer.

Bene. I will not desire that.

Beat. You have no reason. I do it freely.

Bene. Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.

Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right

her!

Bene. Is there any way to show such friendship?

Beat. A very even way, but no such friend.

Bene. May a man do it?

Beat. It is a man's office, but not yours.

Bene. I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that

strange?

Beat. As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for

me to say I loved nothing so well as you. But believe me not; and

yet I lie not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry

for my cousin.

Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.

Beat. Do not swear, and eat it.

Bene. I will swear by it that you love me, and I will make him eat

it that says I love not you.

Beat. Will you not eat your word?

Bene. With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love

thee.

Beat. Why then, God forgive me!

Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice?

Beat. You have stayed me in a happy hour. I was about to protest I

loved you.

Bene. And do it with all thy heart.

Beat. I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to

protest.

Bene. Come, bid me do anything for thee.

Beat. Kill Claudio.

Bene. Ha! not for the wide world!

Beat. You kill me to deny it. Farewell.

Bene. Tarry, sweet Beatrice.

Beat. I am gone, though I am here. There is no love in you. Nay, I

pray you let me go.

Bene. Beatrice—

Beat. In faith, I will go.

Bene. We'll be friends first.

Beat. You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine

enemy.

Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy?

Beat. Is 'a not approved in the height a villain, that hath

slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O that I were a

man! What? bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and

then with public accusation, uncover'd slander, unmitigated

rancour—O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the

market place.

Bene. Hear me, Beatrice!

Beat. Talk with a man out at a window!-a proper saying!

Bene. Nay but Beatrice—

Beat. Sweet Hero! she is wrong'd, she is sland'red, she is undone.

Bene. Beat—

Beat. Princes and Counties! Surely a princely testimony, a goodly

count, Count Comfect, a sweet gallant surely! O that I were a man

for his sake! or that I had any friend would be a man for my

sake! But manhood is melted into cursies, valour into compliment,

and men are only turn'd into tongue, and trim ones too. He is now

as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie,and swears it. I

cannot be a man with wishing; therefore I will die a woman with

grieving.

Bene. Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.

Beat. Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.

Bene. Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wrong'd Hero?

Beat. Yea, as sure is I have a thought or a soul.

Bene. Enough, I am engag'd, I will challenge him. I will kiss your

hand, and so I leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a

dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go comfort your

cousin. I must say she is dead-and so farewell.

[Exeunt.]

Scene II. A prison.

Enter the Constables [Dogberry and Verges] and the Sexton, in gowns, [and the Watch, with Conrade and] Borachio.

Dog. Is our whole dissembly appear'd?

Verg. O, a stool and a cushion for the sexton.

Sex. Which be the malefactors?

Dog. Marry, that am I and my partner.

Verg. Nay, that's certain. We have the exhibition to examine.

Sex. But which are the offenders that are to be examined? let them

come before Master Constable.

Dog. Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your name,

friend?

Bor. Borachio.

Dog. Pray write down Borachio. Yours, sirrah?

Con. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.

Dog. Write down Master Gentleman Conrade. Masters, do you serve

God?

Both. Yea, sir, we hope.

Dog. Write down that they hope they serve God; and write God first,

for God defend but God should go before such villains! Masters,

it is proved already that you are little better than false

knaves, and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer

you for yourselves?

Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none.

Dog. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; but I will go about

with him. Come you hither, sirrah. A word in your ear. Sir, I say

to you, it is thought you are false knaves.

Bora. Sir, I say to you we are none.

Dog. Well, stand aside. Fore God, they are both in a tale.

Have you writ down that they are none?

Sex. Master Constable, you go not the way to examine. You must call

forth the watch that are their accusers.

Dog. Yea, marry, that's the eftest way. Let the watch come forth.

Masters, I charge you in the Prince's name accuse these men.

1. Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John the Prince's brother

was a villain.

Dog. Write down Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat perjury,

to call a prince's brother villain.

Bora. Master Constable—

Dog. Pray thee, fellow, peace. I do not like thy look, I promise

thee.

Sex. What heard you him say else?

2. Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don John

for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully.

Dog. Flat burglary as ever was committed.

Verg. Yea, by th' mass, that it is.

Sex. What else, fellow?

1. Watch. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to

disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her.

Dog. O villain! thou wilt be condemn'd into everlasting redemption

for this.

Sex. What else?

Watchmen. This is all.

Sex. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John is

this morning secretly stol'n away. Hero was in this manner

accus'd, in this manner refus'd, and upon the grief of this

suddenly died. Master Constable, let these men be bound and

brought to Leonato's. I will go before and show him their

examination. [Exit.]

Dog. Come, let them be opinion'd.

Verg. Let them be in the hands—

Con. Off, coxcomb!

Dog. God's my life, where's the sexton? Let him write down the

Prince's officer coxcomb. Come, bind them.—Thou naughty varlet!

Con. Away! you are an ass, you are an ass.

Dog. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my

years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! But, masters,

remember that I am an ass. Though it be not written down, yet

forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of

piety, as shall be prov'd upon thee by good witness. I am a wise

fellow; and which is more, an officer; and which is more, a

householder; and which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any

is in Messina, and one that knows the law, go to! and a rich

fellow enough, go to! and a fellow that hath had losses; and one

that hath two gowns and everything handsome about him. Bring him

away. O that I had been writ down an ass!

Exeunt.

<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM

SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS

PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE

WITH PERMISSION. ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE

DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS

PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED

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ACT V. Scene I. The street, near Leonato's house.

Enter Leonato and his brother [ Antonio].

Ant. If you go on thus, you will kill yourself,

And 'tis not wisdom thus to second grief

Against yourself.

Leon. I pray thee cease thy counsel,

Which falls into mine ears as profitless

As water in a sieve. Give not me counsel,

Nor let no comforter delight mine ear

But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine.

Bring me a father that so lov'd his child,

Whose joy of her is overwhelm'd like mine,

And bid him speak to me of patience.

Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine,

And let it answer every strain for strain,

As thus for thus, and such a grief for such,

In every lineament, branch, shape, and form.

If such a one will smile and stroke his beard,

Bid sorrow wag, cry 'hem' when he should groan,

Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk

With candle-wasters—bring him yet to me,

And I of him will gather patience.

But there is no such man; for, brother, men

Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief

Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,

Their counsel turns to passion, which before

Would give preceptial medicine to rage,

Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,

Charm ache with air and agony with words.

No, no! 'Tis all men's office to speak patience

To those that wring under the load of sorrow,

But no man's virtue nor sufficiency

To be so moral when he shall endure

The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel.

My griefs cry louder than advertisement.

Ant. Therein do men from children nothing differ.

Leon. I pray thee peace. I will be flesh and blood;

For there was never yet philosopher

That could endure the toothache patiently,

However they have writ the style of gods

And made a push at chance and sufferance.

Ant. Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself.

Make those that do offend you suffer too.

Leon. There thou speak'st reason. Nay, I will do so.

My soul doth tell me Hero is belied;

And that shall Claudio know; so shall the Prince,

And all of them that thus dishonour her.

Enter Don Pedro and Claudio.

Ant. Here comes the Prince and Claudio hastily.

Pedro. Good den, Good den.

Claud. Good day to both of you.

Leon. Hear you, my lords!

Pedro. We have some haste, Leonato.

Leon. Some haste, my lord! well, fare you well, my lord.

Are you so hasty now? Well, all is one.

Pedro. Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man.

Ant. If he could right himself with quarrelling,

Some of us would lie low.

Claud. Who wrongs him?

Leon. Marry, thou dost wrong me, thou dissembler, thou!

Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword;

I fear thee not.

Claud. Mary, beshrew my hand

If it should give your age such cause of fear.

In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.

Leon. Tush, tush, man! never fleer and jest at me

I speak not like a dotard nor a fool,

As under privilege of age to brag

What I have done being young, or what would do,

Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head,

Thou hast so wrong'd mine innocent child and me

That I am forc'd to lay my reverence by

And, with grey hairs and bruise of many days,

Do challenge thee to trial of a man.

I say thou hast belied mine innocent child;

Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart,

And she lied buried with her ancestors-

O, in a tomb where never scandal slept,

Save this of hers, fram'd by thy villany!

Claud. My villany?

Leon. Thine, Claudio; thine I say.

Pedro. You say not right, old man

Leon. My lord, my lord,

I'll prove it on his body if he dare,

Despite his nice fence and his active practice,

His May of youth and bloom of lustihood.

Claud. Away! I will not have to do with you.

Leon. Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill'd my child.

If thou kill'st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.

And. He shall kill two of us, and men indeed

But that's no matter; let him kill one first.

Win me and wear me! Let him answer me.

Come, follow me, boy,. Come, sir boy, come follow me.

Sir boy, I'll whip you from your foining fence!

Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will.

Leon. Brother—

Ant. Content yourself. God knows I lov'd my niece,

And she is dead, slander'd to death by villains,

That dare as well answer a man indeed

As I dare take a serpent by the tongue.

Boys, apes, braggarts, jacks, milksops!

Leon. Brother Anthony—

Ant. Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea,

And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple,

Scambling, outfacing, fashion-monging boys,

That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander,

Go anticly, show outward hideousness,

And speak off half a dozen dang'rous words,

How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst;

And this is all.

Leon. But, brother Anthony—

Ant. Come, 'tis no matter.

Do not you meddle; let me deal in this.

Pedro. Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience.

My heart is sorry for your daughter's death;

But, on my honour, she was charg'd with nothing

But what was true, and very full of proof.

Leon. My lord, my lord—

Pedro. I will not hear you.

Leon. No? Come, brother, away!—I will be heard.

Ant. And shall, or some of us will smart for it.

Exeunt ambo.

Enter Benedick.

Pedro. See, see! Here comes the man we went to seek.

Claud. Now, signior, what news?

Bene. Good day, my lord.

Pedro. Welcome, signior. You are almost come to part almost a fray.

Claud. We had lik'd to have had our two noses snapp'd off with two

old men without teeth.

Pedro. Leonato and his brother. What think'st thou? Had we fought,

I doubt we should have been too young for them.

Bene. In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I came to seek

you both.

Claud. We have been up and down to seek thee; for we are high-proof

melancholy, and would fain have it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy

wit?

Bene. It is in my scabbard. Shall I draw it?

Pedro. Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side?

Claud. Never any did so, though very many have been beside their

wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do the minstrel—draw to

pleasure us.

Pedro. As I am an honest man, he looks pale. Art thou sick or

angry?

Claud. What, courage, man! What though care kill'd a cat, thou hast

mettle enough in thee to kill care.

Bene. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career an you charge it

against me. I pray you choose another subject.

Claud. Nay then, give him another staff; this last was broke cross.

Pedro. By this light, he changes more and more. I think he be angry

indeed.

Claud. If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle.

Bene. Shall I speak a word in your ear?

Claud. God bless me from a challenge!

Bene. [aside to Claudio] You are a villain. I jest not; I will make

it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare. Do

me right, or I will protest your cowardice. You have kill'd a

sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me hear

from you.

Claud. Well, I will meet you, so I may have good cheer.

Pedro. What, a feast, a feast?

Claud. I' faith, I thank him, he hath bid me to a calve's head and

a capon, the which if I do not carve most curiously, say my

knife's naught. Shall I not find a woodcock too?

Bene. Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily.

Pedro. I'll tell thee how Beatrice prais'd thy wit the other day. I

said thou hadst a fine wit: 'True,' said she, 'a fine little

one.' 'No,' said I, 'a great wit.' 'Right,' says she, 'a great

gross one.' 'Nay,' said I, 'a good wit.' 'Just,' said she, 'it

hurts nobody.' 'Nay,' said I, 'the gentleman is wise.' 'Certain,'

said she, a wise gentleman.' 'Nay,' said I, 'he hath the

tongues.' 'That I believe' said she, 'for he swore a thing to me

on Monday night which he forswore on Tuesday morning. There's a

double tongue; there's two tongues.' Thus did she an hour

together transshape thy particular virtues. Yet at last she

concluded with a sigh, thou wast the proper'st man in Italy.

Claud. For the which she wept heartily and said she cared not.

Pedro. Yea, that she did; but yet, for all that, an if she did not

hate him deadly, she would love him dearly. The old man's

daughter told us all.

Claud. All, all! and moreover, God saw him when he was hid in the

garden.

Pedro. But when shall we set the savage bull's horns on the

sensible Benedick's head?

Claud. Yea, and text underneath, 'Here dwells Benedick, the married

man'?

Bene. Fare you well, boy; you know my mind. I will leave you now to

your gossiplike humour. You break jests as braggards do their

blades, which God be thanked hurt not. My lord, for your many

courtesies I thank you. I must discontinue your company. Your

brother the bastard is fled from Messina. You have among you

kill'd a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord Lackbeard there, he

and I shall meet; and till then peace be with him.

[Exit.]

Pedro. He is in earnest.

Claud. In most profound earnest; and, I'll warrant you, for the

love of Beatrice.

Pedro. And hath challeng'd thee.

Claud. Most sincerely.

Pedro. What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and

hose and leaves off his wit!

Enter Constables [Dogberry and Verges, with the Watch, leading]

Conrade and Borachio.

Claud. He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an ape a doctor to

such a man.

Pedro. But, soft you, let me be! Pluck up, my heart, and be sad!

Did he not say my brother was fled?

Dog. Come you, sir. If justice cannot tame you, she shall ne'er

weigh more reasons in her balance. Nay, an you be a cursing

hypocrite once, you must be look'd to.

Pedro. How now? two of my brother's men bound? Borachio one.

Claud. Hearken after their offence, my lord.

Pedro. Officers, what offence have these men done?

Dog. Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they

have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and

lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified

unjust things; and to conclude, they are lying knaves.

Pedro. First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I ask thee

what's their offence; sixth and lastly, why they are committed;

and to conclude, what you lay to their charge.

Claud. Rightly reasoned, and in his own division; and by my troth

there's one meaning well suited.

Pedro. Who have you offended, masters, that you are thus bound to

your answer? This learned constable is too cunning to be

understood. What's your offence?

Bora. Sweet Prince, let me go no farther to mine answer. Do you

hear me, and let this Count kill me. I have deceived even your

very eyes. What your wisdoms could not discover, these shallow

fools have brought to light, who in the night overheard me

confessing to this man, how Don John your brother incensed me to

slander the Lady Hero; how you were brought into the orchard and

saw me court Margaret in Hero's garments; how you disgrac'd her

when you should marry her. My villany they have upon record,

which I had rather seal with my death than repeat over to my

shame. The lady is dead upon mine and my master's false

accusation; and briefly, I desire nothing but the reward of a

villain.

Pedro. Runs not this speech like iron through your blood?

Claud. I have drunk poison whiles he utter'd it.

Pedro. But did my brother set thee on to this?

Bora. Yea, and paid me richly for the practice of it.

Pedro. He is compos'd and fram'd of treachery,

And fled he is upon this villany.

Claud. Sweet Hero, now thy image doth appear

In the rare semblance that I lov'd it first.

Dog. Come, bring away the plaintiffs. By this time our sexton hath

reformed Signior Leonato of the matter. And, masters, do not

forget to specify, when time and place shall serve, that I am an

ass.

Verg. Here, here comes Master Signior Leonato, and the sexton too.

Enter Leonato, his brother [Antonio], and the Sexton.

Leon. Which is the villain? Let me see his eyes,

That, when I note another man like him,

I may avoid him. Which of these is he?

Bora. If you would know your wronger, look on me.

Leon. Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast kill'd

Mine innocent child?

Bora. Yea, even I alone.

Leon. No, not so, villain! thou beliest thyself.

Here stand a pair of honourable men—

A third is fled—that had a hand in it.

I thank you princes for my daughter's death.

Record it with your high and worthy deeds.

'Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.

Claud. I know not how to pray your patience;

Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself;

Impose me to what penance your invention

Can lay upon my sin. Yet sinn'd I not

But in mistaking.

Pedro. By my soul, nor I!

And yet, to satisfy this good old man,

I would bend under any heavy weight

That he'll enjoin me to.

Leon. I cannot bid you bid my daughter live-

That were impossible; but I pray you both,

Possess the people in Messina here

How innocent she died; and if your love

Can labour aught in sad invention,

Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb,

And sing it to her bones—sing it to-night.

To-morrow morning come you to my house,

And since you could not be my son-in-law,

Be yet my nephew. My brother hath a daughter,

Almost the copy of my child that's dead,

And she alone is heir to both of us.

Give her the right you should have giv'n her cousin,

And so dies my revenge.

Claud. O noble sir!

Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me.

I do embrace your offer; and dispose

For henceforth of poor Claudio.

Leon. To-morrow then I will expect your coming;

To-night I take my leave. This naughty man

Shall fact to face be brought to Margaret,

Who I believe was pack'd in all this wrong,

Hir'd to it by your brother.

Bora. No, by my soul, she was not;

Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me;

But always hath been just and virtuous

In anything that I do know by her.

Dog. Moreover, sir, which indeed is not under white and black, this

plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass. I beseech you let

it be rememb'red in his punishment. And also the watch heard them

talk of one Deformed. They say he wears a key in his ear, and a

lock hanging by it, and borrows money in God's name, the which he

hath us'd so long and never paid that now men grow hard-hearted

and will lend nothing for God's sake. Pray you examine him upon

that point.

Leon. I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.

Dog. Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverent youth,

and I praise God for you.

Leon. There's for thy pains. [Gives money.]

Dog. God save the foundation!

Leon. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee.

Dog. I leave an arrant knave with your worship, which I beseech

your worship to correct yourself, for the example of others.

God keep your worship! I wish your worship well. God restore you

to health! I humbly give you leave to depart; and if a merry

meeting may be wish'd, God prohibit it! Come, neighbour.

Exeunt [Dogberry and Verges].

Leon. Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell.

Ant. Farewell, my lords. We look for you to-morrow.

Pedro. We will not fall.

Claud. To-night I'll mourn with Hero.

[Exeunt Don Pedro and Claudio.]

Leon. [to the Watch] Bring you these fellows on.—We'll talk with

Margaret,

How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.

Exeunt.

Scene II. Leonato's orchard.

Enter Benedick and 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 yours 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 bucklers.

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.

Marg. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs.

Bene. And therefore will come.

Exit Margaret.

[Sings] The god of love,

That sits above

And knows me, and knows me,

How pitiful I deserve—

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 turn'd 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 cannot woo in festival terms.

Enter Beatrice.

Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I call'd 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 for, which is, with knowing what hath

pass'd 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 but foul

breath, and foul breath is noisome. Therefore I will depart

unkiss'd.

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 hear 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 maintain'd 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 instance, Beatrice, that liv'd 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.

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 home.

It is proved my Lady Hero hath been falsely accus'd, the Prince

and Claudio mightily abus'd, 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 thy

eyes; and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle's.

Exeunt.