Much Ado About Nothing

1I learn in this letter that Don Peter of Arragon

2comes this night to Messina.

3He is very near by this: he was not three leagues off

4when I left him.

5How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?

6But few of any sort, and none of name.

7A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings

8home full numbers. I find here that Don Peter hath

9bestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio.

10Much deserved on his part and equally remembered by

11Don Pedro: he hath borne himself beyond the

12promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb,

13the feats of a lion: he hath indeed better

14bettered expectation than you must expect of me to

15tell you how.

16He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very much

17glad of it.

18I have already delivered him letters, and there

19appears much joy in him; even so much that joy could

20not show itself modest enough without a badge of

21bitterness.

22Did he break out into tears?

23In great measure.

24A kind overflow of kindness: there are no faces

25truer than those that are so washed. How much

26better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping!

27I pray you, is Signior Mountanto returned from the

28wars or no?

29I know none of that name, lady: there was none such

30in the army of any sort.

31What is he that you ask for, niece?

32My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.

33O, he's returned; and as pleasant as ever he was.

34He set up his bills here in Messina and challenged

35Cupid at the flight; and my uncle's fool, reading

36the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and challenged

37him at the bird-bolt. I pray you, how many hath he

38killed and eaten in these wars? But how many hath

39he killed? for indeed I promised to eat all of his killing.

40Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much;

41but he'll be meet with you, I doubt it not.

42He hath done good service, lady, in these wars.

43You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it:

44he is a very valiant trencherman; he hath an

45excellent stomach.

46And a good soldier too, lady.

47And a good soldier to a lady: but what is he to a lord?

48A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed with all

49honourable virtues.

50It is so, indeed; he is no less than a stuffed man:

51but for the stuffing,--well, we are all mortal.

52You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a

53kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her:

54they never meet but there's a skirmish of wit

55between them.

56Alas! he gets nothing by that. In our last

57conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and

58now is the whole man governed with one: so that if

59he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him

60bear it for a difference between himself and his

61horse; for it is all the wealth that he hath left,

62to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his

63companion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother.

64Is't possible?

65Very easily possible: he wears his faith but as

66the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the

67next block.

68I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.

69No; an he were, I would burn my study. But, I pray

70you, who is his companion? Is there no young

71squarer now that will make a voyage with him to the devil?

72He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio.

73O Lord, he will hang upon him like a disease: he

74is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker

75runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio! if

76he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a

77thousand pound ere a' be cured.

78I will hold friends with you, lady.

79Do, good friend.

80You will never run mad, niece.

81No, not till a hot January.

82Don Pedro is approached.

83Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your

84trouble: the fashion of the world is to avoid

85cost, and you encounter it.

86Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of

87your grace: for trouble being gone, comfort should

88remain; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides

89and happiness takes his leave.

90You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this

91is your daughter.

92Her mother hath many times told me so.

93Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?

94Signior Benedick, no; for then were you a child.

95You have it full, Benedick: we may guess by this

96what you are, being a man. Truly, the lady fathers

97herself. Be happy, lady; for you are like an

98honourable father.

99If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not

100have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as

101like him as she is.

102I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior

103Benedick: nobody marks you.

104What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living?

105Is it possible disdain should die while she hath

106such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?

107Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come

108in her presence.

109Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I

110am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I

111would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard

112heart; for, truly, I love none.

113A dear happiness to women: they would else have

114been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God

115and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I

116had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man

117swear he loves me.

118God keep your ladyship still in that mind! so some

119gentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate

120scratched face.

121Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere such

122a face as yours were.

123Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.

124A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.

125I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and

126so good a continuer. But keep your way, i' God's

127name; I have done.

128You always end with a jade's trick: I know you of old.

129That is the sum of all, Leonato. Signior Claudio

130and Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath

131invited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at

132the least a month; and he heartily prays some

133occasion may detain us longer. I dare swear he is no

134hypocrite, but prays from his heart.

135If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn.

136Let me bid you welcome, my lord: being reconciled to

137the prince your brother, I owe you all duty.

138I thank you: I am not of many words, but I thank

139you.

140Please it your grace lead on?

141Your hand, Leonato; we will go together.

142Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato?

143I noted her not; but I looked on her.

144Is she not a modest young lady?

145Do you question me, as an honest man should do, for

146my simple true judgment; or would you have me speak

147after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex?

148No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment.

149Why, i' faith, methinks she's too low for a high

150praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little

151for a great praise: only this commendation I can

152afford her, that were she other than she is, she

153were unhandsome; and being no other but as she is, I

154do not like her.

155Thou thinkest I am in sport: I pray thee tell me

156truly how thou likest her.

157Would you buy her, that you inquire after her?

158Can the world buy such a jewel?

159Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this

160with a sad brow? or do you play the flouting Jack,

161to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder and Vulcan a

162rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take

163you, to go in the song?

164In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I

165looked on.

166I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such

167matter: there's her cousin, an she were not

168possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty

169as the first of May doth the last of December. But I

170hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you?

171I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn the

172contrary, if Hero would be my wife.

173Is't come to this? In faith, hath not the world

174one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion?

175Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again?

176Go to, i' faith; an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck

177into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away

178Sundays. Look Don Pedro is returned to seek you.

179What secret hath held you here, that you followed

180not to Leonato's?

181I would your grace would constrain me to tell.

182I charge thee on thy allegiance.

183You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb

184man; I would have you think so; but, on my

185allegiance, mark you this, on my allegiance. He is

186in love. With who? now that is your grace's part.

187Mark how short his answer is;--With Hero, Leonato's

188short daughter.

189If this were so, so were it uttered.

190Like the old tale, my lord: 'it is not so, nor

191'twas not so, but, indeed, God forbid it should be

192so.'

193If my passion change not shortly, God forbid it

194should be otherwise.

195Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy.

196You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.

197By my troth, I speak my thought.

198And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.

199And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine.

200That I love her, I feel.

201That she is worthy, I know.

202That I neither feel how she should be loved nor

203know how she should be worthy, is the opinion that

204fire cannot melt out of me: I will die in it at the stake.

205Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite

206of beauty.

207And never could maintain his part but in the force

208of his will.

209That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she

210brought me up, I likewise give her most humble

211thanks: but that I will have a recheat winded in my

212forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick,

213all women shall pardon me. Because I will not do

214them the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the

215right to trust none; and the fine is, for the which

216I may go the finer, I will live a bachelor.

217I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love.

218With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord,

219not with love: prove that ever I lose more blood

220with love than I will get again with drinking, pick

221out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen and hang me

222up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of

223blind Cupid.

224Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou

225wilt prove a notable argument.

226If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot

227at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on

228the shoulder, and called Adam.

229Well, as time shall try: 'In time the savage bull

230doth bear the yoke.'

231The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible

232Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set

233them in my forehead: and let me be vilely painted,

234and in such great letters as they write 'Here is

235good horse to hire,' let them signify under my sign

236'Here you may see Benedick the married man.'

237If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad.

238Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in

239Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly.

240I look for an earthquake too, then.

241Well, you temporize with the hours. In the

242meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to

243Leonato's: commend me to him and tell him I will

244not fail him at supper; for indeed he hath made

245great preparation.

246I have almost matter enough in me for such an

247embassage; and so I commit you--

248To the tuition of God: From my house, if I had it,--

249The sixth of July: Your loving friend, Benedick.

250Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your

251discourse is sometime guarded with fragments, and

252the guards are but slightly basted on neither: ere

253you flout old ends any further, examine your

254conscience: and so I leave you.

255My liege, your highness now may do me good.

256My love is thine to teach: teach it but how,

257And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn

258Any hard lesson that may do thee good.

259Hath Leonato any son, my lord?

260No child but Hero; she's his only heir.

261Dost thou affect her, Claudio?

262O, my lord,

263When you went onward on this ended action,

264I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye,

265That liked, but had a rougher task in hand

266Than to drive liking to the name of love:

267But now I am return'd and that war-thoughts

268Have left their places vacant, in their rooms

269Come thronging soft and delicate desires,

270All prompting me how fair young Hero is,

271Saying, I liked her ere I went to wars.

272Thou wilt be like a lover presently

273And tire the hearer with a book of words.

274If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it,

275And I will break with her and with her father,

276And thou shalt have her. Was't not to this end

277That thou began'st to twist so fine a story?

278How sweetly you do minister to love,

279That know love's grief by his complexion!

280But lest my liking might too sudden seem,

281I would have salved it with a longer treatise.

282What need the bridge much broader than the flood?

283The fairest grant is the necessity.

284Look, what will serve is fit: 'tis once, thou lovest,

285And I will fit thee with the remedy.

286I know we shall have revelling to-night:

287I will assume thy part in some disguise

288And tell fair Hero I am Claudio,

289And in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart

290And take her hearing prisoner with the force

291And strong encounter of my amorous tale:

292Then after to her father will I break;

293And the conclusion is, she shall be thine.

294In practise let us put it presently.

1How now, brother! Where is my cousin, your son?

2hath he provided this music?

3He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can tell

4you strange news that you yet dreamt not of.

5Are they good?

6As the event stamps them: but they have a good

7cover; they show well outward. The prince and Count

8Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley in mine

9orchard, were thus much overheard by a man of mine:

10the prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my

11niece your daughter and meant to acknowledge it

12this night in a dance: and if he found her

13accordant, he meant to take the present time by the

14top and instantly break with you of it.

15Hath the fellow any wit that told you this?

16A good sharp fellow: I will send for him; and

17question him yourself.

18No, no; we will hold it as a dream till it appear

19itself: but I will acquaint my daughter withal,

20that she may be the better prepared for an answer,

21if peradventure this be true. Go you and tell her of it.

22Cousins, you know what you have to do. O, I cry you

23mercy, friend; go you with me, and I will use your

24skill. Good cousin, have a care this busy time.

1What the good-year, my lord! why are you thus out

2of measure sad?

3There is no measure in the occasion that breeds;

4therefore the sadness is without limit.

5You should hear reason.

6And when I have heard it, what blessing brings it?

7If not a present remedy, at least a patient

8sufferance.

9I wonder that thou, being, as thou sayest thou art,

10born under Saturn, goest about to apply a moral

11medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide

12what I am: I must be sad when I have cause and smile

13at no man's jests, eat when I have stomach and wait

14for no man's leisure, sleep when I am drowsy and

15tend on no man's business, laugh when I am merry and

16claw no man in his humour.

17Yea, but you must not make the full show of this

18till you may do it without controlment. You have of

19late stood out against your brother, and he hath

20ta'en you newly into his grace; where it is

21impossible you should take true root but by the

22fair weather that you make yourself: it is needful

23that you frame the season for your own harvest.

24I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in

25his grace, and it better fits my blood to be

26disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob

27love from any: in this, though I cannot be said to

28be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied

29but I am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted with

30a muzzle and enfranchised with a clog; therefore I

31have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my

32mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do

33my liking: in the meantime let me be that I am and

34seek not to alter me.

35Can you make no use of your discontent?

36I make all use of it, for I use it only.

37Who comes here?

38What news, Borachio?

39I came yonder from a great supper: the prince your

40brother is royally entertained by Leonato: and I

41can give you intelligence of an intended marriage.

42Will it serve for any model to build mischief on?

43What is he for a fool that betroths himself to

44unquietness?

45Marry, it is your brother's right hand.

46Who? the most exquisite Claudio?

47Even he.

48A proper squire! And who, and who? which way looks

49he?

50Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of Leonato.

51A very forward March-chick! How came you to this?

52Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was smoking a

53musty room, comes me the prince and Claudio, hand

54in hand in sad conference: I whipt me behind the

55arras; and there heard it agreed upon that the

56prince should woo Hero for himself, and having

57obtained her, give her to Count Claudio.

58Come, come, let us thither: this may prove food to

59my displeasure. That young start-up hath all the

60glory of my overthrow: if I can cross him any way, I

61bless myself every way. You are both sure, and will assist me?

62To the death, my lord.

63Let us to the great supper: their cheer is the

64greater that I am subdued. Would the cook were of

65my mind! Shall we go prove what's to be done?

66We'll wait upon your lordship.

1Was not Count John here at supper?

2I saw him not.

3How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see

4him but I am heart-burned an hour after.

5He is of a very melancholy disposition.

6He were an excellent man that were made just in the

7midway between him and Benedick: the one is too

8like an image and says nothing, and the other too

9like my lady's eldest son, evermore tattling.

10Then half Signior Benedick's tongue in Count John's

11mouth, and half Count John's melancholy in Signior

12Benedick's face,--

13With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money

14enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman

15in the world, if a' could get her good-will.

16By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a

17husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.

18In faith, she's too curst.

19Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen God's

20sending that way; for it is said, 'God sends a curst

21cow short horns;' but to a cow too curst he sends none.

22So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns.

23Just, if he send me no husband; for the which

24blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and

25evening. Lord, I could not endure a husband with a

26beard on his face: I had rather lie in the woollen.

27You may light on a husband that hath no beard.

28What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel

29and make him my waiting-gentlewoman? He that hath a

30beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no

31beard is less than a man: and he that is more than

32a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a

33man, I am not for him: therefore, I will even take

34sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and lead his

35apes into hell.

36Well, then, go you into hell?

37No, but to the gate; and there will the devil meet

38me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and

39say 'Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to

40heaven; here's no place for you maids:' so deliver

41I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the

42heavens; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and

43there live we as merry as the day is long.

44[To HERO] Well, niece, I trust you will be ruled

45by your father.

46Yes, faith; it is my cousin's duty to make curtsy

47and say 'Father, as it please you.' But yet for all

48that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else

49make another curtsy and say 'Father, as it please

50me.'

51Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.

52Not till God make men of some other metal than

53earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be

54overmastered with a pierce of valiant dust? to make

55an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl?

56No, uncle, I'll none: Adam's sons are my brethren;

57and, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.

58Daughter, remember what I told you: if the prince

59do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer.

60The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be

61not wooed in good time: if the prince be too

62important, tell him there is measure in every thing

63and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero:

64wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a Scotch jig,

65a measure, and a cinque pace: the first suit is hot

66and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as

67fantastical; the wedding, mannerly-modest, as a

68measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes

69repentance and, with his bad legs, falls into the

70cinque pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave.

71Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.

72I have a good eye, uncle; I can see a church by daylight.

73The revellers are entering, brother: make good room.

74Lady, will you walk about with your friend?

75So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing,

76I am yours for the walk; and especially when I walk away.

77With me in your company?

78I may say so, when I please.

79And when please you to say so?

80When I like your favour; for God defend the lute

81should be like the case!

82My visor is Philemon's roof; within the house is Jove.

83Why, then, your visor should be thatched.

84Speak low, if you speak love.

85Well, I would you did like me.

86So would not I, for your own sake; for I have many

87ill-qualities.

88Which is one?

89I say my prayers aloud.

90I love you the better: the hearers may cry, Amen.

91God match me with a good dancer!

92Amen.

93And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is

94done! Answer, clerk.

95No more words: the clerk is answered.

96I know you well enough; you are Signior Antonio.

97At a word, I am not.

98I know you by the waggling of your head.

99To tell you true, I counterfeit him.

100You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were

101the very man. Here's his dry hand up and down: you

102are he, you are he.

103At a word, I am not.

104Come, come, do you think I do not know you by your

105excellent wit? can virtue hide itself? Go to,

106mum, you are he: graces will appear, and there's an

107end.

108Will you not tell me who told you so?

109No, you shall pardon me.

110Nor will you not tell me who you are?

111Not now.

112That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit

113out of the 'Hundred Merry Tales:'--well this was

114Signior Benedick that said so.

115What's he?

116I am sure you know him well enough.

117Not I, believe me.

118Did he never make you laugh?

119I pray you, what is he?

120Why, he is the prince's jester: a very dull fool;

121only his gift is in devising impossible slanders:

122none but libertines delight in him; and the

123commendation is not in his wit, but in his villany;

124for he both pleases men and angers them, and then

125they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in

126the fleet: I would he had boarded me.

127When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him what you say.

128Do, do: he'll but break a comparison or two on me;

129which, peradventure not marked or not laughed at,

130strikes him into melancholy; and then there's a

131partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no

132supper that night.

133We must follow the leaders.

134In every good thing.

135Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at

136the next turning.

137Sure my brother is amorous on Hero and hath

138withdrawn her father to break with him about it.

139The ladies follow her and but one visor remains.

140And that is Claudio: I know him by his bearing.

141Are not you Signior Benedick?

142You know me well; I am he.

143Signior, you are very near my brother in his love:

144he is enamoured on Hero; I pray you, dissuade him

145from her: she is no equal for his birth: you may

146do the part of an honest man in it.

147How know you he loves her?

148I heard him swear his affection.

149So did I too; and he swore he would marry her to-night.

150Come, let us to the banquet.

151Thus answer I in the name of Benedick,

152But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.

153'Tis certain so; the prince wooes for himself.

154Friendship is constant in all other things

155Save in the office and affairs of love:

156Therefore, all hearts in love use their own tongues;

157Let every eye negotiate for itself

158And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch

159Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.

160This is an accident of hourly proof,

161Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero!

162Count Claudio?

163Yea, the same.

164Come, will you go with me?

165Whither?

166Even to the next willow, about your own business,

167county. What fashion will you wear the garland of?

168about your neck, like an usurer's chain? or under

169your arm, like a lieutenant's scarf? You must wear

170it one way, for the prince hath got your Hero.

171I wish him joy of her.

172Why, that's spoken like an honest drovier: so they

173sell bullocks. But did you think the prince would

174have served you thus?

175I pray you, leave me.

176Ho! now you strike like the blind man: 'twas the

177boy that stole your meat, and you'll beat the post.

178If it will not be, I'll leave you.

179Alas, poor hurt fowl! now will he creep into sedges.

180But that my Lady Beatrice should know me, and not

181know me! The prince's fool! Ha? It may be I go

182under that title because I am merry. Yea, but so I

183am apt to do myself wrong; I am not so reputed: it

184is the base, though bitter, disposition of Beatrice

185that puts the world into her person and so gives me

186out. Well, I'll be revenged as I may.

187Now, signior, where's the count? did you see him?

188Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame.

189I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a

190warren: I told him, and I think I told him true,

191that your grace had got the good will of this young

192lady; and I offered him my company to a willow-tree,

193either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or

194to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped.

195To be whipped! What's his fault?

196The flat transgression of a schoolboy, who, being

197overjoyed with finding a birds' nest, shows it his

198companion, and he steals it.

199Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The

200transgression is in the stealer.

201Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made,

202and the garland too; for the garland he might have

203worn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on

204you, who, as I take it, have stolen his birds' nest.

205I will but teach them to sing, and restore them to

206the owner.

207If their singing answer your saying, by my faith,

208you say honestly.

209The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you: the

210gentleman that danced with her told her she is much

211wronged by you.

212O, she misused me past the endurance of a block!

213an oak but with one green leaf on it would have

214answered her; my very visor began to assume life and

215scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been

216myself, that I was the prince's jester, that I was

217duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest

218with such impossible conveyance upon me that I stood

219like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at

220me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs:

221if her breath were as terrible as her terminations,

222there were no living near her; she would infect to

223the north star. I would not marry her, though she

224were endowed with all that Adam bad left him before

225he transgressed: she would have made Hercules have

226turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make

227the fire too. Come, talk not of her: you shall find

228her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God

229some scholar would conjure her; for certainly, while

230she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a

231sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose, because they

232would go thither; so, indeed, all disquiet, horror

233and perturbation follows her.

234Look, here she comes.

235Will your grace command me any service to the

236world's end? I will go on the slightest errand now

237to the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on;

238I will fetch you a tooth-picker now from the

239furthest inch of Asia, bring you the length of

240Prester John's foot, fetch you a hair off the great

241Cham's beard, do you any embassage to the Pigmies,

242rather than hold three words' conference with this

243harpy. You have no employment for me?

244None, but to desire your good company.

245O God, sir, here's a dish I love not: I cannot

246endure my Lady Tongue.

247Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of

248Signior Benedick.

249Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave

250him use for it, a double heart for his single one:

251marry, once before he won it of me with false dice,

252therefore your grace may well say I have lost it.

253You have put him down, lady, you have put him down.

254So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I

255should prove the mother of fools. I have brought

256Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.

257Why, how now, count! wherefore are you sad?

258Not sad, my lord.

259How then? sick?

260Neither, my lord.

261The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor

262well; but civil count, civil as an orange, and

263something of that jealous complexion.

264I' faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true;

265though, I'll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is

266false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and

267fair Hero is won: I have broke with her father,

268and his good will obtained: name the day of

269marriage, and God give thee joy!

270Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my

271fortunes: his grace hath made the match, and an

272grace say Amen to it.

273Speak, count, 'tis your cue.

274Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were

275but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as

276you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for

277you and dote upon the exchange.

278Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth

279with a kiss, and let not him speak neither.

280In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.

281Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on

282the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his

283ear that he is in her heart.

284And so she doth, cousin.

285Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the

286world but I, and I am sunburnt; I may sit in a

287corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!

288Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.

289I would rather have one of your father's getting.

290Hath your grace ne'er a brother like you? Your

291father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them.

292Will you have me, lady?

293No, my lord, unless I might have another for

294working-days: your grace is too costly to wear

295every day. But, I beseech your grace, pardon me: I

296was born to speak all mirth and no matter.

297Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best

298becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in

299a merry hour.

300No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there

301was a star danced, and under that was I born.

302Cousins, God give you joy!

303Niece, will you look to those things I told you of?

304I cry you mercy, uncle. By your grace's pardon.

305By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.

306There's little of the melancholy element in her, my

307lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps, and

308not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say,

309she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked

310herself with laughing.

311She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.

312O, by no means: she mocks all her wooers out of suit.

313She were an excellent wife for Benedict.

314O Lord, my lord, if they were but a week married,

315they would talk themselves mad.

316County Claudio, when mean you to go to church?

317To-morrow, my lord: time goes on crutches till love

318have all his rites.

319Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just

320seven-night; and a time too brief, too, to have all

321things answer my mind.

322Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing:

323but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go

324dully by us. I will in the interim undertake one of

325Hercules' labours; which is, to bring Signior

326Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of

327affection the one with the other. I would fain have

328it a match, and I doubt not but to fashion it, if

329you three will but minister such assistance as I

330shall give you direction.

331My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten

332nights' watchings.

333And I, my lord.

334And you too, gentle Hero?

335I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my

336cousin to a good husband.

337And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband that

338I know. Thus far can I praise him; he is of a noble

339strain, of approved valour and confirmed honesty. I

340will teach you how to humour your cousin, that she

341shall fall in love with Benedick; and I, with your

342two helps, will so practise on Benedick that, in

343despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he

344shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this,

345Cupid is no longer an archer: hi s glory shall be

346ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me,

347and I will tell you my drift.

1It is so; the Count Claudio shall marry the

2daughter of Leonato.

3Yea, my lord; but I can cross it.

4Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be

5medicinable to me: I am sick in displeasure to him,

6and whatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges

7evenly with mine. How canst thou cross this marriage?

8Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly that no

9dishonesty shall appear in me.

10Show me briefly how.

11I think I told your lordship a year since, how much

12I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting

13gentlewoman to Hero.

14I remember.

15I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night,

16appoint her to look out at her lady's chamber window.

17What life is in that, to be the death of this marriage?

18The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to

19the prince your brother; spare not to tell him that

20he hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned

21Claudio--whose estimation do you mightily hold

22up--to a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero.

23What proof shall I make of that?

24Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex Claudio,

25to undo Hero and kill Leonato. Look you for any

26other issue?

27Only to despite them, I will endeavour any thing.

28Go, then; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro and

29the Count Claudio alone: tell them that you know

30that Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal both to the

31prince and Claudio, as,--in love of your brother's

32honour, who hath made this match, and his friend's

33reputation, who is thus like to be cozened with the

34semblance of a maid,--that you have discovered

35thus. They will scarcely believe this without trial:

36offer them instances; which shall bear no less

37likelihood than to see me at her chamber-window,

38hear me call Margaret Hero, hear Margaret term me

39Claudio; and bring them to see this the very night

40before the intended wedding,--for in the meantime I

41will so fashion the matter that Hero shall be

42absent,--and there shall appear such seeming truth

43of Hero's disloyalty that jealousy shall be called

44assurance and all the preparation overthrown.

45Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put

46it in practise. Be cunning in the working this, and

47thy fee is a thousand ducats.

48Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning

49shall not shame me.

50I will presently go learn their day of marriage.

1Boy!

2Signior?

3In my chamber-window lies a book: bring it hither

4to me in the orchard.

5I am here already, sir.

6I know that; but I would have thee hence, and here again.

7I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much

8another man is a fool when he dedicates his

9behaviors to love, will, after he hath laughed at

10such shallow follies in others, become the argument

11of his own scorn by failing in love: and such a man

12is Claudio. I have known when there was no music

13with him but the drum and the fife; and now had he

14rather hear the tabour and the pipe: I have known

15when he would have walked ten mile a-foot to see a

16good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake,

17carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to

18speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man

19and a soldier; and now is he turned orthography; his

20words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many

21strange dishes. May I be so converted and see with

22these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not

23be sworn, but love may transform me to an oyster; but

24I'll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster

25of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman

26is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am

27well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all

28graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in

29my grace. Rich she shall be, that's certain; wise,

30or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her;

31fair, or I'll never look on her; mild, or come not

32near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good

33discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall

34be of what colour it please God. Ha! the prince and

35Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour.

36Come, shall we hear this music?

37Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is,

38As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony!

39See you where Benedick hath hid himself?

40O, very well, my lord: the music ended,

41We'll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth.

42Come, Balthasar, we'll hear that song again.

43O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice

44To slander music any more than once.

45It is the witness still of excellency

46To put a strange face on his own perfection.

47I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.

48Because you talk of wooing, I will sing;

49Since many a wooer doth commence his suit

50To her he thinks not worthy, yet he wooes,

51Yet will he swear he loves.

52Now, pray thee, come;

53Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument,

54Do it in notes.

55Note this before my notes;

56There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.

57Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks;

58Note, notes, forsooth, and nothing.

59Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it

60not strange that sheeps' guts should hale souls out

61of men's bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when

62all's done.

63Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,

64Men were deceivers ever,

65One foot in sea and one on shore,

66To one thing constant never:

67Then sigh not so, but let them go,

68And be you blithe and bonny,

69Converting all your sounds of woe

70Into Hey nonny, nonny.

71Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,

72Of dumps so dull and heavy;

73The fraud of men was ever so,

74Since summer first was leafy:

75Then sigh not so, & c.

76By my troth, a good song.

77And an ill singer, my lord.

78Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough for a shift.

79An he had been a dog that should have howled thus,

80they would have hanged him: and I pray God his bad

81voice bode no mischief. I had as lief have heard the

82night-raven, come what plague could have come after

83it.

84Yea, marry, dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray thee,

85get us some excellent music; for to-morrow night we

86would have it at the Lady Hero's chamber-window.

87The best I can, my lord.

88Do so: farewell.

89Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of

90to-day, that your niece Beatrice was in love with

91Signior Benedick?

92O, ay: stalk on. stalk on; the fowl sits. I did

93never think that lady would have loved any man.

94No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she

95should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in

96all outward behaviors seemed ever to abhor.

97Is't possible? Sits the wind in that corner?

98By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think

99of it but that she loves him with an enraged

100affection: it is past the infinite of thought.

101May be she doth but counterfeit.

102Faith, like enough.

103O God, counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of

104passion came so near the life of passion as she

105discovers it.

106Why, what effects of passion shows she?

107Bait the hook well; this fish will bite.

108What effects, my lord? She will sit you, you heard

109my daughter tell you how.

110She did, indeed.

111How, how, pray you? You amaze me: I would have I

112thought her spirit had been invincible against all

113assaults of affection.

114I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially

115against Benedick.

116I should think this a gull, but that the

117white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot,

118sure, hide himself in such reverence.

119He hath ta'en the infection: hold it up.

120Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?

121No; and swears she never will: that's her torment.

122'Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says: 'Shall

123I,' says she, 'that have so oft encountered him

124with scorn, write to him that I love him?'

125This says she now when she is beginning to write to

126him; for she'll be up twenty times a night, and

127there will she sit in her smock till she have writ a

128sheet of paper: my daughter tells us all.

129Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a

130pretty jest your daughter told us of.

131O, when she had writ it and was reading it over, she

132found Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet?

133That.

134O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence;

135railed at herself, that she should be so immodest

136to write to one that she knew would flout her; 'I

137measure him,' says she, 'by my own spirit; for I

138should flout him, if he writ to me; yea, though I

139love him, I should.'

140Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs,

141beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses; 'O

142sweet Benedick! God give me patience!'

143She doth indeed; my daughter says so: and the

144ecstasy hath so much overborne her that my daughter

145is sometime afeared she will do a desperate outrage

146to herself: it is very true.

147It were good that Benedick knew of it by some

148other, if she will not discover it.

149To what end? He would make but a sport of it and

150torment the poor lady worse.

151An he should, it were an alms to hang him. She's an

152excellent sweet lady; and, out of all suspicion,

153she is virtuous.

154And she is exceeding wise.

155In every thing but in loving Benedick.

156O, my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender

157a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath

158the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just

159cause, being her uncle and her guardian.

160I would she had bestowed this dotage on me: I would

161have daffed all other respects and made her half

162myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear

163what a' will say.

164Were it good, think you?

165Hero thinks surely she will die; for she says she

166will die, if he love her not, and she will die, ere

167she make her love known, and she will die, if he woo

168her, rather than she will bate one breath of her

169accustomed crossness.

170She doth well: if she should make tender of her

171love, 'tis very possible he'll scorn it; for the

172man, as you know all, hath a contemptible spirit.

173He is a very proper man.

174He hath indeed a good outward happiness.

175Before God! and, in my mind, very wise.

176He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit.

177And I take him to be valiant.

178As Hector, I assure you: and in the managing of

179quarrels you may say he is wise; for either he

180avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes

181them with a most Christian-like fear.

182If he do fear God, a' must necessarily keep peace:

183if he break the peace, he ought to enter into a

184quarrel with fear and trembling.

185And so will he do; for the man doth fear God,

186howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests

187he will make. Well I am sorry for your niece. Shall

188we go seek Benedick, and tell him of her love?

189Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it out with

190good counsel.

191Nay, that's impossible: she may wear her heart out first.

192Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter:

193let it cool the while. I love Benedick well; and I

194could wish he would modestly examine himself, to see

195how much he is unworthy so good a lady.

196My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready.

197If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never

198trust my expectation.

199Let there be the same net spread for her; and that

200must your daughter and her gentlewomen carry. The

201sport will be, when they hold one an opinion of

202another's dotage, and no such matter: that's the

203scene that I would see, which will be merely a

204dumb-show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner.

205[Coming forward] This can be no trick: the

206conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of

207this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady: it

208seems her affections have their full bent. Love me!

209why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured:

210they say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive

211the love come from her; they say too that she will

212rather die than give any sign of affection. I did

213never think to marry: I must not seem proud: happy

214are they that hear their detractions and can put

215them to mending. They say the lady is fair; 'tis a

216truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous; 'tis

217so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving

218me; by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor

219no great argument of her folly, for I will be

220horribly in love with her. I may chance have some

221odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me,

222because I have railed so long against marriage: but

223doth not the appetite alter? a man loves the meat

224in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.

225Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of

226the brain awe a man from the career of his humour?

227No, the world must be peopled. When I said I would

228die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I

229were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day!

230she's a fair lady: I do spy some marks of love in

231her.

232Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.

233Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.

234I took no more pains for those thanks than you take

235pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would

236not have come.

237You take pleasure then in the message?

238Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's

239point and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach,

240signior: fare you well.

241Ha! 'Against my will I am sent to bid you come in

242to dinner;' there's a double meaning in that 'I took

243no more pains for those thanks than you took pains

244to thank me.' that's as much as to say, Any pains

245that I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do

246not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not

247love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture.

1Good Margaret, run thee to the parlor;

2There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice

3Proposing with the prince and Claudio:

4Whisper her ear and tell her, I and Ursula

5Walk in the orchard and our whole discourse

6Is all of her; say that thou overheard'st us;

7And bid her steal into the pleached bower,

8Where honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun,

9Forbid the sun to enter, like favourites,

10Made proud by princes, that advance their pride

11Against that power that bred it: there will she hide her,

12To listen our purpose. This is thy office;

13Bear thee well in it and leave us alone.

14I'll make her come, I warrant you, presently.

15Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come,

16As we do trace this alley up and down,

17Our talk must only be of Benedick.

18When I do name him, let it be thy part

19To praise him more than ever man did merit:

20My talk to thee must be how Benedick

21Is sick in love with Beatrice. Of this matter

22Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made,

23That only wounds by hearsay.

24Now begin;

25For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs

26Close by the ground, to hear our conference.

27The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish

28Cut with her golden oars the silver stream,

29And greedily devour the treacherous bait:

30So angle we for Beatrice; who even now

31Is couched in the woodbine coverture.

32Fear you not my part of the dialogue.

33Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing

34Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.

35No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful;

36I know her spirits are as coy and wild

37As haggerds of the rock.

38But are you sure

39That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?

40So says the prince and my new-trothed lord.

41And did they bid you tell her of it, madam?

42They did entreat me to acquaint her of it;

43But I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick,

44To wish him wrestle with affection,

45And never to let Beatrice know of it.

46Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman

47Deserve as full as fortunate a bed

48As ever Beatrice shall couch upon?

49O god of love! I know he doth deserve

50As much as may be yielded to a man:

51But Nature never framed a woman's heart

52Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice;

53Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,

54Misprising what they look on, and her wit

55Values itself so highly that to her

56All matter else seems weak: she cannot love,

57Nor take no shape nor project of affection,

58She is so self-endeared.

59Sure, I think so;

60And therefore certainly it were not good

61She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.

62Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man,

63How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured,

64But she would spell him backward: if fair-faced,

65She would swear the gentleman should be her sister;

66If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antique,

67Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed;

68If low, an agate very vilely cut;

69If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;

70If silent, why, a block moved with none.

71So turns she every man the wrong side out

72And never gives to truth and virtue that

73Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.

74Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.

75No, not to be so odd and from all fashions

76As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable:

77But who dare tell her so? If I should speak,

78She would mock me into air; O, she would laugh me

79Out of myself, press me to death with wit.

80Therefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire,

81Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly:

82It were a better death than die with mocks,

83Which is as bad as die with tickling.

84Yet tell her of it: hear what she will say.

85No; rather I will go to Benedick

86And counsel him to fight against his passion.

87And, truly, I'll devise some honest slanders

88To stain my cousin with: one doth not know

89How much an ill word may empoison liking.

90O, do not do your cousin such a wrong.

91She cannot be so much without true judgment--

92Having so swift and excellent a wit

93As she is prized to have--as to refuse

94So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.

95He is the only man of Italy.

96Always excepted my dear Claudio.

97I pray you, be not angry with me, madam,

98Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick,

99For shape, for bearing, argument and valour,

100Goes foremost in report through Italy.

101Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.

102His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.

103When are you married, madam?

104Why, every day, to-morrow. Come, go in:

105I'll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel

106Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.

107She's limed, I warrant you: we have caught her, madam.

108If it proves so, then loving goes by haps:

109Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

110[Coming forward]

111What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?

112Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much?

113Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!

114No glory lives behind the back of such.

115And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee,

116Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand:

117If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee

118To bind our loves up in a holy band;

119For others say thou dost deserve, and I

120Believe it better than reportingly.

1I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and

2then go I toward Arragon.

3I'll bring you thither, my lord, if you'll

4vouchsafe me.

5Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new gloss

6of your marriage as to show a child his new coat

7and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold

8with Benedick for his company; for, from the crown

9of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all

10mirth: he hath twice or thrice cut Cupid's

11bow-string and the little hangman dare not shoot at

12him; he hath a heart as sound as a bell and his

13tongue is the clapper, for what his heart thinks his

14tongue speaks.

15Gallants, I am not as I have been.

16So say I methinks you are sadder.

17I hope he be in love.

18Hang him, truant! there's no true drop of blood in

19him, to be truly touched with love: if he be sad,

20he wants money.

21I have the toothache.

22Draw it.

23Hang it!

24You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards.

25What! sigh for the toothache?

26Where is but a humour or a worm.

27Well, every one can master a grief but he that has

28it.

29Yet say I, he is in love.

30There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be

31a fancy that he hath to strange disguises; as, to be

32a Dutchman today, a Frenchman to-morrow, or in the

33shape of two countries at once, as, a German from

34the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from

35the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a fancy

36to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no

37fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is.

38If he be not in love with some woman, there is no

39believing old signs: a' brushes his hat o'

40mornings; what should that bode?

41Hath any man seen him at the barber's?

42No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him,

43and the old ornament of his cheek hath already

44stuffed tennis-balls.

45Indeed, he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard.

46Nay, a' rubs himself with civet: can you smell him

47out by that?

48That's as much as to say, the sweet youth's in love.

49The greatest note of it is his melancholy.

50And when was he wont to wash his face?

51Yea, or to paint himself? for the which, I hear

52what they say of him.

53Nay, but his jesting spirit; which is now crept into

54a lute-string and now governed by stops.

55Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him: conclude,

56conclude he is in love.

57Nay, but I know who loves him.

58That would I know too: I warrant, one that knows him not.

59Yes, and his ill conditions; and, in despite of

60all, dies for him.

61She shall be buried with her face upwards.

62Yet is this no charm for the toothache. Old

63signior, walk aside with me: I have studied eight

64or nine wise words to speak to you, which these

65hobby-horses must not hear.

66For my life, to break with him about Beatrice.

67'Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this

68played their parts with Beatrice; and then the two

69bears will not bite one another when they meet.

70My lord and brother, God save you!

71Good den, brother.

72If your leisure served, I would speak with you.

73In private?

74If it please you: yet Count Claudio may hear; for

75what I would speak of concerns him.

76What's the matter?

77[To CLAUDIO] Means your lordship to be married

78to-morrow?

79You know he does.

80I know not that, when he knows what I know.

81If there be any impediment, I pray you discover it.

82You may think I love you not: let that appear

83hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now will

84manifest. For my brother, I think he holds you

85well, and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect

86your ensuing marriage;--surely suit ill spent and

87labour ill bestowed.

88Why, what's the matter?

89I came hither to tell you; and, circumstances

90shortened, for she has been too long a talking of,

91the lady is disloyal.

92Who, Hero?

93Even she; Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every man's Hero:

94Disloyal?

95The word is too good to paint out her wickedness; I

96could say she were worse: think you of a worse

97title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not till

98further warrant: go but with me to-night, you shall

99see her chamber-window entered, even the night

100before her wedding-day: if you love her then,

101to-morrow wed her; but it would better fit your honour

102to change your mind.

103May this be so?

104I will not think it.

105If you dare not trust that you see, confess not

106that you know: if you will follow me, I will show

107you enough; and when you have seen more and heard

108more, proceed accordingly.

109If I see any thing to-night why I should not marry

110her to-morrow in the congregation, where I should

111wed, there will I shame her.

112And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join

113with thee to disgrace her.

114I will disparage her no farther till you are my

115witnesses: bear it coldly but till midnight, and

116let the issue show itself.

117O day untowardly turned!

118O mischief strangely thwarting!

119O plague right well prevented! so will you say when

120you have seen the sequel.

1Are you good men and true?

2Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer

3salvation, body and soul.

4Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if

5they should have any allegiance in them, being

6chosen for the prince's watch.

7Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry.

8First, who think you the most desertless man to be

9constable?

10Hugh Otecake, sir, or George Seacole; for they can

11write and read.

12Come hither, neighbour Seacole. God hath blessed

13you with a good name: to be a well-favoured man is

14the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.

15Both which, master constable,--

16You have: I knew it would be your answer. Well,

17for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks, and make

18no boast of it; and for your writing and reading,

19let that appear when there is no need of such

20vanity. You are thought here to be the most

21senseless and fit man for the constable of the

22watch; therefore bear you the lantern. This is your

23charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are

24to bid any man stand, in the prince's name.

25How if a' will not stand?

26Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and

27presently call the rest of the watch together and

28thank God you are rid of a knave.

29If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none

30of the prince's subjects.

31True, and they are to meddle with none but the

32prince's subjects. You shall also make no noise in

33the streets; for, for the watch to babble and to

34talk is most tolerable and not to be endured.

35We will rather sleep than talk: we know what

36belongs to a watch.

37Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet

38watchman; for I cannot see how sleeping should

39offend: only, have a care that your bills be not

40stolen. Well, you are to call at all the

41ale-houses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed.

42How if they will not?

43Why, then, let them alone till they are sober: if

44they make you not then the better answer, you may

45say they are not the men you took them for.

46Well, sir.

47If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue

48of your office, to be no true man; and, for such

49kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them,

50why the more is for your honesty.

51If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay

52hands on him?

53Truly, by your office, you may; but I think they

54that touch pitch will be defiled: the most peaceable

55way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him

56show himself what he is and steal out of your company.

57You have been always called a merciful man, partner.

58Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more

59a man who hath any honesty in him.

60If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call

61to the nurse and bid her still it.

62How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us?

63Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child wake

64her with crying; for the ewe that will not hear her

65lamb when it baes will never answer a calf when he bleats.

66'Tis very true.

67This is the end of the charge:--you, constable, are

68to present the prince's own person: if you meet the

69prince in the night, you may stay him.

70Nay, by'r our lady, that I think a' cannot.

71Five shillings to one on't, with any man that knows

72the statutes, he may stay him: marry, not without

73the prince be willing; for, indeed, the watch ought

74to offend no man; and it is an offence to stay a

75man against his will.

76By'r lady, I think it be so.

77Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be

78any matter of weight chances, call up me: keep your

79fellows' counsels and your own; and good night.

80Come, neighbour.

81Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here

82upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed.

83One word more, honest neighbours. I pray you watch

84about Signior Leonato's door; for the wedding being

85there to-morrow, there is a great coil to-night.

86Adieu: be vigitant, I beseech you.

87What Conrade!

88[Aside] Peace! stir not.

89Conrade, I say!

90Here, man; I am at thy elbow.

91Mass, and my elbow itched; I thought there would a

92scab follow.

93I will owe thee an answer for that: and now forward

94with thy tale.

95Stand thee close, then, under this pent-house, for

96it drizzles rain; and I will, like a true drunkard,

97utter all to thee.

98[Aside] Some treason, masters: yet stand close.

99Therefore know I have earned of Don John a thousand ducats.

100Is it possible that any villany should be so dear?

101Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any

102villany should be so rich; for when rich villains

103have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what

104price they will.

105I wonder at it.

106That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou knowest that

107the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is

108nothing to a man.

109Yes, it is apparel.

110I mean, the fashion.

111Yes, the fashion is the fashion.

112Tush! I may as well say the fool's the fool. But

113seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion

114is?

115[Aside] I know that Deformed; a' has been a vile

116thief this seven year; a' goes up and down like a

117gentleman: I remember his name.

118Didst thou not hear somebody?

119No; 'twas the vane on the house.

120Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this

121fashion is? how giddily a' turns about all the hot

122bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty?

123sometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh's soldiers

124in the reeky painting, sometime like god Bel's

125priests in the old church-window, sometime like the

126shaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry,

127where his codpiece seems as massy as his club?

128All this I see; and I see that the fashion wears

129out more apparel than the man. But art not thou

130thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast

131shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion?

132Not so, neither: but know that I have to-night

133wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero's gentlewoman, by the

134name of Hero: she leans me out at her mistress'

135chamber-window, bids me a thousand times good

136night,--I tell this tale vilely:--I should first

137tell thee how the prince, Claudio and my master,

138planted and placed and possessed by my master Don

139John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable encounter.

140And thought they Margaret was Hero?

141Two of them did, the prince and Claudio; but the

142devil my master knew she was Margaret; and partly

143by his oaths, which first possessed them, partly by

144the dark night, which did deceive them, but chiefly

145by my villany, which did confirm any slander that

146Don John had made, away went Claudio enraged; swore

147he would meet her, as he was appointed, next morning

148at the temple, and there, before the whole

149congregation, shame her with what he saw o'er night

150and send her home again without a husband.

151We charge you, in the prince's name, stand!

152Call up the right master constable. We have here

153recovered the most dangerous piece of lechery that

154ever was known in the commonwealth.

155And one Deformed is one of them: I know him; a'

156wears a lock.

157Masters, masters,--

158You'll be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you.

159Masters,--

160Never speak: we charge you let us obey you to go with us.

161We are like to prove a goodly commodity, being taken

162up of these men's bills.

163A commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, we'll obey you.

1Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire

2her to rise.

3I will, lady.

4And bid her come hither.

5Well.

6Troth, I think your other rabato were better.

7No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this.

8By my troth, 's not so good; and I warrant your

9cousin will say so.

10My cousin's a fool, and thou art another: I'll wear

11none but this.

12I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair

13were a thought browner; and your gown's a most rare

14fashion, i' faith. I saw the Duchess of Milan's

15gown that they praise so.

16O, that exceeds, they say.

17By my troth, 's but a night-gown in respect of

18yours: cloth o' gold, and cuts, and laced with

19silver, set with pearls, down sleeves, side sleeves,

20and skirts, round underborne with a bluish tinsel:

21but for a fine, quaint, graceful and excellent

22fashion, yours is worth ten on 't.

23God give me joy to wear it! for my heart is

24exceeding heavy.

25'Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man.

26Fie upon thee! art not ashamed?

27Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is not

28marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord

29honourable without marriage? I think you would have

30me say, 'saving your reverence, a husband:' and bad

31thinking do not wrest true speaking, I'll offend

32nobody: is there any harm in 'the heavier for a

33husband'? None, I think, and it be the right husband

34and the right wife; otherwise 'tis light, and not

35heavy: ask my Lady Beatrice else; here she comes.

36Good morrow, coz.

37Good morrow, sweet Hero.

38Why how now? do you speak in the sick tune?

39I am out of all other tune, methinks.

40Clap's into 'Light o' love;' that goes without a

41burden: do you sing it, and I'll dance it.

42Ye light o' love, with your heels! then, if your

43husband have stables enough, you'll see he shall

44lack no barns.

45O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.

46'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; tis time you were

47ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill: heigh-ho!

48For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?

49For the letter that begins them all, H.

50Well, and you be not turned Turk, there's no more

51sailing by the star.

52What means the fool, trow?

53Nothing I; but God send every one their heart's desire!

54These gloves the count sent me; they are an

55excellent perfume.

56I am stuffed, cousin; I cannot smell.

57A maid, and stuffed! there's goodly catching of cold.

58O, God help me! God help me! how long have you

59professed apprehension?

60Even since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely?

61It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your

62cap. By my troth, I am sick.

63Get you some of this distilled Carduus Benedictus,

64and lay it to your heart: it is the only thing for a qualm.

65There thou prickest her with a thistle.

66Benedictus! why Benedictus? you have some moral in

67this Benedictus.

68Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I

69meant, plain holy-thistle. You may think perchance

70that I think you are in love: nay, by'r lady, I am

71not such a fool to think what I list, nor I list

72not to think what I can, nor indeed I cannot think,

73if I would think my heart out of thinking, that you

74are in love or that you will be in love or that you

75can be in love. Yet Benedick was such another, and

76now is he become a man: he swore he would never

77marry, and yet now, in despite of his heart, he eats

78his meat without grudging: and how you may be

79converted I know not, but methinks you look with

80your eyes as other women do.

81What pace is this that thy tongue keeps?

82Not a false gallop.

83Madam, withdraw: the prince, the count, Signior

84Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the

85town, are come to fetch you to church.

86Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula.

1What would you with me, honest neighbour?

2Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you

3that decerns you nearly.

4Brief, I pray you; for you see it is a busy time with me.

5Marry, this it is, sir.

6Yes, in truth it is, sir.

7What is it, my good friends?

8Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the

9matter: an old man, sir, and his wits are not so

10blunt as, God help, I would desire they were; but,

11in faith, honest as the skin between his brows.

12Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man living

13that is an old man and no honester than I.

14Comparisons are odorous: palabras, neighbour Verges.

15Neighbours, you are tedious.

16It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the

17poor duke's officers; but truly, for mine own part,

18if I were as tedious as a king, I could find it in

19my heart to bestow it all of your worship.

20All thy tediousness on me, ah?

21Yea, an 'twere a thousand pound more than 'tis; for

22I hear as good exclamation on your worship as of any

23man in the city; and though I be but a poor man, I

24am glad to hear it.

25And so am I.

26I would fain know what you have to say.

27Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your

28worship's presence, ha' ta'en a couple of as arrant

29knaves as any in Messina.

30A good old man, sir; he will be talking: as they

31say, when the age is in, the wit is out: God help

32us! it is a world to see. Well said, i' faith,

33neighbour Verges: well, God's a good man; an two men

34ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An honest

35soul, i' faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever

36broke bread; but God is to be worshipped; all men

37are not alike; alas, good neighbour!

38Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you.

39Gifts that God gives.

40I must leave you.

41One word, sir: our watch, sir, have indeed

42comprehended two aspicious persons, and we would

43have them this morning examined before your worship.

44Take their examination yourself and bring it me: I

45am now in great haste, as it may appear unto you.

46It shall be suffigance.

47Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well.

48My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to

49her husband.

50I'll wait upon them: I am ready.

51Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis Seacole;

52bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol: we

53are now to examination these men.

54And we must do it wisely.

55We will spare for no wit, I warrant you; here's

56that shall drive some of them to a non-come: only

57get the learned writer to set down our

58excommunication and meet me at the gaol.

1Come, Friar Francis, be brief; only to the plain

2form of marriage, and you shall recount their

3particular duties afterwards.

4You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady.

5No.

6To be married to her: friar, you come to marry her.

7Lady, you come hither to be married to this count.

8I do.

9If either of you know any inward impediment why you

10should not be conjoined, charge you, on your souls,

11to utter it.

12Know you any, Hero?

13None, my lord.

14Know you any, count?

15I dare make his answer, none.

16O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily

17do, not knowing what they do!

18How now! interjections? Why, then, some be of

19laughing, as, ah, ha, he!

20Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your leave:

21Will you with free and unconstrained soul

22Give me this maid, your daughter?

23As freely, son, as God did give her me.

24And what have I to give you back, whose worth

25May counterpoise this rich and precious gift?

26Nothing, unless you render her again.

27Sweet prince, you learn me noble thankfulness.

28There, Leonato, take her back again:

29Give not this rotten orange to your friend;

30She's but the sign and semblance of her honour.

31Behold how like a maid she blushes here!

32O, what authority and show of truth

33Can cunning sin cover itself withal!

34Comes not that blood as modest evidence

35To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear,

36All you that see her, that she were a maid,

37By these exterior shows? But she is none:

38She knows the heat of a luxurious bed;

39Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.

40What do you mean, my lord?

41Not to be married,

42Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton.

43Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof,

44Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth,

45And made defeat of her virginity,--

46I know what you would say: if I have known her,

47You will say she did embrace me as a husband,

48And so extenuate the 'forehand sin:

49No, Leonato,

50I never tempted her with word too large;

51But, as a brother to his sister, show'd

52Bashful sincerity and comely love.

53And seem'd I ever otherwise to you?

54Out on thee! Seeming! I will write against it:

55You seem to me as Dian in her orb,

56As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;

57But you are more intemperate in your blood

58Than Venus, or those pamper'd animals

59That rage in savage sensuality.

60Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?

61Sweet prince, why speak not you?

62What should I speak?

63I stand dishonour'd, that have gone about

64To link my dear friend to a common stale.

65Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?

66Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.

67This looks not like a nuptial.

68True! O God!

69Leonato, stand I here?

70Is this the prince? is this the prince's brother?

71Is this face Hero's? are our eyes our own?

72All this is so: but what of this, my lord?

73Let me but move one question to your daughter;

74And, by that fatherly and kindly power

75That you have in her, bid her answer truly.

76I charge thee do so, as thou art my child.

77O, God defend me! how am I beset!

78What kind of catechising call you this?

79To make you answer truly to your name.

80Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name

81With any just reproach?

82Marry, that can Hero;

83Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue.

84What man was he talk'd with you yesternight

85Out at your window betwixt twelve and one?

86Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.

87I talk'd with no man at that hour, my lord.

88Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato,

89I am sorry you must hear: upon mine honour,

90Myself, my brother and this grieved count

91Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night

92Talk with a ruffian at her chamber-window

93Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain,

94Confess'd the vile encounters they have had

95A thousand times in secret.

96Fie, fie! they are not to be named, my lord,

97Not to be spoke of;

98There is not chastity enough in language

99Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady,

100I am sorry for thy much misgovernment.

101O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been,

102If half thy outward graces had been placed

103About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart!

104But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell,

105Thou pure impiety and impious purity!

106For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love,

107And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang,

108To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,

109And never shall it more be gracious.

110Hath no man's dagger here a point for me?

111Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you down?

112Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light,

113Smother her spirits up.

114How doth the lady?

115Dead, I think. Help, uncle!

116Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar!

117O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand.

118Death is the fairest cover for her shame

119That may be wish'd for.

120How now, cousin Hero!

121Have comfort, lady.

122Dost thou look up?

123Yea, wherefore should she not?

124Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly thing

125Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny

126The story that is printed in her blood?

127Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes:

128For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,

129Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,

130Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches,

131Strike at thy life. Grieved I, I had but one?

132Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame?

133O, one too much by thee! Why had I one?

134Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?

135Why had I not with charitable hand

136Took up a beggar's issue at my gates,

137Who smirch'd thus and mired with infamy,

138I might have said 'No part of it is mine;

139This shame derives itself from unknown loins'?

140But mine and mine I loved and mine I praised

141And mine that I was proud on, mine so much

142That I myself was to myself not mine,

143Valuing of her,--why, she, O, she is fallen

144Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea

145Hath drops too few to wash her clean again

146And salt too little which may season give

147To her foul-tainted flesh!

148Sir, sir, be patient.

149For my part, I am so attired in wonder,

150I know not what to say.

151O, on my soul, my cousin is belied!

152Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?

153No, truly not; although, until last night,

154I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.

155Confirm'd, confirm'd! O, that is stronger made

156Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron!

157Would the two princes lie, and Claudio lie,

158Who loved her so, that, speaking of her foulness,

159Wash'd it with tears? Hence from her! let her die.

160Hear me a little;

161For I have only been silent so long

162And given way unto this course of fortune.

163...

164By noting of the lady I have mark'd

165A thousand blushing apparitions

166To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames

167In angel whiteness beat away those blushes;

168And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire,

169To burn the errors that these princes hold

170Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool;

171Trust not my reading nor my observations,

172Which with experimental seal doth warrant

173The tenor of my book; trust not my age,

174My reverence, calling, nor divinity,

175If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here

176Under some biting error.

177Friar, it cannot be.

178Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left

179Is that she will not add to her damnation

180A sin of perjury; she not denies it:

181Why seek'st thou then to cover with excuse

182That which appears in proper nakedness?

183Lady, what man is he you are accused of?

184They know that do accuse me; I know none:

185If I know more of any man alive

186Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant,

187Let all my sins lack mercy! O my father,

188Prove you that any man with me conversed

189At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight

190Maintain'd the change of words with any creature,

191Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death!

192There is some strange misprision in the princes.

193Two of them have the very bent of honour;

194And if their wisdoms be misled in this,

195The practise of it lives in John the bastard,

196Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies.

197I know not. If they speak but truth of her,

198These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour,

199The proudest of them shall well hear of it.

200Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,

201Nor age so eat up my invention,

202Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,

203Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,

204But they shall find, awaked in such a kind,

205Both strength of limb and policy of mind,

206Ability in means and choice of friends,

207To quit me of them throughly.

208Pause awhile,

209And let my counsel sway you in this case.

210Your daughter here the princes left for dead:

211Let her awhile be secretly kept in,

212And publish it that she is dead indeed;

213Maintain a mourning ostentation

214And on your family's old monument

215Hang mournful epitaphs and do all rites

216That appertain unto a burial.

217What shall become of this? what will this do?

218Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf

219Change slander to remorse; that is some good:

220But not for that dream I on this strange course,

221But on this travail look for greater birth.

222She dying, as it must so be maintain'd,

223Upon the instant that she was accused,

224Shall be lamented, pitied and excused

225Of every hearer: for it so falls out

226That what we have we prize not to the worth

227Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost,

228Why, then we rack the value, then we find

229The virtue that possession would not show us

230Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio:

231When he shall hear she died upon his words,

232The idea of her life shall sweetly creep

233Into his study of imagination,

234And every lovely organ of her life

235Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit,

236More moving-delicate and full of life,

237Into the eye and prospect of his soul,

238Than when she lived indeed; then shall he mourn,

239If ever love had interest in his liver,

240And wish he had not so accused her,

241No, though he thought his accusation true.

242Let this be so, and doubt not but success

243Will fashion the event in better shape

244Than I can lay it down in likelihood.

245But if all aim but this be levell'd false,

246The supposition of the lady's death

247Will quench the wonder of her infamy:

248And if it sort not well, you may conceal her,

249As best befits her wounded reputation,

250In some reclusive and religious life,

251Out of all eyes, tongues, minds and injuries.

252Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you:

253And though you know my inwardness and love

254Is very much unto the prince and Claudio,

255Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this

256As secretly and justly as your soul

257Should with your body.

258Being that I flow in grief,

259The smallest twine may lead me.

260'Tis well consented: presently away;

261For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.

262Come, lady, die to live: this wedding-day

263Perhaps is but prolong'd: have patience and endure.

264Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?

265Yea, and I will weep a while longer.

266I will not desire that.

267You have no reason; I do it freely.

268Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.

269Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her!

270Is there any way to show such friendship?

271A very even way, but no such friend.

272May a man do it?

273It is a man's office, but not yours.

274I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is

275not that strange?

276As strange as the thing I know not. It were as

277possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as

278you: but believe me not; and yet I lie not; I

279confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin.

280By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.

281Do not swear, and eat it.

282I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make

283him eat it that says I love not you.

284Will you not eat your word?

285With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest

286I love thee.

287Why, then, God forgive me!

288What offence, sweet Beatrice?

289You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to

290protest I loved you.

291And do it with all thy heart.

292I love you with so much of my heart that none is

293left to protest.

294Come, bid me do any thing for thee.

295Kill Claudio.

296Ha! not for the wide world.

297You kill me to deny it. Farewell.

298Tarry, sweet Beatrice.

299I am gone, though I am here: there is no love in

300you: nay, I pray you, let me go.

301Beatrice,--

302In faith, I will go.

303We'll be friends first.

304You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy.

305Is Claudio thine enemy?