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ACT I
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2
3
ACT II
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2
3
ACT III
1
2
3
4
5
ACT IV
1
2
ACT V
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2
3
4
stage directions:
legend:
Entrance
exit
business
location
delivery
dumb show
Enter Leonato, Governor of Messina, Hero his daughter,and Beatrice his niece, with a Messenger.
, with a letter
Enter Don Pedro, Prince of Aragon, with Claudio,Benedick, Balthasar, and John the Bastard.
Turningto Hero.
Leonato and the Prince move aside.
Leonato and the Prince come forward.
To Don John.
All exit except Benedick and Claudio.
Enter Don Pedro, Prince of Aragon.
He exits.
They exit.
Enter Leonato, meeting an old man, brother toLeonato.
Enter Antonio’s son, with a Musician and Attendants.
They exit.
Enter Sir John the Bastard, and Conrade, hiscompanion.
Enter Borachio.
They exit.
Enter Leonato, his brother, Hero his daughter, andBeatrice his niece, with Ursula and Margaret.
, to Hero
, to Hero
Leonato and his brother step aside.
Enter, with a Drum, Prince Pedro, Claudio, andBenedick, Signior Antonio, and Balthasar, all inmasks, with Borachio and Don John.
, to Hero
They begin to dance.
They move aside;
Benedick and Margaret move forward.
, to Margaret
They separate; Benedick moves aside;
Balthasar moves forward.
They move aside;
Ursula and Antonio move forward.
They move aside;
Benedick and Beatrice move forward.
Music for the dance.
Dance.
Then exit all exceptDon John, Borachio, and Claudio.
, to Borachio
, to Claudio
They exit. Claudio remains.
, unmasking
Enter Benedick.
He exits.
Enter the Prince, Hero, and Leonato.
Enter Claudio and Beatrice.
He exits.
, to Beatrice
Beatrice exits.
, to Claudio
They exit.
Enter Don John and Borachio.
They exit.
Enter Benedick alone.
Enter Boy.
Boy exits.
He hides.
Enter Prince, Leonato, Claudio, and Balthasarwith music.
, aside to Claudio
, aside to Prince
Music plays.
, aside
sings
, aside
Balthasar exits.
Aside to Prince.
, aside
, aside to Leonato
, aside
, aside to Prince
Leonato, Prince, and Claudio begin to exit.
, aside to Prince and Leonato
, aside to Leonato
Prince, Leonato, and Claudio exit.
, coming forward
Enter Beatrice.
She exits.
He exits.
Enter Hero and two gentlewomen, Margaret and Ursula.
She exits.
Enter Beatrice, who hides in the bower.
, aside to Hero
, aside to Ursula
They walk near the bower.
They move away from the bower.
, aside to Hero
, aside to Ursula
Hero and Ursula exit.
, coming forward
She exits.
Enter Prince, Claudio, Benedick, and Leonato.
Benedick and Leonato exit.
Enter John the Bastard.
, to Claudio
, to Prince
They exit.
Enter Dogberry and his compartner Vergeswith the Watch.
Seacoalsteps forward.
, to the Watch
Dogberry and Verges begin to exit.
Dogberry and Verges exit.
Enter Borachio and Conrade.
, aside
, aside
, aside
SecondWatchman exits.
Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Second Watchman.
, to Borachio
, to Borachio and Conrade
, to Conrade
They exit.
Enter Hero, and Margaret, and Ursula.
Ursula exits.
Enter Beatrice.
Enter Ursula.
They exit.
Enter Leonato, and Dogberry, the Constable, andVerges, the Headborough.
Enter a Messenger.
He exits, with the Messenger.
They exit.
Enter Prince, John the Bastard, Leonato, Friar,Claudio, Benedick, Hero, and Beatrice, withAttendants.
, to Claudio
Hero falls.
Claudio, Prince, and Don John exit.
Hero stirs.
, to Hero
, to Hero
All but Beatrice and Benedick exit.
She begins to exit.
They exit.
Enter the Constables Dogberry and Verges, and theTown Clerk, or Sexton, in gowns, with the Watch,Conrade, and Borachio.
A stool is brought in; the Sexton sits.
Conrade and Borachio are brought forward.
, to Watch
, to Borachio
He exits.
They exit.
Enter Leonato and his brother.
Enter Prince and Claudio.
Leonato and his brother exit.
Enter Benedick.
, to Prince
, to Benedick
, to Prince
, aside to Claudio
Benedick exits.
Enter Constables Dogberry and Verges, and the Watch,with Conrade and Borachio.
, to Borachio and Conrade
, to Claudio
, to Borachio
Enter Leonato, his brother, and the Sexton.
, to Leonato
, giving him money
Dogberry and Verges exit.
, to Watch
They exit.
Enter Benedick and Margaret.
Margaret exits.
Sings
Enter Beatrice.
Enter Ursula.
Ursula exits.
They exit.
Enter Claudio, Prince, and three or four Lords withtapers, and Musicians.
, reading an Epitaph.
He hangs up the scroll.
Lords and Musicians exit.
They exit.
Enter Leonato, Benedick, Beatrice, Margaret, Ursula,Leonato’s brother, Friar, Hero.
The ladies exit.
Enter Prince, and Claudio, and two or three other.
Leonato’s brother exits.
Enter Leonato’s brother, Hero, Beatrice, Margaret,Ursula, the ladies masked.
, to Hero
They take hands.
She unmasks.
, unmasking
He shows a paper.
She shows a paper.
They kiss.
Enter Messenger.
, to Prince
, to Prince
Music plays. They dance.
They exit.
Leonato
Governor of Messina

I learn in this letter that Don
Pedro of Aragon comes this night to Messina.

He is very near by this. He was not three
leagues off when I left him.

How many gentlemen have you lost in this
action?

But few of any sort, and none of name.

A victory is twice itself when the achiever
brings home full numbers. I find here that Don
Pedro hath bestowed much honor on a young
Florentine called Claudio.

Much deserved on his part, and equally
remembered by Don Pedro. He hath borne himself
beyond the promise of his age, doing in the figure
of a lamb the feats of a lion. He hath indeed better
bettered expectation than you must expect of me to
tell you how.

He hath an uncle here in Messina will be
very much glad of it.

I have already delivered him letters, and
there appears much joy in him, even so much that
joy could not show itself modest enough without a
badge of bitterness.

Did he break out into tears?

In great measure.

A kind overflow of kindness. There are no
faces truer than those that are so washed. How
much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at
weeping!

I know none of that name, lady. There
was none such in the army of any sort.

What is he that you ask for, niece?

O, he’s returned, and as pleasant as ever
he was.

Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too
much, but he’ll be meet with you, I doubt it not.

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

And a good soldier too, lady.

A lord to a lord, a man to a man, stuffed
with all honorable virtues.

You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is
a kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and
her. They never meet but there’s a skirmish of wit
between them.

Is ’t possible?

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

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

I will hold friends with you, lady.

You will never run mad, niece.

Don Pedro is approached.

Never came trouble to my house in the
likeness of your Grace, for trouble being gone,
comfort should remain, but when you depart from
me, sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.

Her mother hath many times told me so.

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

If you swear, my lord, you shall not be
forsworn. Let me bid you welcome,
my lord, being reconciled to the Prince your brother,
I owe you all duty.

Please it your Grace lead on?

How now, brother, where is my cousin, your
son? Hath he provided this music?

He is very busy about it. But,
brother, I can tell you strange news that you yet
dreamt not of.

Are they good?

As the events stamps them, but
they have a good cover; they show well outward.
The Prince and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached
alley in mine orchard, were thus much
overheard by a man of mine: the Prince discovered
to Claudio that he loved my niece your daughter and
meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance, and if
he found her accordant, he meant to take the
present time by the top and instantly break with you
of it.

Hath the fellow any wit that told you this?

A good sharp fellow. I will send
for him, and question him yourself.

No, no, we will hold it as a dream till it
appear itself. But I will acquaint my daughter
withal, that she may be the better prepared for an
answer, if peradventure this be true. Go you and tell
her of it.
Cousins, you know what you have to do.—O, I cry
you mercy, friend. Go you with me and I will use
your skill.—Good cousin, have a care this busy
time.

Was not Count John here at supper?

I saw him not.

Then half Signior Benedick’s tongue in
Count John’s mouth, and half Count John’s melancholy
in Signior Benedick’s face—

By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a
husband if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.

In faith, she’s too curst.

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

You may light on a husband that hath no
beard.

Well then, go you into hell?

Well, niece, I trust you
will be ruled by your father.

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

Daughter, remember what I told
you. If the Prince do solicit you in that kind, you
know your answer.

Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.

The revelers are entering, brother. Make
good room.

Count, take of me my daughter, and with her
my fortunes. His Grace hath made the match, and
all grace say Amen to it.

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

There’s little of the melancholy element in
her, my lord. She is never sad but when she sleeps,
and not ever sad then, for I have heard my daughter
say she hath often dreamt of unhappiness and
waked herself with laughing.

O, by no means. She mocks all her wooers
out of suit.

O Lord, my lord, if they were but a week
married, they would talk themselves mad.

Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence
a just sevennight, and a time too brief, too, to have
all things answer my mind.

My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten
nights’ watchings.

No, nor I neither, but most wonderful that
she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she
hath in all outward behaviors seemed ever to
abhor.

By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to
think of it, but that she loves him with an enraged
affection, it is past the infinite of thought.

O God! Counterfeit? There was never counterfeit
of passion came so near the life of passion as
she discovers it.

What effects, my lord? She will sit you—you
heard my daughter tell you how.

I would have sworn it had, my lord, especially
against Benedick.

No, and swears she never will. That’s her
torment.

This says she now when she is beginning to
write to him, for she’ll be up twenty times a night,
and there will she sit in her smock till she have writ
a sheet of paper. My daughter tells us all.

O, when she had writ it and was reading it
over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between
the sheet?

O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence,
railed at herself that she should be so
immodest to write to one that she knew would flout
her. I measure him, says she, by my own spirit,for I should flout him if he writ to me, yea, though I
love him, I should.

She doth indeed, my daughter says so, and
the ecstasy hath so much overborne her that my
daughter is sometimes afeared she will do a desperate
outrage to herself. It is very true.

O, my lord, wisdom and blood combating in
so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that
blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have
just cause, being her uncle and her guardian.

Were it good, think you?

If he do fear God, he must necessarily keep
peace. If he break the peace, he ought to enter into
a quarrel with fear and trembling.

Nay, that’s impossible; she may wear her
heart out first.

My lord, will you walk? Dinner is ready.

So say I. Methinks you are sadder.

Where is but a humor or a worm.

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

What would you with me, honest neighbor?

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

What is it, my good friends?

Neighbors, you are tedious.

All thy tediousness on me, ah?

I would fain know what you have to say.

Indeed, neighbor, he comes too short of you.

I must leave you.

Take their examination yourself and bring it
me. I am now in great haste, as it may appear unto
you.

Drink some wine ere you go. Fare you well.

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

I’ll wait upon them. I am ready.

Come, Friar Francis, be brief, only to the
plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their
particular duties afterwards.

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

I dare make his answer, none.

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

What do you mean, my lord?

Dear my lord, if you in your own proof
Have vanquished the resistance of her youth,
And made defeat of her virginity—

Sweet prince, why speak not you?

Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?

All this is so, but what of this, my lord?

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

Hath no man’s dagger here a point for me?

O Fate, take not away thy heavy hand!
Death is the fairest cover for her shame
That may be wished for.

Dost thou look up?

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. Grieved I I had but one?
Chid 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, smirchèd thus, and mired with infamy,
I might have said No part of it is mine;This shame derives itself from unknown loins?
But mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised,
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!

Confirmed, confirmed! O, that is stronger made
Which was before barred up with ribs of iron!
Would the two princes lie and Claudio lie,
Who loved her so that, speaking of her foulness,
Washed it with tears? Hence from her. Let her die!

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?

I know not. If they speak but truth of her,
These hands shall tear her. If they wrong her honor,
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, awaked 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.

What shall become of this? What will this do?

Being that I flow in grief,
The smallest twine may lead me.

If you go on thus, you will kill yourself,
And ’tis not wisdom thus to second grief
Against yourself.

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 loved his child,
Whose joy of her is overwhelmed like mine,
And bid him speak 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 med’cine 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.

Therein do men from children nothing differ.

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.

Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself.
Make those that do offend you suffer too.

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 dishonor her.

Here comes the Prince and Claudio hastily.

Hear you, my lords—

Some haste, my lord! Well, fare you well, my lord.
Are you so hasty now? Well, all is one.

If he could right himself with quarrelling,
Some of us would lie low.

Marry, thou dost wrong me, thou dissembler, thou.
Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword.
I fear thee not.

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 wronged mine innocent child and me
That I am forced to lay my reverence by,
And with gray 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 lies buried with her ancestors,
O, in a tomb where never scandal slept,
Save this of hers, framed by thy villainy.

Thine, Claudio, thine, I say.

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.

Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast killed my child.
If thou kill’st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.

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.

Brother—

Content yourself. God knows I loved my niece,
And she is dead, slandered 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!

Brother Anthony—

Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea,
And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple—
Scambling, outfacing, fashionmonging boys,
That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander,
Go anticly and 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.

But brother Anthony—

Come, ’tis no matter.
Do not you meddle. Let me deal in this.

My lord, my lord—

No? Come, brother, away. I will be heard.

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

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?

Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast killed
Mine innocent child?

No, not so, villain, thou beliest thyself.
Here stand a pair of honorable 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.

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 labor aught in sad invention,
Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb
And sing it to her bones. Sing it tonight.
Tomorrow 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.

Tomorrow then I will expect your coming.
Tonight I take my leave. This naughty man
Shall face to face be brought to Margaret,
Who I believe was packed in all this wrong,
Hired to it by your brother.

I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.

There’s for thy pains.

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

Until tomorrow morning, lords, farewell.

Farewell, my lords. We look for you tomorrow.

Bring you these fellows on.—We’ll talk with
Margaret,
How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.

So are the Prince and Claudio, who accused her
Upon the error that you heard debated.
But Margaret was in some fault for this,
Although against her will, as it appears
In the true course of all the question.

Well, I am glad that all things sorts so well.

Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all,
Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves,
And when I send for you, come hither masked.
The Prince and Claudio promised by this hour
To visit me.—You know your office, brother.
You must be father to your brother’s daughter,
And give her to young Claudio.

Which I will do with confirmed countenance.

That eye my daughter lent her; ’tis most true.

The sight whereof I think you had from me,
From Claudio, and the Prince. But what’s your will?

My heart is with your liking.

Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Claudio.
We here attend you. Are you yet determined
Today to marry with my brother’s daughter?

Call her forth, brother. Here’s the Friar ready.

This same is she, and I do give you her.

No, that you shall not till you take her hand
Before this friar and swear to marry her.

She died, my lord, but whiles her slander lived.

Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.

We’ll have dancing afterward.

Hero
his daughter

My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.

He is of a very melancholy disposition.

So you walk softly, and look sweetly, and say
nothing, I am yours for the walk, and especially
when I walk away.

I may say so when I please.

When I like your favor, for God defend the lute
should be like the case.

Why, then, your visor should be thatched.

I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my
cousin to a good husband.

Good Margaret, run thee to the parlor.
There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice
Proposing with the Prince and Claudio.
Whisper her ear and tell her I and Ursula
Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse
Is all of her. Say that thou overheardst us,
And bid her steal into the pleachèd bower
Where honeysuckles ripened by the sun
Forbid the sun to enter, like favorites
Made proud by princes, that advance their pride
Against that power that bred it. There will she hide
her
To listen our propose. This is thy office.
Bear thee well in it, and leave us alone.

Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come,
As we do trace this alley up and down,
Our talk must only be of Benedick.
When I do name him, let it be thy part
To praise him more than ever man did merit.
My talk to thee must be how Benedick
Is sick in love with Beatrice. Of this matter
Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made,
That only wounds by hearsay. Now begin,
For look where Beatrice like a lapwing runs
Close by the ground, to hear our conference.

Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing
Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.—
No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful.
I know her spirits are as coy and wild
As haggards of the rock.

So says the Prince and my new-trothèd lord.

They did entreat me to acquaint her of it,
But I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick,
To wish him wrestle with affection
And never to let Beatrice know of it.

O god of love! I know he doth deserve
As much as may be yielded to a man,
But Nature never framed a woman’s heart
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice.
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprizing what they look on, and her wit
Values itself so highly that to her
All matter else seems weak. She cannot love,
Nor take no shape nor project of affection,
She is so self-endeared.

Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man,
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured,
But she would spell him backward. If fair-faced,
She would swear the gentleman should be her
sister;
If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antic,
Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed;
If low, an agate very vilely cut;
If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;
If silent, why, a block moved with none.
So turns she every man the wrong side out,
And never gives to truth and virtue that
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.

No, not to be so odd and from all fashions
As Beatrice is cannot be commendable.
But who dare tell her so? If I should speak,
She would mock me into air. O, she would laugh
me
Out of myself, press me to death with wit.
Therefore let Benedick, like covered fire,
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly.
It were a better death than die with mocks,
Which is as bad as die with tickling.

No, rather I will go to Benedick
And counsel him to fight against his passion;
And truly I’ll devise some honest slanders
To stain my cousin with. One doth not know
How much an ill word may empoison liking.

He is the only man of Italy,
Always excepted my dear Claudio.

Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.

Why, every day, tomorrow. Come, go in.
I’ll show thee some attires and have thy counsel
Which is the best to furnish me tomorrow.

If it prove so, then loving goes by haps;
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice and
desire her to rise.

And bid her come hither.

No, pray thee, good Meg, I’ll wear this.

My cousin’s a fool, and thou art another. I’ll
wear none but this.

O, that exceeds, they say.

God give me joy to wear it, for my heart is
exceeding heavy.

Fie upon thee! Art not ashamed?

Good morrow, coz.

Why, how now? Do you speak in the sick tune?

These gloves the Count sent me, they are an
excellent perfume.

There thou prick’st her with a thistle.

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

I do.

None, my lord.

And seemed I ever otherwise to you?

Is my lord well that he doth speak so wide?

True! O God!

O, God defend me, how am I beset!—
What kind of catechizing call you this?

Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name
With any just reproach?

I talked with no man at that hour, my lord.

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 conversed
At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight
Maintained the change of words with any creature,
Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death!

And when I lived, I was your other wife,
And when you loved, you were my other husband.

Nothing certainer.
One Hero died defiled, but I do live,
And surely as I live, I am a maid.

And here’s another,
Writ in my cousin’s hand, stol’n from her pocket,
Containing her affection unto Benedick.

Beatrice
his niece

I pray you, is Signior Mountanto returned
from the wars or no?

He set up his bills here in Messina and
challenged Cupid at the flight, and my uncle’s Fool,
reading the challenge, subscribed for Cupid and
challenged him at the bird-bolt. I pray you, how
many hath he killed and eaten in these wars? But
how many hath he killed? For indeed I promised to
eat all of his killing.

You had musty victual, and he hath holp to
eat it. He is a very valiant trencherman; he hath an
excellent stomach.

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

It is so indeed. He is no less than a stuffed
man, but for the stuffing—well, we are all mortal.

Alas, he gets nothing by that. In our last
conflict, four of his five wits went halting off, and
now is the whole man governed with one, so that if
he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him
bear it for a difference between himself and his
horse, for it is all the wealth that he hath left to
be known a reasonable creature. Who is his companion
now? He hath every month a new sworn
brother.

Very easily possible. He wears his faith but
as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the
next block.

No. An he were, I would burn my study. But
I pray you, who is his companion? Is there no
young squarer now that will make a voyage with
him to the devil?

O Lord, he will hang upon him like a
disease! He is sooner caught than the pestilence,
and the taker runs presently mad. God help the
noble Claudio! If he have caught the Benedick, it
will cost him a thousand pound ere he be cured.

Do, good friend.

No, not till a hot January.

I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior
Benedick, nobody marks you.

Is it possible disdain should die while she
hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?
Courtesy itself must convert to disdain if you come
in her presence.

A dear happiness to women. They would
else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I
thank God and my cold blood I am of your humor
for that. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow
than a man swear he loves me.

Scratching could not make it worse an
’twere such a face as yours were.

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

You always end with a jade’s trick. I know
you of old.

How tartly that gentleman looks! I never
can see him but I am heartburned an hour after.

He were an excellent man that were made
just in the midway between him and Benedick. The
one is too like an image and says nothing, and the
other too like my lady’s eldest son, evermore
tattling.

With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and
money enough in his purse, such a man would win
any woman in the world if he could get her
goodwill.

Too curst is more than curst. I shall lessen
God’s sending that way, for it is said God sends acurst cow short horns, but to a cow too curst, he
sends none.

Just, if He send me no husband, for the
which blessing I am at Him upon my knees every
morning and evening. Lord, I could not endure a
husband with a beard on his face. I had rather lie in
the woolen!

What should I do with him? Dress him in my
apparel and make him my waiting gentlewoman?
He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he
that hath no beard is less than a man; and he that is
more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less
than a man, I am not for him. Therefore I will even
take sixpence in earnest of the bearherd, and lead
his apes into hell.

No, but to the gate, and there will the devil
meet me like an old cuckold with horns on his
head, and say Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get youto heaven; here’s no place for you maids. So deliver
I up my apes and away to Saint Peter; for the
heavens, he shows me where the bachelors sit, and
there live we as merry as the day is long.

Yes, faith, it is my cousin’s duty to make
curtsy and say Father, as it please you. But yet for
all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or
else make another curtsy and say Father, as itplease me.

Not till God make men of some other metal
than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be
overmastered with a piece of valiant dust? To make
an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl?
No, uncle, I’ll none. Adam’s sons are my brethren,
and truly I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.

The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you
be not wooed in good time. If the Prince be too
important, tell him there is measure in everything,
and so dance out the answer. For hear me, Hero,
wooing, wedding, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a
measure, and a cinquepace. The first suit is hot and
hasty like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the
wedding, mannerly modest as a measure, full of
state and ancientry; and then comes repentance,
and with his bad legs falls into the cinquepace faster
and faster till he sink into his grave.

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

Will you not tell me who told you so?

Nor will you not tell me who you are?

That I was disdainful, and that I had my
good wit out of The Hundred Merry Tales! Well, this
was Signior Benedick that said so.

I am sure you know him well enough.

Did he never make you laugh?

Why, he is the Prince’s jester, a very dull
fool; only his gift is in devising impossible slanders.
None but libertines delight in him, and the commendation
is not in his wit but in his villainy, for he
both pleases men and angers them, and then they
laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in the
fleet.I would he had boarded me.

Do, do. He’ll but break a comparison or two
on me, which peradventure not marked or not
laughed at strikes him into melancholy, and then
there’s a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat
no supper that night. We must
follow the leaders.

Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them
at the next turning.

Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile, and I
gave him use for it, a double heart for his single
one. Marry, once before he won it of me with false
dice. Therefore your Grace may well say I have lost
it.

So I would not he should do me, my lord,
lest I should prove the mother of fools. I have
brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.

The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry,
nor well, but civil count, civil as an orange, and
something of that jealous complexion.

Speak, count, ’tis your cue.

Speak, cousin, or, if you cannot, stop his
mouth with a kiss and let not him speak neither.

Yea, my lord. I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on
the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear
that he is in her heart.

Good Lord for alliance! Thus goes everyone
to the world but I, and I am sunburnt. I may sit in a
corner and cry Heigh-ho for a husband!

I would rather have one of your father’s
getting. Hath your Grace ne’er a brother like you?
Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could
come by them.

No, my lord, unless I might have another for
working days. Your Grace is too costly to wear
every day. But I beseech your Grace pardon me. I
was born to speak all mirth and no matter.

No, sure, my lord, my mother cried, but then
there was a star danced, and under that was I
born.—Cousins, God give you joy!

I cry you mercy, uncle.—By your Grace’s
pardon.

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

I took no more pains for those thanks than
you take pains to thank me. If it had been painful, I
would not have come.

Yea, just so much as you may take upon a
knife’s point and choke a daw withal. You have no
stomach, signior. Fare you well.

What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much?
Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adieu!
No glory lives behind the back of such.
And Benedick, love on; I will requite thee,
Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand.
If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee
To bind our loves up in a holy band.
For others say thou dost deserve, and I
Believe it better than reportingly.

Good morrow, sweet Hero.

I am out of all other tune, methinks.

You light o’ love with your heels! Then, if
your husband have stables enough, you’ll see he
shall lack no barns.

’Tis almost five o’clock, cousin. ’Tis time
you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill.
Heigh-ho!

For the letter that begins them all, H.

What means the fool, trow?

I am stuffed, cousin. I cannot smell.

O, God help me, God help me! How long
have you professed apprehension?

It is not seen enough; you should wear it in
your cap. By my troth, I am sick.

Benedictus! Why benedictus? You have some
moral in this benedictus?

What pace is this that thy tongue keeps?

Why, how now, cousin, wherefore sink you down?

Dead, I think.—Help, uncle!—
Hero, why Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar!

How now, cousin Hero?

O, on my soul, my cousin is belied!

No, truly not, although until last night
I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.

Yea, and I will weep a while longer.

You have no reason. I do it freely.

Ah, how much might the man deserve of me
that would right her!

A very even way, but no such friend.

It is a man’s office, but not yours.

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.

Do not swear and eat it.

Will you not eat your word?

Why then, God forgive me.

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

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

Kill Claudio.

You kill me to deny it. Farewell.

I am gone, though I am here. There is no
love in you. Nay, I pray you let me go.

In faith, I will go.

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

Is he not approved in the height a villain
that hath slandered, scorned, dishonored my kinswoman?
O, that I were a man! What, bear her in
hand until they come to take hands, and then, with
public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated
rancor—O God, that I were a man! I would eat his
heart in the marketplace.

Talk with a man out at a window! A proper
saying.

Sweet Hero, she is wronged, she is slandered,
she is undone.

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 curtsies, valor into
compliment, and men are only turned 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.

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

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

Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me.

Then is spoken. Fare you well now. And
yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came, which is,
with knowing what hath passed between you and
Claudio.

Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is
but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome. Therefore
I will depart unkissed.

For them all together, which maintained so
politic a state of evil that they will not admit any
good part to intermingle with them. But for which
of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?

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.

It appears not in this confession. There’s not
one wise man among twenty that will praise
himself.

And how long is that, think you?

Very ill.

Very ill, too.

Will you go hear this news, signior?

I answer to that name. What is your will?

Why no, no more than reason.

Do not you love me?

Why then, my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula
Are much deceived, for they did swear you did.

They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.

No, truly, but in friendly recompense.

I would not deny you, but by this good day, I
yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your
life, for I was told you were in a consumption.

Leonato’s Brother

He is very busy about it. But,
brother, I can tell you strange news that you yet
dreamt not of.

As the events stamps them, but
they have a good cover; they show well outward.
The Prince and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached
alley in mine orchard, were thus much
overheard by a man of mine: the Prince discovered
to Claudio that he loved my niece your daughter and
meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance, and if
he found her accordant, he meant to take the
present time by the top and instantly break with you
of it.

A good sharp fellow. I will send
for him, and question him yourself.

I saw him not.

In faith, she’s too curst.

Well, niece, I trust you
will be ruled by your father.

If you go on thus, you will kill yourself,
And ’tis not wisdom thus to second grief
Against yourself.

Therein do men from children nothing differ.

Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself.
Make those that do offend you suffer too.

Here comes the Prince and Claudio hastily.

If he could right himself with quarrelling,
Some of us would lie low.

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.

Content yourself. God knows I loved my niece,
And she is dead, slandered 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!

Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea,
And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple—
Scambling, outfacing, fashionmonging boys,
That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander,
Go anticly and 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.

Come, ’tis no matter.
Do not you meddle. Let me deal in this.

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

Farewell, my lords. We look for you tomorrow.

Well, I am glad that all things sorts so well.

Which I will do with confirmed countenance.

waiting gentlewomen to Hero
Margaret

So would not I for your own sake, for I have
many ill qualities.

I say my prayers aloud.

God match me with a good dancer.

And God keep him out of my sight when the
dance is done. Answer, clerk.

I’ll make her come, I warrant you, presently.

Troth, I think your other rebato were
better.

By my troth, ’s not so good, and I warrant
your cousin will say so.

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.

By my troth, ’s but a nightgown in respect
of yours—cloth o’ gold, and cuts, and laced with
silver, set with pearls, down sleeves, side sleeves,
and skirts round underborne with a bluish tinsel.
But for a fine, quaint, graceful, and excellent fashion,
yours is worth ten on ’t.

’Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a
man.

Of what, lady? Of speaking honorably? Is
not marriage honorable in a beggar? Is not your
lord honorable 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 heavierfor 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.

Clap ’s into Light o’ love. That goes
without a burden. Do you sing it, and I’ll dance it.

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

For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?

Well, an you be not turned Turk, there’s no
more sailing by the star.

Nothing, I; but God send everyone their
heart’s desire.

A maid, and stuffed! There’s goodly catching
of cold.

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

Get you some of this distilled carduus benedictus
and lay it to your heart. It is the only thing for
a qualm.

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.

Not a false gallop.

Will you then write me a sonnet in praise
of my beauty?

To have no man come over me? Why, shall I
always keep below stairs?

And yours as blunt as the fencer’s foils,
which hit but hurt not.

Give us the swords; we have bucklers of our
own.

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

Ursula

I know you well enough. You are Signior
Antonio.

I know you by the waggling of your head.

You could never do him so ill-well unless you
were the very man. Here’s his dry hand up and
down. You are he, you are he.

Come, come, do you think I do not know you
by your excellent wit? Can virtue hide itself? Go to,
mum, you are he. Graces will appear, and there’s an
end.

The pleasant’st angling is to see the fish
Cut with her golden oars the silver stream
And greedily devour the treacherous bait.
So angle we for Beatrice, who even now
Is couchèd in the woodbine coverture.
Fear you not my part of the dialogue.

But are you sure
That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?

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

Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman
Deserve as full as fortunate a bed
As ever Beatrice shall couch upon?

Sure, I think so,
And therefore certainly it were not good
She knew his love, lest she’ll make sport at it.

Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.

Yet tell her of it. Hear what she will say.

O, do not do your cousin such a wrong!
She cannot be so much without true judgment,
Having so swift and excellent a wit
As she is prized to have, as to refuse
So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.

I pray you be not angry with me, madam,
Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick,
For shape, for bearing, argument, and valor,
Goes foremost in report through Italy.

His excellence did earn it ere he had it.
When are you married, madam?

She’s limed, I warrant you. We have caught her,
madam.

I will, lady.

Well.

Madam, withdraw. The Prince, the Count,
Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of
the town are come to fetch you to church.

Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder’s
old coil at home. It is proved my Lady Hero
hath been falsely accused, the Prince and Claudio
mightily abused, and Don John is the author of all,
who is fled and gone. Will you come presently?

Don Pedro
Prince of Aragon

Good Signior Leonato, are you come to meet
your trouble? The fashion of the world is to avoid
cost, and you encounter it.

You embrace your charge too willingly.
I think this is your daughter.

You have it full, Benedick. We may guess by
this what you are, being a man. Truly the lady
fathers herself.—Be happy, lady, for you are like
an honorable father.

That is the sum of all, Leonato.—Signior
Claudio and Signior Benedick, my dear friend
Leonato hath invited you all. I tell him we shall stay
here at the least a month, and he heartily prays
some occasion may detain us longer. I dare swear
he is no hypocrite, but prays from his heart.

Your hand, Leonato. We will go together.

What secret hath held you here that you followed
not to Leonato’s?

I charge thee on thy allegiance.

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

By my troth, I speak my thought.

That she is worthy, I know.

Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the
despite of beauty.

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

Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou
wilt prove a notable argument.

Well, as time shall try.
In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.

Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in
Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly.

Well, you will temporize with the hours. In the
meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to Leonato’s.
Commend me to him, and tell him I will not
fail him at supper, for indeed he hath made great
preparation.

The sixth of July. Your loving friend,
Benedick.

My love is thine to teach. Teach it but how,
And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn
Any hard lesson that may do thee good.

No child but Hero; she’s his only heir.
Dost thou affect her, Claudio?

Thou wilt be like a lover presently
And tire the hearer with a book of words.
If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it,
And I will break with her and with her father,
And thou shalt have her. Was ’t not to this end
That thou began’st to twist so fine a story?

What need the bridge much broader than the flood?
The fairest grant is the necessity.
Look what will serve is fit. ’Tis once, thou lovest,
And I will fit thee with the remedy.
I know we shall have reveling tonight.
I will assume thy part in some disguise
And tell fair Hero I am Claudio,
And in her bosom I’ll unclasp my heart
And take her hearing prisoner with the force
And strong encounter of my amorous tale.
Then after to her father will I break,
And the conclusion is, she shall be thine.
In practice let us put it presently.

Lady, will you walk a bout with your
friend?

With me in your company?

And when please you to say so?

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

Speak low if you speak love.

Now, signior, where’s the Count? Did you see
him?

To be whipped? What’s his fault?

Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The
transgression is in the stealer.

I will but teach them to sing and restore them
to the owner.

The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you. The
gentleman that danced with her told her she is
much wronged by you.

Look, here she comes.

None but to desire your good company.

Come, lady, come, you have lost
the heart of Signior Benedick.

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

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

How then, sick?

I’ faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true,
though I’ll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is
false.—Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name,
and fair Hero is won. I have broke with her father
and his goodwill obtained. Name the day of marriage,
and God give thee joy.

In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.

Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.

Will you have me, lady?

Your silence most offends me, and to be merry
best becomes you, for out o’ question you were
born in a merry hour.

By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.

She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.

She were an excellent wife for Benedick.

County Claudio, when mean you to go to
church?

Come, you shake the head at so
long a breathing, but I warrant thee, Claudio, the
time shall not go dully by us. I will in the interim
undertake one of Hercules’ labors, which is to bring
Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a
mountain of affection, th’ one with th’ other. I
would fain have it a match, and I doubt not but to
fashion it, if you three will but minister such
assistance as I shall give you direction.

And you too, gentle Hero?

And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband
that I know. Thus far can I praise him: he is of
a noble strain, of approved valor, and confirmed
honesty. I will teach you how to humor your
cousin that she shall fall in love with Benedick.—
And I, with your two helps, will so practice on
Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his
queasy stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice.
If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer; his
glory shall be ours, for we are the only love gods. Go
in with me, and I will tell you my drift.

Come, shall we hear this music?

See you where Benedick hath hid himself?

Come, Balthasar, we’ll hear that song again.

It is the witness still of excellency
To put a strange face on his own perfection.
I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.

Nay, pray thee, come,
Or if thou wilt hold longer argument,
Do it in notes.

Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks!
Note notes, forsooth, and nothing.

By my troth, a good song.

Ha, no, no, faith, thou sing’st well enough for a
shift.

Yea, marry, dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray
thee get us some excellent music, for tomorrow
night we would have it at the Lady Hero’s chamber
window.

Do so. Farewell.
Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of
today, that your niece Beatrice was in love with
Signior Benedick?

Maybe she doth but counterfeit.

Why, what effects of passion shows she?

How, how I pray you? You amaze me. I would
have thought her spirit had been invincible against
all assaults of affection.

Hath she made her affection known to
Benedick?

It were good that Benedick knew of it by some
other, if she will not discover it.

An he should, it were an alms to hang him.
She’s an excellent sweet lady, and, out of all suspicion,
she is virtuous.

In everything but in loving Benedick.

I would she had bestowed this dotage on me. I
would have daffed all other respects and made her
half myself. I pray you tell Benedick of it, and hear
what he will say.

She doth well. If she should make tender of
her love, ’tis very possible he’ll scorn it, for the man,
as you know all, hath a contemptible spirit.

He hath indeed a good outward happiness.

He doth indeed show some sparks that are like
wit.

As Hector, I assure you, and in the managing
of quarrels you may say he is wise, for either he
avoids them with great discretion or undertakes
them with a most Christianlike fear.

And so will he do, for the man doth fear God,
howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests
he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall
we go seek Benedick and tell him of her love?

Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter.
Let it cool the while. I love Benedick well, and I
could wish he would modestly examine himself to
see how much he is unworthy so good a lady.

Let there be the same net
spread for her, and that must your daughter and her
gentlewomen carry. The sport will be when they
hold one an opinion of another’s dotage, and no
such matter. That’s the scene that I would see,
which will be merely a dumb show. Let us send her
to call him in to dinner.

I do but stay till your marriage be consummate,
and then go I toward Aragon.

Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new
gloss of your marriage as to show a child his new
coat and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold
with Benedick for his company, for from the crown
of his head to the sole of his foot he is all mirth. He
hath twice or thrice cut Cupid’s bowstring, and the
little hangman dare not shoot at him. He hath a
heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the
clapper, for what his heart thinks, his tongue
speaks.

Hang him, truant! There’s no true drop of
blood in him to be truly touched with love. If he be
sad, he wants money.

Draw it.

What, sigh for the toothache?

There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless
it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises, as to
be a Dutchman today, a Frenchman tomorrow, or
in the shape of two countries at once, as a German
from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard
from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a
fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no
fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is.

Hath any man seen him at the barber’s?

Nay, he rubs himself with civet. Can you smell
him out by that?

The greatest note of it is his melancholy.

Yea, or to paint himself? For the which I hear
what they say of him.

Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude,
conclude, he is in love.

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

She shall be buried with her face upwards.

For my life, to break with him about Beatrice!

Good e’en, brother.

In private?

What’s the matter?

You know he does.

Why, what’s the matter?

I will not think it.

And as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will
join with thee to disgrace her.

O day untowardly turned!

Nothing, unless you render her again.

What should I
speak?
I stand dishonored that have gone about
To link my dear friend to a common stale.

Why, then, are you no maiden.—Leonato,
I am sorry you must hear. Upon mine honor,
Myself, my brother, and this grievèd 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,
Confessed the vile encounters they have had
A thousand times in secret.

Good e’en, good e’en.

We have some haste,
Leonato.

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

You say not right, old man.

Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience.
My heart is sorry for your daughter’s death,
But, on my honor, she was charged with nothing
But what was true and very full of proof.

I will not hear you.

See, see, here comes the man we went to seek.

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

Leonato and his brother. What think’st thou?
Had we fought, I doubt we should have been too
young for them.

Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side?

As I am an honest man, he looks pale.—Art
thou sick, or angry?

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

What, a feast, a feast?

I’ll tell thee how Beatrice praised 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, hehath the tongues. That I believe, said she, for heswore 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.

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.

But when shall we set the savage bull’s horns
on the sensible Benedick’s head?

He is in earnest.

And hath challenged thee?

What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his
doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!

But soft you, let me be. Pluck up, my heart,
and be sad. Did he not say my brother was fled?

How now, two of my brother’s men bound?
Borachio one!

Officers, what offense have these men done?

First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I
ask thee what’s their offense; sixth and lastly, why
they are committed; and, to conclude, what you lay
to their charge.

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 offense?

Runs not this speech like iron through your blood?

But did my brother set thee on to this?

He is composed and framed of treachery,
And fled he is upon this villainy.

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.

We will not fail.

Good morrow, masters. Put your torches out.
The wolves have preyed, and look, the gentle day
Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about
Dapples the drowsy east with spots of gray.
Thanks to you all, and leave us. Fare you well.

Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds,
And then to Leonato’s we will go.

Good morrow to this fair assembly.

Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what’s the matter
That you have such a February face,
So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness?

The former Hero! Hero that is dead!

How dost thou, Benedick, the married man?

My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight,
And brought with armed men back to Messina.

Count Claudio
a young lord from Florence

Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of
Signior Leonato?

Is she not a modest young lady?

No, I pray thee, speak in sober judgment.

Thou thinkest I am in sport. I pray thee tell
me truly how thou lik’st her.

Can the world buy such a jewel?

In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever
I looked on.

I would scarce trust myself, though I had
sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my wife.

If this were so, so were it uttered.

If my passion change not shortly, God forbid
it should be otherwise.

You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.

And in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.

That I love her, I feel.

And never could maintain his part but in the
force of his will.

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

To the tuition of God. From my house, if I had
it—

My liege, your Highness now may do me good.

Hath Leonato any son, my lord?

O, my lord,
When you went onward on this ended action,
I looked upon her with a soldier’s eye,
That liked, but had a rougher task in hand
Than to drive liking to the name of love.
But now I am returned and that war thoughts
Have left their places vacant, in their rooms
Come thronging soft and delicate desires,
All prompting me how fair young Hero is,
Saying I liked her ere I went to wars.

How sweetly you do minister to love,
That know love’s grief by his complexion!
But lest my liking might too sudden seem,
I would have salved it with a longer treatise.

You know me well. I am he.

How know you he loves her?

Thus answer I in name of Benedick,
But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.
’Tis certain so. The Prince woos for himself.
Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love.
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues.
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent, for beauty is a witch
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.
This is an accident of hourly proof,
Which I mistrusted not. Farewell therefore, Hero.

Yea, the same.

Whither?

I wish him joy of her.

I pray you, leave me.

If it will not be, I’ll leave you.

Not sad, my lord.

Neither, my lord.

Silence is the perfectest herald of joy. I were
but little happy if I could say how much.—Lady, as
you are mine, I am yours. I give away myself for you
and dote upon the exchange.

And so she doth, cousin.

Tomorrow, my lord. Time goes on crutches
till love have all his rites.

And I, my lord.

Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is,
As hushed on purpose to grace harmony!

O, very well my lord. The music ended,
We’ll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth.

O, ay. Stalk on, stalk on; the
fowl sits.—I did never think that lady would have
loved any man.

Faith, like enough.

Bait the hook well; this fish
will bite.

She did indeed.

He hath ta’en th’ infection.
Hold it up.

’Tis true indeed, so your daughter says. ShallI, says she, that have so oft encountered him withscorn, write to him that I love him?

Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember
a pretty jest your daughter told us of.

That.

Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps,
sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses:
O sweet Benedick, God give me patience!

To what end? He would make but a sport of it
and torment the poor lady worse.

And she is exceeding wise.

Hero thinks surely she will die, for she says
she will die if he love her not, and she will die ere
she make her love known, and she will die if he woo
her rather than she will bate one breath of her
accustomed crossness.

He is a very proper man.

Before God, and in my mind, very wise.

And I take him to be valiant.

Never tell him, my lord, let her wear it out
with good counsel.

If he do not
dote on her upon this, I will never trust my
expectation.

I’ll bring you thither, my lord, if you’ll vouchsafe
me.

I hope he be in love.

You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards.

Yet say I, he is in love.

If he be not in love with some woman, there
is no believing old signs. He brushes his hat o’
mornings. What should that bode?

No, but the barber’s man hath been seen
with him, and the old ornament of his cheek hath
already stuffed tennis balls.

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

And when was he wont to wash his face?

Nay, but his jesting spirit, which is now crept
into a lute string and now governed by stops—

Nay, but I know who loves him.

Yes, and his ill conditions; and, in despite of
all, dies for him.

’Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this
played their parts with Beatrice, and then the two
bears will not bite one another when they meet.

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

Who, Hero?

Disloyal?

May this be so?

If I see anything tonight why I should not
marry her, tomorrow in the congregation, where I
should wed, there will I shame her.

O mischief strangely thwarting!

No.

Know you any, Hero?

O, what men dare do! What men may do!
What men daily do, not knowing what they do!

Stand thee by, friar.—Father, by your leave,
Will you with free and unconstrainèd soul
Give me this maid, your daughter?

And what have I to give you back whose worth
May counterpoise this rich and precious gift?

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 honor.
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.

Not to be married,
Not to knit my soul to an approvèd wanton.

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, showed
Bashful sincerity and comely love.

Out on thee, 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 pampered animals
That rage in savage sensuality.

Leonato, stand I here?
Is this the Prince? Is this the Prince’s brother?
Is this face Hero’s? Are our eyes our own?

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.

To make you answer truly to your name.

Marry, that can Hero!
Hero itself can blot out Hero’s virtue.
What man was he talked with you yesternight
Out at your window betwixt twelve and one?
Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.

O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been
If half thy outward graces had been placed
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.

Good day to both of you.

Who wrongs him?

Marry, beshrew my hand
If it should give your age such cause of fear.
In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.

My villainy?

Away! I will not have to do with you.

Now, signior, what news?

We had liketo have had our two noses
snapped off with two old men without teeth.

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?

Never any did so, though very many have
been beside their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do
the minstrels: draw to pleasure us.

What, courage, man! What
though care killed a cat? Thou hast mettle enough
in thee to kill care.

Nay, then, give him another staff.
This last was broke ’cross.

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

God bless me from a challenge!

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

I’ faith, I thank him. He hath bid me to a
calf’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?

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

All, all. And, moreover, God saw him when
he was hid in the garden.

Yea, and text underneath: Here dwells Benedick,the married man?

In most profound earnest, and, I’ll warrant
you, for the love of Beatrice.

Most sincerely.

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

Hearken after their offense, my lord.

Rightly reasoned, and in his own division;
and, by my troth, there’s one meaning well suited.

I have drunk poison whiles he uttered it.

Sweet Hero, now thy image doth appear
In the rare semblance that I loved it first.

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 sinned I not
But in mistaking.

O, noble sir!
Your overkindness doth wring tears from me.
I do embrace your offer and dispose
For henceforth of poor Claudio.

Tonight I’ll mourn with Hero.

Is this the monument of Leonato?

Done to death by slanderous tongues
Was the Hero that here lies.
Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,
Gives her fame which never dies.
So the life that died with shame
Lives in death with glorious fame.
Hang thou there upon the tomb,
Praising her when I am dumb.
Now music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.

Now, unto thy bones, goodnight.
Yearly will I do this rite.

Good morrow, masters. Each his several way.

And Hymen now with luckier issue speed ’s,
Than this for whom we rendered up this woe.

I’ll hold my mind were she an Ethiope.

I think he thinks upon the savage bull.
Tush, fear not, man. We’ll tip thy horns with gold,
And all Europa shall rejoice at thee,
As once Europa did at lusty Jove
When he would play the noble beast in love.

For this I owe you. Here comes other reck’nings.
Which is the lady I must seize upon?

Why, then, she’s mine.—Sweet, let me see your face.

Give me your hand before this holy friar.
I am your husband, if you like of me.

Another Hero!

And I’ll be sworn upon ’t that he loves her,
For here’s a paper written in his hand,
A halting sonnet of his own pure brain,
Fashioned to Beatrice.

I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied
Beatrice, that I might have cudgeled thee out of thy
single life, to make thee a double-dealer, which out
of question thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look
exceeding narrowly to thee.

Signior Benedick
a gentleman from Padua

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

If Signior Leonato be her father, she would
not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina,
as like him as she is.

What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet
living?

Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain
I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted; and
I would I could find in my heart that I had not a
hard heart, for truly I love none.

God keep your Ladyship still in that mind,
so some gentleman or other shall ’scape a predestinate
scratched face.

Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.

I would my horse had the speed of your
tongue and so good a continuer, but keep your
way, i’ God’s name, I have done.

I noted her not, but I looked on her.

Do you question me as an honest man
should do, for my simple true judgment? Or would
you have me speak after my custom, as being a
professed tyrant to their sex?

Why, i’ faith, methinks she’s too low for a
high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too
little for a great praise. Only this commendation I
can afford her, that were she other than she is, she
were unhandsome, and being no other but as she is,
I do not like her.

Would you buy her that you enquire after
her?

Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you
this with a sad brow? Or do you play the flouting
jack, to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder and
Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a
man take you to go in the song?

I can see yet without spectacles, and I see
no such matter. There’s her cousin, an she were not
possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in
beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.
But I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have
you?

Is ’t come to this? In faith, hath not the
world one man but he will wear his cap with
suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore
again? Go to, i’ faith, an thou wilt needs thrust
thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it, and sigh
away Sundays. Look, Don Pedro is returned to seek
you.

I would your Grace would constrain me to
tell.

You hear, Count Claudio, I can be secret as
a dumb man, I would have you think so, but on my
allegiance—mark you this, on my allegiance—he
is in love. With who? Now, that is your Grace’s part.
Mark how short his answer is: with Hero, Leonato’s
short daughter.

Like the old tale, my lord: It is not so, nor’twas not so, but, indeed, God forbid it should be
so.

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

That I neither feel how she should be loved
nor know how she should be worthy is the opinion
that fire cannot melt out of me. I will die in it at the
stake.

That a woman conceived me, I thank her;
that she brought me up, I likewise give her most
humble thanks. But that I will have a recheat
winded in my forehead or hang my bugle in an
invisible baldrick, all women shall pardon me.
Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust
any, I will do myself the right to trust none. And the
fine is, for the which I may go the finer, I will live a
bachelor.

With anger, with sickness, or with hunger,
my lord, not with love. Prove that ever I lose more
blood with love than I will get again with drinking,
pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker’s pen and
hang me up at the door of a brothel house for the
sign of blind Cupid.

If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and
shoot at me, and he that hits me, let him be clapped
on the shoulder and called Adam.

The savage bull may, but if ever the sensible
Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull’s horns and set
them in my forehead, and let me be vilely painted,
and in such great letters as they write Here is goodhorse to hire let them signify under my sign Hereyou may see Benedick the married man.

I look for an earthquake too, then.

I have almost matter enough in me for such
an embassage, and so I commit you—

Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your
discourse is sometimes guarded with fragments,
and the guards are but slightly basted on neither.
Ere you flout old ends any further, examine your
conscience. And so I leave you.

Well, I would you did like me.

Which is one?

I love you the better; the hearers may cry
Amen.

No, you shall pardon me.

Not now.

What’s he?

Not I, believe me.

I pray you, what is he?

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

In every good thing.

Count Claudio?

Come, will you go with me?

Even to the next willow, about your own
business, county. What fashion will you wear the
garland of? About your neck like an usurer’s chain?
Or under your arm like a lieutenant’s scarf? You
must wear it one way, for the Prince hath got your
Hero.

Why, that’s spoken like an honest drover; so
they sell bullocks. But did you think the Prince
would have served you thus?

Ho, now you strike like the blind man.
’Twas the boy that stole your meat, and you’ll beat
the post.

Alas, poor hurt fowl, now will he creep into
sedges. But that my Lady Beatrice should know
me, and not know me! The Prince’s fool! Ha, it may
be I go under that title because I am merry. Yea, but
so I am apt to do myself wrong. I am not so reputed!
It is the base, though bitter, disposition of Beatrice
that puts the world into her person and so gives me
out. Well, I’ll be revenged as I may.

Troth, my lord, I have played the part of
Lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a
lodge in a warren. I told him, and I think I told him
true, that your Grace had got the goodwill of this
young lady, and I offered him my company to a
willow tree, either to make him a garland, as being
forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to
be whipped.

The flat transgression of a schoolboy who,
being overjoyed with finding a bird’s nest, shows it
his companion, and he steals it.

Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been
made, and the garland too, for the garland he
might have worn himself, and the rod he might
have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stolen
his bird’s nest.

If their singing answer your saying, by my
faith, you say honestly.

O, she misused me past the endurance of a
block! An oak but with one green leaf on it would
have answered her. My very visor began to assume
life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I
had been myself, that I was the Prince’s jester, that I
was duller than a great thaw, huddling jest upon jest
with such impossible conveyance upon me that I
stood like a man at a mark with a whole army
shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every
word stabs. If her breath were as terrible as her
terminations, there were no living near her; she
would infect to the North Star. I would not marry
her though she were endowed with all that Adam
had left him before he transgressed. She would have
made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have cleft
his club to make the fire, too. Come, talk not of her.
You shall find her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I
would to God some scholar would conjure her, for
certainly, while she is here, a man may live as quiet
in hell as in a sanctuary, and people sin upon
purpose because they would go thither. So indeed
all disquiet, horror, and perturbation follows her.

Will your Grace command me any service
to the world’s end? I will go on the slightest errand
now to the Antipodes that you can devise to send
me on. I will fetch you a toothpicker now from the
furthest inch of Asia, bring you the length of Prester
John’s foot, fetch you a hair off the great Cham’s
beard, do you any embassage to the Pygmies, rather
than hold three words’ conference with this harpy.
You have no employment for me?

O God, sir, here’s a dish I love not! I cannot
endure my Lady Tongue.

Boy!

In my chamber window lies a book. Bring it
hither to me in the orchard.

I know that, but I would have thee hence
and here again.
I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much
another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviors
to love, will, after he hath laughed at such
shallow follies in others, become the argument of
his own scorn by falling in love—and such a man is
Claudio. I have known when there was no music
with him but the drum and the fife, and now had he
rather hear the tabor and the pipe; I have known
when he would have walked ten mile afoot to see a
good armor, and now will he lie ten nights awake
carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont
to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest
man and a soldier, and now is he turned orthography;
his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so
many strange dishes. May I be so converted and see
with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not. I will not
be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster,
but I’ll take my oath on it, till he have made an
oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool.
One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet
I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all
graces be in one woman, one woman shall not
come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that’s certain;
wise, or I’ll none; virtuous, or I’ll never cheapen
her; fair, or I’ll never look on her; mild, or come not
near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good
discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall
be of what color it please God. Ha! The Prince and
Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbor.

Now, divine air! Now is his soul
ravished. Is it not strange that sheeps’ guts should
hale souls out of men’s bodies? Well, a horn for my
money, when all’s done.

An he had been a dog that should
have howled thus, they would have hanged him. And
I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had as
lief have heard the night raven, come what plague
could have come after it.

Is ’t possible? Sits the wind in that
corner?

I should think this a gull but that the
white-bearded fellow speaks it. Knavery cannot,
sure, hide himself in such reverence.

This can be no trick. The
conference was sadly borne; they have the truth of
this from Hero; they seem to pity the lady. It seems
her affections have their full bent. Love me? Why, it
must be requited! I hear how I am censured. They
say I will bear myself proudly if I perceive the love
come from her. They say, too, that she will rather
die than give any sign of affection. I did never think
to marry. I must not seem proud. Happy are they
that hear their detractions and can put them to
mending. They say the lady is fair; ’tis a truth, I can
bear them witness. And virtuous; ’tis so, I cannot
reprove it. And wise, but for loving me; by my troth,
it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of
her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her! I
may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of
wit broken on me because I have railed so long
against marriage, but doth not the appetite alter? A
man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot
endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and
these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the
career of his humor? No! The world must be peopled.
When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not
think I should live till I were married. Here comes
Beatrice. By this day, she’s a fair lady. I do spy some
marks of love in her.

Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.

You take pleasure then in the message?

Ha! Against my will I am sent to bid youcome in to dinner. There’s a double meaning in
that. I took no more pains for those thanks thanyou took pains to thank me. That’s as much as to
say Any pains that I take for you is as easy asthanks. If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I
do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture.

Gallants, I am not as I have been.

I have the toothache.

Hang it!

Well, everyone can master a grief but he
that has it.

Yet is this no charm for the toothache.—
Old signior, walk aside with me. I have studied eight
or nine wise words to speak to you, which these
hobby-horses must not hear.

How now, interjections? Why, then, some
be of laughing, as ah, ha, he!

This looks not like a nuptial.

How doth the lady?

Sir, sir, be patient.
For my part, I am so attired in wonder
I know not what to say.

Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?

Two of them have the very bent of honor,
And if their wisdoms be misled in this,
The practice of it lives in John the Bastard,
Whose spirits toil in frame of villainies.

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 honor, I will deal in this
As secretly and justly as your soul
Should with your body.

Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?

I will not desire that.

Surely I do believe your fair cousin is
wronged.

Is there any way to show such friendship?

May a man do it?

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

By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me!

I will swear by it that you love me, and I will
make him eat it that says I love not you.

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

What offense, sweet Beatrice?

And do it with all thy heart.

Come, bid me do anything for thee.

Ha! Not for the wide world.

Tarry, sweet Beatrice.

Beatrice—

We’ll be friends first.

Is Claudio thine enemy?

Hear me, Beatrice—

Nay, but Beatrice—

Beat—

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

Think you in your soul the Count Claudio
hath wronged Hero?

Enough, I am engaged. 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.

Good day, my lord.

In a false quarrel there is no true valor. I
came to seek you both.

It is in my scabbard. Shall I draw it?

Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, an
you charge it against me. I pray you, choose another
subject.

Shall I speak a word in your ear?

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

Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily.

Fare you well, boy. You know my mind. I
will leave you now to your gossip-like humor. You
break jests as braggarts 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 killed a sweet and
innocent lady. For my Lord Lackbeard there, he and
I shall meet, and till then peace be with him.

Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve
well at my hands by helping me to the speech of
Beatrice.

In so high a style, Margaret, that no man
living shall come over it, for in most comely truth
thou deservest it.

Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound’s
mouth; it catches.

A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt
a woman. And so, I pray thee, call Beatrice. I give
thee the bucklers.

If you use them, Margaret, you must put in
the pikes with a vice, and they are dangerous
weapons for maids.

And therefore will come.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 carpetmongers,
whose names yet run smoothly in the even
road of a blank verse, why, they were never so truly
turned over and over as my poor self in love. Marry,
I cannot show it in rhyme. I have tried. I can find out
no rhyme to lady but baby—an innocent
rhyme; for scorn, horn—a hard rhyme; for
school, fool—a babbling rhyme; very ominous
endings. No, I was not born under a rhyming
planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms.
Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called
thee?

O, stay but till then!

Only foul words, and thereupon I will kiss
thee.

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?

Suffer love! A good epithet. I do suffer love
indeed, for I love thee against my will.

Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived
in the time of good neighbors. 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.

Question: why, an hour in clamor 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?

And how do you?

Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I
leave you too, for here comes one in haste.

I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be
buried in thy eyes—and, moreover, I will go with
thee to thy uncle’s.

And so am I, being else by faith enforced
To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.

Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.

To bind me, or undo me, one of them.—
Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior,
Your niece regards me with an eye of favor.

And I do with an eye of love requite her.

Your answer, sir, is enigmatical.
But for my will, my will is your goodwill
May stand with ours, this day to be conjoined
In the state of honorable marriage—
In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.

Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low,
And some such strange bull leapt your father’s cow
And got a calf in that same noble feat
Much like to you, for you have just his bleat.

Soft and fair, friar.—Which is Beatrice?

Do not you love me?

Why then, your uncle and the Prince and Claudio
Have been deceived. They swore you did.

Troth, no, no more than reason.

They swore that you were almost sick for me.

’Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?

A miracle! Here’s our own hands against
our hearts. Come, I will have thee, but by this light
I take thee for pity.

Peace! I will stop your mouth.

I’ll tell thee what, prince: a college of
wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor.
Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?
No. If a man will be beaten with brains, he shall
wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I
do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any
purpose that the world can say against it, and
therefore never flout at me for what I have said
against it. For man is a giddy thing, and this is my
conclusion.—For thy part, Claudio, I did think to
have beaten thee, but in that thou art like to be my
kinsman, live unbruised, and love my cousin.

Come, come, we are friends. Let’s have a
dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our
own hearts and our wives’ heels.

First, of my word! Therefore play, music.—
Prince, thou art sad. Get thee a wife, get thee a wife.
There is no staff more reverend than one tipped
with horn.

Think not on him till tomorrow.
I’ll devise thee brave punishments for him.—Strike
up, pipers!

Balthasar

Amen.

No more words. The clerk is answered.

O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice
To slander music any more than once.

Because you talk of wooing, I will sing,
Since many a wooer doth commence his suit
To her he thinks not worthy, yet he woos,
Yet will he swear he loves.

Note this before my notes:
There’s not a note of mine that’s worth the noting.

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Hey, nonny nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no mo,
Of dumps so dull and heavy.
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy.
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Hey, nonny nonny.

And an ill singer, my lord.

The best I can, my lord.

Signior Antonio

At a word, I am not.

To tell you true, I counterfeit him.

At a word, I am not.

Don John
Don Pedro’s brother

I thank you. I am not of many words, but I
thank you.

There is no measure in the occasion that
breeds. Therefore the sadness is without limit.

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

I wonder that thou, being, as thou sayst thou
art, born under Saturn, goest about to apply a moral
medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide
what I am. I must be sad when I have cause, and
smile at no man’s jests; eat when I have stomach,
and wait for no man’s leisure; sleep when I am
drowsy, and tend on no man’s business; laugh when
I am merry, and claw no man in his humor.

I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a
rose in his grace, and it better fits my blood to be
disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob
love from any. In this, though I cannot be said to be
a flattering honest man, it must not be denied but I
am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted with a
muzzle and enfranchised with a clog; therefore I
have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my
mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do
my liking. In the meantime, let me be that I am, and
seek not to alter me.

I make all use of it, for I use it only. Who
comes here?
What news, Borachio?

Will it serve for any model to build mischief
on? What is he for a fool that betroths himself to
unquietness?

Who, the most exquisite Claudio?

A proper squire. And who, and who? Which
way looks he?

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

Come, come, let us thither. This may prove
food to my displeasure. That young start-up hath
all the glory of my overthrow. If I can cross him any
way, I bless myself every way. You are both sure, and
will assist me?

Let us to the great supper. Their cheer is the
greater that I am subdued. Would the cook were o’
my mind! Shall we go prove what’s to be done?

Sure my brother is amorous
on Hero, and hath withdrawn her father to break
with him about it. The ladies follow her, and but one
visor remains.

Are not you Signior Benedick?

Signior, you are very near my brother in his
love. He is enamored on Hero. I pray you dissuade
him from her. She is no equal for his birth. You
may do the part of an honest man in it.

I heard him swear his affection.

Come, let us to the banquet.

It is so. The Count Claudio shall marry the
daughter of Leonato.

Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be
med’cinable to me. I am sick in displeasure to him,
and whatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges
evenly with mine. How canst thou cross this
marriage?

Show me briefly how.

I remember.

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

What proof shall I make of that?

Only to despite them I will endeavor
anything.

Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will
put it in practice. Be cunning in the working this,
and thy fee is a thousand ducats.

I will presently go learn their day of
marriage.

My lord and brother, God save you.

If your leisure served, I would speak with
you.

If it please you. Yet Count Claudio may
hear, for what I would speak of concerns him.

Means your Lordship to be
married tomorrow?

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

You may think I love you not. Let that
appear hereafter, and aim better at me by that I
now will manifest. For my brother, I think he holds
you well, and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect
your ensuing marriage—surely suit ill spent and
labor ill bestowed.

I came hither to tell you; and, circumstances
shortened, for she has been too long
a-talking of, the lady is disloyal.

Even she: Leonato’s Hero, your Hero, every
man’s Hero.

The word is too good to paint out her
wickedness. I could say she were worse. Think you
of a worse title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not
till further warrant. Go but with me tonight, you
shall see her chamber window entered, even the
night before her wedding day. If you love her then,
tomorrow wed her. But it would better fit your
honor to change your mind.

If you dare not trust that you see, confess
not that you know. If you will follow me, I will
show you enough, and when you have seen more
and heard more, proceed accordingly.

I will disparage her no farther till you are
my witnesses. Bear it coldly but till midnight, and
let the issue show itself.

O plague right well prevented! So will you
say when you have seen the sequel.

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

Fie, fie, they are not to be named, my lord,
Not to be spoke of!
There is not chastity enough in language,
Without offense, to utter them.—Thus, pretty lady,
I am sorry for thy much misgovernment.

Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light,
Smother her spirits up.

Don John’s followers
Borachio

I came yonder from a great supper. The
Prince your brother is royally entertained by
Leonato, and I can give you intelligence of an
intended marriage.

Marry, it is your brother’s right hand.

Even he.

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

Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was
smoking a musty room, comes me the Prince and
Claudio, hand in hand, in sad conference. I
whipped me behind the arras, and there heard it
agreed upon that the Prince should woo Hero for
himself, and having obtained her, give her to Count
Claudio.

We’ll wait upon your Lordship.

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

So did I too, and he swore he would marry
her tonight.

Yea, my lord, but I can cross it.

Not honestly, my lord, but so covertly that
no dishonesty shall appear in me.

I think I told your Lordship a year since,
how much I am in the favor of Margaret, the
waiting gentlewoman to Hero.

I can, at any unseasonable instant of the
night, appoint her to look out at her lady’s chamber
window.

The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go
you to the Prince your brother; spare not to tell
him that he hath wronged his honor in marrying
the renowned Claudio, whose estimation do you
mightily hold up, to a contaminated stale, such a
one as Hero.

Proof enough to misuse the Prince, to vex
Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato. Look you
for any other issue?

Go then, find me a meet hour to draw Don
Pedro and the Count Claudio alone. Tell them that
you know that Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal
both to the Prince and Claudio, as in love of your
brother’s honor, who hath made this match, and his
friend’s reputation, who is thus like to be cozened
with the semblance of a maid, that you have discovered
thus. They will scarcely believe this without
trial. Offer them instances, which shall bear no less
likelihood than to see me at her chamber window,
hear me call Margaret Hero, hear Margaret term
me Claudio, and bring them to see this the very
night before the intended wedding, for in the meantime
I will so fashion the matter that Hero shall be
absent, and there shall appear such seeming truth
of Hero’s disloyalty that jealousy shall be called
assurance and all the preparation overthrown.

Be you constant in the accusation, and my
cunning shall not shame me.

What, Conrade!

Conrade, I say!

Mass, and my elbow itched, I thought there
would a scab follow.

Stand thee close, then, under this penthouse,
for it drizzles rain, and I will, like a true
drunkard, utter all to thee.

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

Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible
any villainy should be so rich. For when rich
villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may
make what price they will.

That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou
knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a
cloak, is nothing to a man.

I mean the fashion.

Tush, I may as well say the fool’s the fool.
But seest thou not what a deformed thief this
fashion is?

Didst thou not hear somebody?

Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief
this fashion is, how giddily he turns about all the
hot bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty,
sometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh’s soldiers
in the reechy painting, sometimes like god Bel’s
priests in the old church window, sometimes like
the shaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten
tapestry, where his codpiece seems as massy as his
club?

Not so, neither. But know that I have tonight
wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero’s gentlewoman,
by the name of Hero. She leans me out at
her mistress’ chamber window, bids me a thousand
times goodnight. I tell this tale vilely. I should first
tell thee how the Prince, Claudio, and my master,
planted and placed and possessed by my master
Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable
amiable encounter.

Two of them did, the Prince and Claudio,
but the devil my master knew she was Margaret;
and partly by his oaths, which first possessed them,
partly by the dark night, which did deceive them,
but chiefly by my villainy, which did confirm any
slander that Don John had made, away went Claudio
enraged, swore he would meet her as he was
appointed next morning at the temple, and there,
before the whole congregation, shame her with
what he saw o’ernight and send her home again
without a husband.

We are like to prove a goodly
commodity, being taken up of these men’s bills.

Borachio.

Yea, sir, we hope.

Sir, I say to you we are none.

Master constable—

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 disgraced
her when you should marry her. My villainy
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.

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

If you would know your wronger, look on me.

Yea, even I alone.

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.

Conrade

What the goodyear, my lord, why are you
thus out of measure sad?

You should hear reason.

If not a present remedy, at least a patient
sufferance.

Yea, but you must not make the full show of
this till you may do it without controlment. You
have of late stood out against your brother, and he
hath ta’en you newly into his grace, where it is
impossible you should take true root but by the fair
weather that you make yourself. It is needful that
you frame the season for your own harvest.

Can you make no use of your discontent?

To the death, my lord.

Here, man, I am at thy elbow.

I will owe thee an answer for that. And now
forward with thy tale.

Is it possible that any villainy should be so
dear?

I wonder at it.

Yes, it is apparel.

Yes, the fashion is the fashion.

No, ’twas the vane on the house.

All this I see, and I see that the fashion wears
out more apparel than the man. But art not thou
thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast
shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the
fashion?

And thought they Margaret was Hero?

A commodity in question, I warrant you.—
Come, we’ll obey you.

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

Yea, sir, we hope.

Marry, sir, we say we are none.

Off, coxcomb!

Away! You are an ass, you are an ass!

Dogberry
Master Constable in Messina

Are you good men and true?

Nay, that were a punishment too good for
them if they should have any allegiance in them,
being chosen for the Prince’s watch.

First, who think you the most desartless
man to be constable?

Come hither, neighbor Seacoal.
God hath blessed you with a good
name. To be a well-favored man is the gift of
fortune, but to write and read comes by nature.

You have. I knew it would be your answer.
Well, for your favor, sir, why, give God thanks, and
make no boast of it, and for your writing and
reading, let that appear when there is no need of
such vanity. You are thought here to be the most
senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch;
therefore bear you the lantern. This is your charge:
you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to
bid any man stand, in the Prince’s name.

Why, then, take no note of him, but let him
go, and presently call the rest of the watch together
and thank God you are rid of a knave.

True, and they are to meddle with none but
the Prince’s subjects.—You shall also make no
noise in the streets; for, for the watch to babble and
to talk is most tolerable and not to be endured.

Why, you speak like an ancient and most
quiet watchman, for I cannot see how sleeping
should offend; only have a care that your bills be not
stolen. Well, you are to call at all the alehouses and
bid those that are drunk get them to bed.

Why then, let them alone till they are sober.
If they make you not then the better answer, you
may say they are not the men you took them for.

If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by
virtue of your office, to be no true man, and for such
kind of men, the less you meddle or make with
them, why, the more is for your honesty.

Truly, by your office you may, but I think
they that touch pitch will be defiled. The most
peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to
let him show himself what he is and steal out of
your company.

Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will,
much more a man who hath any honesty in him.

Why, then depart in peace, and let the
child wake her with crying, for the ewe that will
not hear her lamb when it baas will never answer a
calf when he bleats.

This is the end of the charge. You, constable,
are to present the Prince’s own person. If you
meet the Prince in the night, you may stay him.

Five shillings to one on ’t, with any man that
knows the statutes, he may stay him—marry, not
without the Prince be willing, for indeed the watch
ought to offend no man, and it is an offense to stay a
man against his will.

Ha, ah ha!—Well, masters, goodnight. An
there be any matter of weight chances, call up me.
Keep your fellows’ counsels and your own, and
goodnight.—Come, neighbor.

One word more, honest neighbors. I pray
you watch about Signior Leonato’s door, for the
wedding being there tomorrow, there is a great coil
tonight. Adieu, be vigitant, I beseech you.

Masters, masters—

Masters, never
speak, we charge you, let us obey you to go with us.

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

Marry, this it is, sir.

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.

Comparisons are odorous. Palabras, neighbor
Verges.

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.

Yea, an ’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.

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,
neighbor 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 worshiped, all men
are not alike, alas, good neighbor.

Gifts that God gives.

One word, sir. Our watch, sir, have indeed
comprehended two aspicious persons, and we
would have them this morning examined before
your Worship.

It shall be suffigance.

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.

We will spare for no wit, I warrant you.
Here’s that shall drive some of them to a noncome.
Only get the learned writer to set down our excommunication
and meet me at the jail.

Is our whole dissembly appeared?

Marry, that am I, and my partner.

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

Pray, write down Borachio.—Yours,
sirrah?

Write down Master Gentleman Conrade.
Masters, do you serve God?

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?

A marvelous 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.

Well, stand aside.—’Fore God, they are
both in a tale. Have you writ down that they are
none?

Yea, marry, that’s the eftest way.—Let
the watch come forth. Masters, I charge you in the
Prince’s name, accuse these men.

Write down Prince John a villain. Why,
this is flat perjury, to call a prince’s brother villain!

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

Flat burglary as ever was committed.

O, villain! Thou wilt be condemned
into everlasting redemption for this!

Come, let them be opinioned.

God’s my life, where’s the Sexton? Let
him write down the Prince’s officer coxcomb.
Come, bind them.—Thou naughty varlet!

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 proved 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!

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 looked to.

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.

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.

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
remembered 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
used so long and never paid that now men grow
hardhearted and will lend nothing for God’s sake.
Pray you, examine him upon that point.

Your Worship speaks like a most thankful
and reverent youth, and I praise God for you.

God save the foundation.

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 wished, God prohibit it.—
Come, neighbor.

Verges
Dogberry’s partner

Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer
salvation, body and soul.

Well, give them their charge, neighbor
Dogberry.

If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is
none of the Prince’s subjects.

You have been always called a merciful man,
partner.

If you hear a child cry in the
night, you must call to the nurse and bid her still it.

’Tis very true.

Nay, by ’r Lady, that I think he cannot.

By ’r Lady, I think it be so.

Yes, in truth, it is, sir.

Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man
living that is an old man and no honester than I.

And so am I.

Marry, sir, our watch tonight, excepting your
Worship’s presence, ha’ ta’en a couple of as arrant
knaves as any in Messina.

And we must do it wisely.

O, a stool and a cushion for the Sexton.

Nay, that’s certain, we have the exhibition to
examine.

Yea, by Mass, that it is.

Let them be in the hands—

Here, here comes Master Signior Leonato,
and the Sexton too.

George Seacoal
leader of the Watch

Both which, master constable—

How if he will not stand?

How if they will not?

Well, sir.

If we know him to be a thief, shall we not
lay hands on him?

Well, masters, we hear our charge. Let us go
sit here upon the church bench till two, and then all
to bed.

Peace, stir not.

Some treason, masters. Yet stand
close.

Call up the right Master Constable.
We have here recovered the most
dangerous piece of lechery that ever was known in
the commonwealth.

Marry, that he had received a thousand
ducats of Don John for accusing the Lady Hero
wrongfully.

This is all.

First Watchman

Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal,
for they can write and read.

I know that Deformed. He
has been a vile thief this seven year. He goes up and
down like a gentleman. I remember his name.

We charge you in the Prince’s name
stand!

And one Deformed is one of them. I
know him; he wears a lock.

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

This man said, sir, that Don John, the
Prince’s brother, was a villain.

And that Count Claudio did mean,
upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole
assembly, and not marry her.

Second Watchman

We will rather sleep than talk.
We know what belongs to a watch.

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

Sexton

Which be the malefactors?

But which are the offenders that are to be
examined? Let them come before Master
Constable.

Master constable, you go not the way to
examine. You must call forth the watch that are
their accusers.

What heard you him say else?

What else, fellow?

What else?

And this is more, masters, than you can deny.
Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away.
Hero was in this manner accused, in this very
manner refused, 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.

Friar Francis

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

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

If either of you know any inward impediment
why you should not be conjoined, I charge you on
your souls to utter it.

Know you any, count?

Have comfort, lady.

Yea, wherefore should she not?

Hear me a little,
For I have only silent beenso long,
And given way unto this course of fortune,
By noting of the lady. I have marked
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 appeared a fire
To burn the errors that these princes hold
Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool,
Trust not my reading nor my observations,
Which with experimental seal doth warrant
The tenor of my book; trust not my age,
My reverence, calling, nor divinity,
If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here
Under some biting error.

Lady, what man is he you are accused of?

There is some strange misprision in the princes.

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.

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 maintained,
Upon the instant that she was accused,
Shall be lamented, pitied, and excused
Of every hearer. For it so falls out
That what we have we prize not to the worth
Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked 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 appareled in more precious habit,
More moving, delicate, and full of life,
Into the eye and prospect of his soul,
Than when she lived indeed. Then shall he mourn,
If ever love had interest in his liver,
And wish he had not so accused her,
No, though he 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 leveled 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.

’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 prolonged. Have patience and
endure.

Did I not tell you she was innocent?

To do what, signior?

And my help.
Here comes the Prince and Claudio.

All this amazement can I qualify,
When after that the holy rites are ended,
I’ll tell you largely of fair Hero’s death.
Meantime let wonder seem familiar,
And to the chapel let us presently.

Messenger

He is very near by this. He was not three
leagues off when I left him.

But few of any sort, and none of name.

Much deserved on his part, and equally
remembered by Don Pedro. He hath borne himself
beyond the promise of his age, doing in the figure
of a lamb the feats of a lion. He hath indeed better
bettered expectation than you must expect of me to
tell you how.

I have already delivered him letters, and
there appears much joy in him, even so much that
joy could not show itself modest enough without a
badge of bitterness.

In great measure.

I know none of that name, lady. There
was none such in the army of any sort.

O, he’s returned, and as pleasant as ever
he was.

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

And a good soldier too, lady.

A lord to a lord, a man to a man, stuffed
with all honorable virtues.

Is ’t possible?

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

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

I will hold friends with you, lady.

Don Pedro is approached.

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

Messenger

My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight,
And brought with armed men back to Messina.

Boy

Signior?

I am here already, sir.

Musicians, Lords, Attendants, Son to Leonato’s brother
MUSICIANS
ATTENDANTS
LORDS
FIRST_LORD

It is, my lord.

LEONATOS_BROTHERS_SON
X

About

"To See or Not to See" is a web-based tool for the visualization and analysis of quantitative characteristics of Shakespeare plays.

We use resources from the Folger Digital Texts as input data for our tool. The Folger Shakespeare texts are annotated with structural markup from the Text Encoding Initiative (TEI).

Our tool interactively visualizes which character says what and how much at a particular point in time, allowing customized interpretations of Shakespeare plays on the basis of quantitative aspects, without having to care about technical hurdles such as markup or programming languages.

Please see our corresponding paper for more detailed information about the project.

Feel free to report errors to the author.

citation:

Wilhelm, T., Burghardt, M. & Wolff, C. (2013). "To See or Not to See" - An Interactive Tool for the Visualization and Analysis of Shakespeare Plays. In Franken-Wendelstorf, R., Lindinger, E. & Sieck J. (eds): Kultur und Informatik - Visual Worlds & Interactive Spaces, Berlin (pp. 175-185). Glückstadt: Verlag Werner Hülsbusch.
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