Beatrice his neece, and a kinsman.

Was not Count Iohn here at supper?

I saw him not.

How tartly that Gentleman lookes, I neuer can see

him, but I am heart-burn'd an howre after.

He is of a very melancholy disposition.

Hee were an excellent man that were made iust

in the mid-way betweene him and Benedicke, the one is

too like an image and saies nothing, and the other too

like my Ladies eldest sonne, euermore tatling.

Then halfe signior Benedicks tongue in Count

Iohns mouth, and halfe Count Iohns melancholy in

Signior Benedicks face.

With a good legge, and a good foot vnckle, and

money enough in his purse, such a man would winne any

woman in the world, if he could get her good will.

By my troth Neece, thou wilt neuer get thee a

husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.

Infaith shee's too curst.

Too curst is more then curst, I shall lessen

Gods sending that way: for it is said, God sends a curst

Cow short hornes, but to a Cow too curst he sends none.

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

hornes.

Iust, if he send me no husband, for the which

blessing, I am at him vpon my knees euery morning and

euening: Lord, I could not endure a husband with a

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

You may light vpon a husband that hath no beard.

What should I doe with him? dresse him in my

apparell, and make him my waiting gentlewoman? he

that hath a beard, is more then a youth: and he that hath

no beard, is lesse then a man: and hee that is more then a

youth, is not for mee: and he that is lesse then a man, I am

not for him: therefore I will euen take sixepence in

earnest of the Berrord, and leade his Apes into hell.

Well then, goe you into hell.

No, but to the gate, and there will the Deuill

meete mee like an old Cuckold with hornes on his head,

and say, get you to heauen Beatrice, get you to heauen,

heere's no place for you maids, so deliuer I vp my Apes,

and away to S. Peter: for the heauens, hee shewes mee

where the Batchellers sit, and there liue wee as merry as

the day is long.

Well neece, I trust you will be rul'd

by your father.

Yes faith, it is my cosens dutie to make

curtsie, and say, as it please you: but yet for all

that cosin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make

an other cursie, and say, father, as it please me.

Well neece, I hope to see you one day fitted with

a husband.

Not till God make men of some other mettall

then earth, would it not grieue a woman to be

ouermastred with a peece of valiant dust? to make

account of her life to a clod of waiward marle? no

vnckle, ile none: Adams sonnes are my brethren, and

truly I hold it a sinne to match in my kinred.

Daughter, remember what I told you, if the

Prince doe solicit you in that kinde, you know your

answere.

The fault will be in the musicke cosin, if you

be not woed in good time: if the Prince bee too important,

tell him there is measure in euery thing, & so dance

out the answere, for heare me Hero, wooing, wedding,

& repenting, is as a Scotch ijgge, a measure, and a

cinque-pace: the first suite is hot and hasty like a Scotch

ijgge (and full as fantasticall) the wedding manerly modest,

(as a measure) full of state & aunchentry, and

then comes repentance, and with his bad legs falls into

the cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sinkes into his

graue.

Cosin you apprehend passing shrewdly.

I haue a good eye vnckle, I can see a Church

by daylight.

The reuellers are entring brother, make good

roome.

Enter Prince, Pedro, Claudio, and Benedicke, and Balthasar, or dumbe

Iohn, Maskers with a drum.

Lady, will you walke about with your friend?

So you walke softly, and looke sweetly, and say

nothing, I am yours for the walke, and especially when

I walke away.

With me in your company.

I may say so when I please.

And when please you to say so?

When I like your fauour, for God defend the Lute

should be like the case.

My visor is Philemons roofe, within the house is Loue.

Why then your visor should be thatcht.

Speake low if you speake

Loue.

Well, I would you did like me.

So would not I for your owne sake, for I haue

manie ill qualities.

Which is one?

I say my prayers alowd.

I loue you the better, the hearers may cry

Amen.

God match me with a good dauncer.

Amen.

And God keepe him out of my sight when the

daunce is done: answer Clarke.

No more words, the Clarke is answered.

I know you well enough, you are Signior Anthonio.

At a word, I am not.

I know you by the wagling of your head.

To tell you true, I counterfet him.

You could neuer doe him so ill well, vnlesse you

were the very man: here's his dry hand vp & down,

you are he, you are he.

At a word I am not.

Come, come, doe you thinke I doe not know you by

your excellent wit? can vertue hide it selfe? goe to, mumme,

you are he, graces will appeare, and there's an end.

Will you not tell me who told you so?

No, you shall pardon me.

Nor will you not tell me who you are?

Not now.

That I was disdainfull, and that I had my good

wit out of the hundred merry tales: well, this was

Signior Benedicke that said so.

What's he?

I am sure you know him well enough.

Not I, beleeue me.

Did he neuer make you laugh?

I pray you what is he?

Why he is the Princes ieaster, a very dull foole,

onely his gift is, in deuising impossible slanders, none but

Libertines delight in him, and the commendation is not

in his witte, but in his villanie, for hee both pleaseth 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 boorded

me.

When I know the Gentleman, Ile tell him what

you say.

Do, do, hee'l but breake a comparison or two

on me, which peraduenture (not markt, or not laugh'd

at) strikes him into melancholly, and then there's a

Partridge wing saued, for the foole will eate no supper

that night.

We must follow the Leaders.

In euery good thing.

Nay, if they leade to any ill, I will leaue them at

the next turning.

Exeunt. Musicke for the dance.

Sure my brother is amorous on Hero, and hath

withdrawne her father to breake with him about it: the

Ladies follow her, and but one visor remaines.

And that is Claudio, I know him by his

bearing.

Are not you signior Benedicke?

You know me well, I am hee.

Signior, you are verie neere my Brother in his

loue, he is enamor'd on Hero, I pray you disswade

him from her, she is no equall for his birth: you may

do the part of an honest man in it.

How know you he loues her?

I heard him sweare his affection,

So did I too, and he swore he would marrie her

to night.

Come, let vs to the banquet.

Ex. manet Clau.

Thus answere I in name of Benedicke,

But heare these ill newes with the eares of Claudio:

'Tis certaine so, the Prince woes for himselfe:

Friendship is constant in all other things,

Saue in the Office and affaires of loue:

Therefore all hearts in loue vse their owne tongues.

Let euerie eye negotiate for it selfe,

And trust no Agent: for beautie is a witch,

Against whose charmes, faith melteth into blood:

This is an accident of hourely proofe,

Which I mistrusted not. Farewell therefore Hero.

Enter Benedicke.

Count Claudio.

Yea, the same.

Come, will you go with me?

Whither?

Euen to the next Willow, about your own businesse,

Count. What fashion will you weare the Garland

off? About your necke, like an Vsurers chaine? Or vnder

your arme, like a Lieutenants scarfe? You must weare it

one way, for the Prince hath got your Hero.

I wish him ioy of her.

Why that's spoken like an honest Drouier, so

they sel Bullockes: but did you thinke the Prince wold

haue serued you thus?

I pray you leaue me.

Ho now you strike like the blindman, 'twas

the boy that stole your meate, and you'l beat the post.

If it will not be, Ile leaue you.

Exit.

Alas poore hurt fowle, now will he creepe into

sedges: But that my Ladie Beatrice should know me,

& not know me: the Princes foole! Hah? It may be I

goe vnder that title, because I am merrie: yea but so I am

apt to do my selfe wrong: I am not so reputed, it is the

base (though bitter) disposition of Beatrice, that putt's the

world into her person, and so giues me out: well, Ile be

reuenged as I may.

Enter the Prince.

Now Signior, where's the Count, did you

see him?

Troth my Lord, I haue played the part of Lady

Fame, I found him heere as melancholy as a Lodge in a

Warren, I told him, and I thinke, told him true, that

your grace had got the will 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 binde him

a rod, as being worthy to be whipt.

To be whipt, what's his fault?

The flat transgression of a Schoole-boy, who

being ouer-ioyed with finding a birds nest, shewes it his

companion, and he steales it.

Wilt thou make a trust, a transgression? the

transgression is in the stealer.

Yet it had not beene amisse the rod had beene

made, and the garland too, for the garland he might

haue worne himselfe, and the rod hee might haue bestowed

on you, who (as I take it) haue stolne his birds nest.

I will but teach them to sing, and restore them

to the owner.

If their singing answer your saying, by my

faith you say honestly.

The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrell to you, the

Gentleman that daunst with her, told her shee is much

wrong'd by you.

O she misusde me past the indurance of a

block: an oake but with one greene leafe on it, would haue

answered her: my very visor began to assume life, and

scold with her: shee told mee, not thinking I had beene

my selfe, that I was the Princes Iester, and that I was duller

then a great thaw, hudling iest vpon iest, with such

impossible conueiance vpon me, that I stood like a man

at a marke, with a whole army shooting at me: shee

speakes poynyards, and euery word stabbes: if her breath

were as terrible as terminations, there were no liuing

neere her, she would infect to the north starre: I would not

marry her, though she were indowed with all that

Adam had left him before he transgrest, she would

haue made Hercules haue turnd spit, yea, and haue cleft

his club to make the fire too: come, talke not of her, you

shall finde her the infernall Ate in good apparell. I would to

God some scholler would coniure her, for certainely while

she is heere, a man may liue as quiet in hell, as in a sanctuary,

and people sinne vpon purpose, because they would

goe thither, so indeed all disquiet, horror, and perturbation

followes her.

Enter Claudio and Beatrice, Leonato, Hero.

Looke heere she comes.

Will your Grace command mee any seruice to

the worlds end? I will goe on the slightest arrand now

to the Antypodes that you can deuise to send me on: I

will fetch you a tooth-picker now from the furthest inch

of Asia: bring you the length of Prester Iohns foot: fetch

you a hayre off the great Chams beard: doe you any

embassage to the Pigmies, rather then hould three words

conference, with this Harpy: you haue no employment

for me?

None, but to desire your good company.

O God sir, heeres a dish I loue not, I cannot

indure this Lady tongue.

Exit.

Come Lady, come, you haue lost the heart of

Signior Benedicke.

Indeed my Lord, hee lent it me a while, and I

gaue him vse for it, a double heart for a single one,

marry once before he wonne it of mee, with false dice,

therefore your Grace may well say I haue lost it.

You haue put him downe Lady, you haue put

him downe.

So I would not he should do me, my Lord, lest

I should prooue the mother of fooles: I haue brought

Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seeke.

Why how now Count, wherfore are you

sad?

Not sad my Lord.

How then? sicke?

Neither, my Lord.

The Count is neither sad, nor sicke, nor merry,

nor well: but ciuill Count, ciuill as an Orange, and something

of a iealous complexion.

Ifaith Lady, I thinke your blazon to be true,

though Ile be sworne, if hee be so, his conceit is false:

heere Claudio, I haue wooed in thy name, and faire

Hero is won, I haue broke with her father, and his good

will obtained, name the day of marriage, and God giue

thee ioy.

Count, take of me my daughter, and with her

my fortunes: his grace hath made the match, & all

grace say, Amen to it.

Speake Count, tis your Qu.

Silence is the perfectest Herault of ioy, I were

but little happy if I could say, how much? Lady, as you

are mine, I am yours, I giue away my selfe for you, and

doat vpon the exchange.

Speake cosin, or (if you cannot) stop his mouth

with a kisse, and let not him speake neither.

In faith Lady you haue a merry heart.

Yea my Lord I thanke it, poore foole it keepes on

the windy side of Care, my coosin tells him in his eare

that he is in my heart.

And so she doth coosin.

Good Lord for alliance: thus goes euery one

to the world but I, and I am sun-burn'd, I may sit in a

corner and cry, heigh ho for a husband.

Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.

I would rather haue one of your fathers getting:

hath your Grace ne're a brother like you? your

father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by

them.

Will you haue me? Lady.

No, my Lord, vnlesse I might haue another for

working-daies, your Grace is too costly to weare euerie

day: but I beseech your Grace pardon mee, I was borne

to speake all mirth, and no matter.

Your silence most offends me, and to be

merry, best becomes you, for out of question, you were

born in a merry howre.

No sure my Lord, my Mother cried, but then

there was a starre daunst, and vnder that was I borne:

cosins God giue you ioy.

Neece, will you looke to those rhings I told you

of?

I cry you mercy Vncle, by

your Graces pardon.

Exit Beatrice.

By my troth a pleasant spirited Lady.

There's little of the melancholy element in her

my Lord, she is neuer sad, but when she sleepes, and not

euer sad then: for I haue heard my daughter say, she hath

often dreamt of vnhappinesse, and wakt her selfe with

laughing.

Shee cannot indure to heare tell of a husband.

O, by no meanes, she mocks all her wooers out

of suite.

She were an excellent wife for Benedick.

O Lord, my Lord, if they were but a weeke

married, they would talke themselues madde.

Counte Claudio, when meane you to goe to

Church?

To morrow my Lord, Time goes on crutches,

till Loue haue all his rites.

Not till monday, my deare sonne, which is hence

a iust seuen night, and a time too briefe too, to haue all

things answer minde.

Come, you shake the head at so long a

breathing, but I warrant thee Claudio, the time shall

not goe dully by vs, I will in the interim, vndertake one

of Hercules labors, which is, to bring Signior Benedicke

and the Lady Beatrice into a mountaine of affection,

th'one with th'other, I would faine haue it a match, and

I doubt not but to fashion it, if you three will but

minister such assistance as I shall giue you direction.

My Lord, I am for you, though it cost mee ten

nights watchings.

And I my Lord.

And you to gentle Hero?

I will doe any modest office, my Lord, to helpe my

cosin to a good husband.

And Benedick is not the vnhopefullest husband

that I know: thus farre can I praise him, hee is of a

noble straine, of approued valour, and confirm'd honesty,

I will teach you how to humour your cosin, that shee

shall fall in loue with Benedicke, and I, with your two

helpes, will so practise on Benedicke, that in despight of

his quicke wit, and his queasie stomacke, hee shall fall in

loue with Beatrice: if wee can doe this, Cupid is no

longer an Archer, his glory shall be ours, for wee are the

onely loue-gods, goe in with me, and I will tell you my

drift.

Exit.

Enter Iohn and Borachio.

It is so, the Count Claudio shal marry the

daughter of Leonato.

Yea my Lord, but I can crosse it.

Any barre, any crosse, any impediment, will be

medicinable to me, I am sicke in displeasure to him,

and whatsoeuer comes athwart his affection, ranges

euenly with mine, how canst thou crosse this marriage?

Not honestly my Lord, but so couertly, that

no dishonesty shall appeare in me.

Shew me breefely how.

I thinke I told your Lordship a yeere since, how

much I am in the fauour of Margaret, the

waiting gentle-woman to Hero.

I remember.

I can at any vnseasonable instant of the night,

appoint her to look out at her Ladies chamber window.

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

marriage?

The poyson of that lies in you to temper, goe

you to the Prince your brother, spare not to tell him,

that hee hath wronged his Honor in marrying the renowned

Claudio, whose estimation do you mightily

hold vp, to a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero.

What proofe shall I make of that?

Proofe enough, to misuse the Prince, to vexe

Claudio, to vndoe Hero, and kill Leonato, looke you for

any other issue?

Onely to despight them, I will endeauour

any thing.

Goe then, finde me a meete howre, to draw on

Pedro and the Count Claudio alone, tell them that

you know that Hero loues me, intend a kinde of zeale both

to the Prince and Claudio (as in a loue of your brothers

honor who hath made this match) and his friends

reputation, who is thus like to be cosen'd with the semblance

of a maid, that you haue discouer'd thus: they

will scarcely beleeue this without triall: offer them

instances which shall beare no lesse likelihood, than to

see mee at her chamber window, heare me call Margaret,

Hero; heare Margaret terme me Claudio, and bring them

to see this the very night before the intended wedding,

for in the meane time, I will so fashion the matter, that

Hero shall be absent, and there shall appeare such seeming

truths of Heroes disloyaltie, that iealousie shall be cal'd

assurance, and all the preparation ouerthrowne.

Grow this to what aduerse issue it can, I will

put it in practise: be cunning in the working this, and

thy fee is a thousand ducates.

Be thou constant in the accusation, and my

cunning shall not shame me.

I will presentlie goe learne their day of marriage.

Exit.

Enter Benedicke alone.

Boy.

Signior.

In my chamber window lies a booke, bring it

hither to me in the orchard.

I am heere already sir.

I know that, but I would haue thee hence, and

heere againe.

I doe much wonder, that one man seeing how much

another man is a foole, when he dedicates his behauiours

to loue, will after hee hath laught at such shallow

follies in others, become the argument of his owne

scorne, by falling in loue, & such a man is Claudio, I

haue known when there was no musicke with him but the

drum and the fife, and now had hee rather heare the taber

and the pipe: I haue knowne when he would haue walkt

ten mile afoot, to see a good armor, and now will he lie

ten nights awake caruing the fashion of a new dublet:

he was wont to speake plaine, & to the purpose (like an

honest man & a souldier) and now is he turn'd orthography,

his words are a very fantasticall banquet, iust so

many strange dishes: may I be so conuerted, & see with

these eyes? I cannot tell, I thinke not: I will not bee

sworne, but loue may transforme me to an oyster, but Ile

take my oath on it, till he haue made an oyster of me, he

shall neuer make me such a foole: one woman is faire, yet

I am well: another is wise, yet I am well: another vertuous,

yet I am well: but till all graces be in one woman,

one woman shall not come in my grace: rich shee shall

be, that's certaine: wise, or Ile none: vertuous, or Ile

neuer cheapen her: faire, or Ile neuer looke on her: milde,

or come not neere me: Noble, or not for an Angell: of

good discourse: an excellent Musitian, and her haire shal

be of what colour it please God, hah! the Prince and

Monsieur Loue, I will hide me in the Arbor.

Enter Prince, Leonato, Claudio, and Iacke Wilson.

Come, shall we heare this musicke?

Yea my good Lord: how still the euening is,

As husht on purpose to grace harmonie.

See you where Benedicke hath hid himselfe?

O very well my Lord: the musicke ended,

Wee'll fit the kid-foxe with a penny worth.

Come Balthasar, wee'll heare that song again.

O good my Lord, taxe not so bad a voyce,

To slander musicke any more then once.

It is the witnesse still of excellency, / To slander Musicke any more then once. / Prince. It is the witnesse still of excellencie,

To put a strange face on his owne perfection,

I pray thee sing, and let me woe no more.

Because you talke of wooing, I will sing,

Since many a wooer doth commence his suit,

To her he thinkes not worthy, yet he wooes,

Yet will he sweare he loues.

Nay pray thee come,

Or if thou wilt hold longer argument,

Doe it in notes.

Note this before my notes,

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

Why these are very crotchets that he speaks,

Note notes forsooth, and nothing.

Now diuine aire, now is his soule rauisht, is

it not strange that sheepes guts should hale soules out of

mens bodies? well, a horne for my money when all's

done.

The Song.

Sigh no more Ladies, sigh no more,

Men were deceiuers euer,

One foote in Sea, and one on shore,

To one thing constant neuer,

Then sigh not so, but let them goe,

And be you blithe and bonnie,

Conuerting all your sounds of woe,

Into hey nony nony.

Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,

Of dumps so dull and heauy,

The fraud of men were euer so,

Since summer first was leauy,

Then sigh not so, &c.

By my troth a good song.

And an ill singer, my Lord.

Ha, no, no faith, thou singst well enough

for a shift.

And he had been a dog that should haue

howld thus, they would haue hang'd him, and I pray

God his bad voyce bode no mischiefe, I had as liefe haue

heard the night-rauen, come what plague could haue

come after it.

Yea marry, dost thou heare Balthasar? I

pray thee get vs some excellent musick: for to morrow

night we would haue it at the Lady Heroes

chamber window.

The best I can, my Lord.

Do so, farewell.

Exit Balthasar.

Come hither Leonato, what was it you told me of to day,

that your Niece Beatrice was in loue with signior

Benedicke?

O I, stalke on, stalke on/span>, the foule sits. I

did neuer thinke that Lady would haue loued any man.

No, nor I neither, but most wonderful, that

she should so dote on Signior Benedicke, whom shee hath

in all outward behauiours seemed euer to abhorre.

Is't possible? sits the winde in that

corner?

By my troth my Lord, I cannot tell what to

thinke of it, but that she loues him with an inraged affection,

it is past the infinite of thought.

May be she doth but counterfeit.

Faith like enough.

O God! counterfeit? there was neuer counterfeit

of passion, came so neere the life of passion as she

discouers it.

Why what effects of passion shewes she?

Baite the hooke well,

this fish will bite.

What effects my Lord? shee will sit you, you

heard my daughter tell you how.

She did indeed.

How, how I pray you? you amaze me, I

would haue thought her spirit had beene inuincible

against all assaults of affection.

I would haue sworne it had, my Lord, especially

against Benedicke.

I should thinke this a gull, but that the

white-bearded fellow speakes it: knauery cannot sure

hide himselfe in such reuerence.

He hath tane th'

infection, hold it vp.

Hath shee made her affection known to

No, and sweares she neuer will, that's her

torment.

'Tis true indeed, so your daughter saies: shall

I, saies she, that haue so oft encountred him with

scorne, write to him that I loue him?

This saies shee now when shee is beginning to

write to him, for shee'll be vp twenty times a night, and

there will she sit in her smocke, till she haue writ a sheet

of paper: my daughter tells vs all.

Now you talke of a sheet of paper, I remember

a pretty iest your daughter told vs of.

O when she had writ it, & was reading it

ouer, she found Benedicke and Beatrice betweene the

sheete.

That.

O she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence,

raild at her self, that she should be so immodest

to write, to one that shee knew would flout her:

I measure him, saies she, by my owne spirit, for I

should flout him if hee writ to mee, yea though I loue

him, I should.

Then downe vpon her knees she falls, weepes,

sobs, beates her heart, teares her hayre, praies, curses, O

sweet Benedicke, God giue me patience.

She doth indeed, my daughter saies so, and the

extasie hath so much ouerborne her, that my daughter

is somtime afeard she will doe a desperate out-rage to

her selfe, it is very true.

It were good that Benedicke knew of it by

some other, if she will not discouer it.

To what end? he would but make a sport of it,

and torment the poore Lady worse.

And he should, it were an almes to hang him,

shee's an excellent sweet Lady, and (out of all suspition,)

she is vertuous.

And she is exceeding wise.

In euery thing, but in louing Benedicke.

O my Lord, wisedome and bloud combating in so

tender a body, we haue ten proofes to one, that bloud

hath the victory, I am sorry for her, as I haue iust cause,

being her Vncle, and her Guardian.

I would shee had bestowed this dotage on mee,

I would haue daft all other respects, and made her halfe

my selfe: I pray you tell Benedicke of it, and heare what

he will say.

Were it good thinke you?

Hero thinkes surely she wil die, for she saies she

will die, if hee loue her not, and shee will die ere shee make

her loue knowne, and she will die if hee wooe her, rather

than shee will bate one breath of her accustomed

crossenesse.

She doth well, if she should make tender of

her loue, 'tis very possible hee'l scorne it, for the man

(as you know all) hath a contemptible spirit.

He is a very proper man.

He hath indeed a good outward happines.

'Fore God, and in my minde very wise.

He doth indeed shew some sparkes that are

like wit.

And I take him to be valiant.

As Hector, I assure you, and in the managing

of quarrels you may see hee is wise, for either hee

auoydes them with great discretion, or vndertakes them

with a Christian-like feare.

If hee doe feare God, a must necessarilie keepe

peace, if hee breake the peace, hee ought to enter into a

quarrell with feare and trembling.

And so will he doe, for the man doth fear God,

howsoeuer it seemes not in him, by some large ieasts hee

will make: well, I am sorry for your niece, shall we goe

see Benedicke, and tell him of her loue.

Neuer tell him, my Lord, let her weare it out with

good counsell.

Nay that's impossible, she may weare her heart

out first.

Well, we will heare further of it by your

daughter, let it coole the while, I loue Benedicke well, and

I could wish he would modestly examine himselfe, to see

how much he is vnworthy to haue so good a Lady.

My Lord, will you walke? dinner is ready.

If he do not doat on her vpon this, I wil

neuer trust my expectation.

Let there be the same Net spread

for her, and that must your daughter and her gentlewoman

carry: the sport will be, when they hold one

an opinion of anothers dotage, and no such matter,

that's the Scene that I would see, which will be meerely a

dumbe shew: let vs send her to call him into dinner.

Exeunt.

This can be no tricke, the

conference was sadly borne, they haue the truth of this

from Hero, they seeme to pittie the Lady: it seemes her

affections haue the full bent: loue me? why it must

be requited: I heare how I am censur'd, they say I will

beare my selfe proudly, if I perceiue the loue come from

her: they say too, that she will rather die than giue any

signe of affection: I did neuer thinke to marry, I must not

seeme proud, happy are they that heare their detractions,

and can put them to mending: they say the Lady is faire,

'tis a truth, I can beare them witnesse: and vertuous, tis so,

I cannot reprooue it, and wise, but for louing me, by my

troth it is no addition to her witte, nor no great argument

of her folly; for I wil be horribly in loue with her, I may

chance haue some odde quirkes and remnants of witte broken

on mee, because I haue rail'd so long against marriage:

but doth not the appetite alter? a man loues the meat in

his youth, that he cannot indure in his age. Shall quips

and sentences, and these paper bullets of the braine awe a

man from the careere of his humour? No, the world must

be peopled. When I said I would die a batcheler, I did

not think I should liue till I were maried, here comes

Beatrice: by this day, shee's a faire Lady, I doe spie some

markes of loue in her.

Enter Beatrice.

Against my wil I am sent to bid you come in to

dinner.

Faire Beatrice, I thanke you for your paines.

I tooke no more paines for those thankes, then

you take paines to thanke me, if it had been painefull, I

would not haue come.

You take pleasure then in the message.

Yea iust so much as you may take vpon a

kniues point, and choake a daw withall: you haue no

stomacke signior, fare you well.

Exit.

Ha, against my will I am sent to bid you

come into dinner: there's a double meaning in that: I

tooke no more paines for those thankes then you tooke paines

to thanke me, that's as much as to say, any paines that

I take for you is as easie as thankes: if I do not take pitty of

her I am a villaine, if I doe not loue her I am a Iew, I will

goe get her picture.

Exit.

Was not Count John here at supper?

I saw him not.

How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see

him but I am heart-burned an hour after.

He is of a very melancholy disposition.

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.

Then half Signor Benedick's tongue in Count

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

Signor Benedick's face –

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 'a could get her good will.

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.

Too curst is more than curst. I shall lessen

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

cow short horns ’, but to a cow too curst he sends none.

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

horns.

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 woollen.

You may light on a husband that hath no beard.

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 bear-ward, and lead his apes into hell.

Well, then, go you 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 you to 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.

(to Hero)

Well, niece, I trust you will be ruled

by your father.

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 it please me.’

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

a husband.

Not till God make men of some other metal

than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be

overmastered with a pierce 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.

Daughter, remember what I told you. If the

Prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your

answer.

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.

Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.

I have a good eye, uncle; I can see a church

by daylight.

The revellers are entering, brother; make good

room.

Lady, will you walk a bout with your friend?

So you walk softly, and look sweetly, and say

nothing, I am yours for the walk; and especially when

I walk away.

With me in your company?

I may say so, when I please.

And when please you to say so?

When I like your favour; for God defend the lute

should be like the case!

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

Why, then, your visor should be thatched.

Speak low, if you speak love.

Well, I would you did like me.

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

many ill qualities.

Which is one?

I say my prayers aloud.

I love you the better; the hearers may cry

Amen.

God match me with a good dancer!

Amen.

And God keep him out of my sight when the

dance is done! Answer, clerk.

No more words; the clerk is answered.

I know you well enough; you are Signor Antonio.

At a word, I am not.

I know you by the waggling of your head.

To tell you true, I counterfeit him.

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.

At a word, I am not.

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.

Will you not tell me who told you so?

No, you shall pardon me.

Nor will you not tell me who you are?

Not now.

That I was disdainful, and that I had my good

wit out of the ‘ Hundred Merry Tales ’ – well, this was

Signor Benedick that said so.

What's he?

I am sure you know him well enough.

Not I, believe me.

Did he never make you laugh?

I pray you, what is he?

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.

When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him what

you say.

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.

In every good thing.

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

the next turning.

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.

And that is Claudio; I know him by his

bearing.

Are not you Signor Benedick?

You know me well; I am he.

Signor, you are very near my brother in his

love. He is enamoured 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.

How know you he loves her?

I heard him swear his affection.

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

tonight.

Come, let us to the banquet.

Thus answer I in the 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!

Count Claudio?

Yea, the same.

Come, will you go with me?

Whither?

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.

I wish him joy of her.

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

they sell bullocks. But did you think the Prince would

have served you thus?

I pray you, leave me.

Ho! Now you strike like the blind man; 'twas

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

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

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.

Now, signor, where's the Count? Did you

see him?

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 good will 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.

To be whipped! What's his fault?

The flat transgression of a schoolboy, who,

being overjoyed with finding a bird's nest, shows it his

companion, and he steals it.

Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The

transgression is in the stealer.

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.

I will but teach them to sing, and restore them

to the owner.

If their singing answer your saying, by my

faith you say honestly.

The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you; the

gentleman that danced with her told her she is much

wronged by you.

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.

Look, here she comes.

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 tooth-picker 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 Pigmies, rather than hold three words'

conference with this harpy. You have no employment

for me?

None, but to desire your good company.

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

endure my Lady Tongue.

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

Signor Benedick.

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.

You have put him down, lady, you have put

him down.

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.

Why, how now, Count! Wherefore are you

sad?

Not sad, my lord.

How then? Sick?

Neither, my lord.

The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry,

nor well; but civil count, civil as an orange, and something

of that jealous complexion.

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

will obtained; name the day of marriage, and God give

thee joy!

Count, take of me my daughter, and with her

my fortunes. His grace hath made the match, and all

Grace say Amen to it!

Speak, Count, 'tis your cue.

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.

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

with a kiss, and let not him speak neither.

In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.

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.

And so she doth, cousin.

Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one

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

corner and cry ‘ Heigh-ho for a husband ’!

Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.

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.

Will you have me, lady?

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.

Your silence most offends me, and to be

merry best becomes you; for, out o' question, you were

born in a merry hour.

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!

Niece, will you look to those things I told you

of?

I cry you mercy, uncle. (To Don Pedro) By

your grace's pardon.

By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.

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 dreamed of unhappiness and waked herself with

laughing.

She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.

O, by no means; she mocks all her wooers out

of suit.

She were an excellent wife for Benedick.

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

married, they would talk themselves mad.

County Claudio, when mean you to go to

church.

Tomorrow, my lord. Time goes on crutches

till love have all his rites.

Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence

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

things answer my mind.

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' labours; which is, to bring Signor 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.

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

nights' watchings.

And I, my lord.

And you too, gentle Hero?

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

cousin to a good husband.

And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband

that I know. Thus far can I praise him: he is of a

noble strain, of approved valour and confirmed honesty.

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

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

helps, will so practise 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.

It is so; the Count Claudio shall marry the

daughter of Leonato.

Yea, my lord, but I can cross it.

Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be

medicinable 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?

Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly that

no dishonesty shall appear in me.

Show me briefly how.

I think I told your lordship a year since, how

much I am in the favour of Margaret, the

waiting-gentlewoman to Hero.

I remember.

I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night,

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

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

marriage?

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 honour in marrying the renowned

Claudio – whose estimation do you mightily

hold up – to a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero.

What proof shall I make of that?

Proof enough to misuse the Prince, to vex

Claudio, to undo Hero and kill Leonato. Look you for

any other issue?

Only to despite them, I will endeavour

anything.

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

honour, 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.

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.

Be you constant in the accusation, and my

cunning shall not shame me.

I will presently go learn their day of marriage.

Boy!

Signor?

In my chamber-window lies a book; bring it

hither to me in the orchard.

I am here already, sir.

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 behaviours

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 armour; 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 colour it please God. Ha! The Prince and

Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour.

Come, shall we hear this music?

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

As hushed on purpose to grace harmony!

See you where Benedick hath hid himself?

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

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

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

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

To slander music any more than once.

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.

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.

Now, pray thee, come;

Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument,

Do it in notes.

Note this before my notes;

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

Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks;

Note notes, forsooth, and nothing.

Now, divine air! Now is his soul ravished! Is

it not strange that sheep's guts should hale souls out of

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

done.

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 moe,

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.

By my troth, a good song.

And an ill singer, my lord.

Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough

for a shift.

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.

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.

The best I can, my lord.

Do so; farewell.

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

that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signor

Benedick?

(aside)

O, ay; stalk on, stalk on, the fowl sits. – I

did never think that lady would have loved any man.

No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that

she should so dote on Signor Benedick, whom she hath

in all outward behaviours seemed ever to abhor.

(aside)

Is't possible? Sits the wind in that

corner?

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.

May be she doth but counterfeit.

Faith, like enough.

O God! Counterfeit? There was never counterfeit

of passion came so near the life of passion as she

discovers it.

Why, what effects of passion shows she?

(to Don Pedro and Leonato)

Bait the hook well;

this fish will bite.

What effects, my lord? She will sit you – you

heard my daughter tell you how.

She did, indeed.

How, how, I pray you? You amaze me; I

would have thought her spirit had been invincible

against all assaults of affection.

I would have sworn it had, my lord, especially

against Benedick.

(aside)

I should think this a gull, but that the

white-bearded fellow speaks it; knavery cannot, sure,

hide himself in such reverence.

(to Don Pedro and Leonato)

He hath ta'en the

infection; hold it up.

Hath she made her affection known to

Benedick?

No, and swears she never will; that's her

torment.

'Tis true, indeed, so your daughter says. ‘ Shall

I,’ says she, ‘ that have so oft encountered him with

scorn, write to him that I love him?’

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.

Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember

a pretty jest your daughter told us of.

O, when she had writ it and was reading it

over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between the

sheet?

That.

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.’

Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps,

sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses – ‘ O

sweet Benedick! God give me patience!’

She doth indeed, my daughter says so; and the

ecstasy hath so much overborne her that my daughter

is sometime afeard she will do a desperate outrage to

herself. It is very true.

It were good that Benedick knew of it by

some other, if she will not discover it.

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

and torment the poor lady worse.

An he should, it were an alms to hang him.

She's an excellent sweet lady, and, out of all suspicion,

she is virtuous.

And she is exceeding wise.

In every thing but in loving Benedick.

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.

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

'a will say.

Were it good, think you?

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.

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 is a very proper man.

He hath, indeed, a good outward happiness.

Before God, and in my mind, very wise.

He doth, indeed, show some sparks that are

like wit.

And I take him to be valiant.

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 Christian-like fear.

If he do fear God, 'a must necessarily keep

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

quarrel with fear and trembling.

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?

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

good counsel.

Nay, that's impossible; she may wear her heart

out first.

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.

My lord, will you walk? Dinner is ready.

(aside)

If he do not dote on her upon this, I will

never trust my expectation.

(to Leonato)

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.

(coming forward)

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; 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 humour? 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.

Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to

dinner.

Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.

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.

You take pleasure then in the message?

Yea, just so much as you may take upon a

knife's point, and choke a daw withal. You have no

stomach, signor; fare you well.

Ha! ‘ Against my will I am sent to bid you

come in to dinner ’ – there's a double meaning in that. ‘ I

took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains

to thank me ’ – that's as much as to say, ‘ Any pains that

I take for you is as easy as thanks.’ 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.