Enter Don Pedro, Leonato, Claudio.
Music [within].
Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music?
Claud. Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is,
As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony!
Pedro. See you where Benedick hath hid himself?
Claud. O, very well, my lord. The music ended,
We'll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth.
Enter Balthasar with Music.
Pedro. Come, Balthasar, we'll hear that song again.
Balth. O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice
To slander music any more than once.
Pedro. 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.
Balth. Because you talk of wooing, I will sing,
Since many a wooer doth commence his suit
To her he thinks not worthy, yet he wooes,
Yet will he swear he loves.
Pedro. Nay, pray thee come;
Or if thou wilt hold longer argument,
Do it in notes.
Balth. Note this before my notes:
There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.
Pedro. Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks!
Note notes, forsooth, and nothing! [Music.]
Bene. [aside] Now divine air! Now is his soul ravish'd! 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.
[Balthasar sings.]
The Song.
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, &c.
Pedro. By my troth, a good song.
Balth. And an ill singer, my lord.
Pedro. Ha, no, no, faith! Thou sing'st well enough for a shift.
Bene. [aside] An he had been a dog that should have howl'd
thus,
they would have hang'd him; and I pray God his bad voice bode
no
mischief. I had as live have heard the night raven, come what
plague could have come after it.
Pedro. Yea, marry. Dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray thee get
us
some excellent music; for to-morrow night we would have it at
the
Lady Hero's chamber window.
Balth. The best I can, my lord.
Pedro. Do so. Farewell.
Exit Balthasar [with Musicians].
Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of to-day? that
your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?
Claud. O, ay!-[Aside to Pedro] Stalk on, stalk on; the fowl
sits.
--I did never think that lady would have loved any man.
Leon. No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so
dote
on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours
seem'd ever to abhor.
Bene. [aside] Is't possible? Sits the wind in that corner?
Leon. 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.
Pedro. May be she doth but counterfeit.
Claud. Faith, like enough.
Leon. O God, counterfeit? There was never counterfeit of
passion
came so near the life of passion as she discovers it.
Pedro. Why, what effects of passion shows she?
Claud. [aside] Bait the hook well! This fish will bite.
Leon. What effects, my lord? She will sit you--you heard my
daughter tell you how.
Claud. She did indeed.
Pedro. How, how, I pray you? You amaze me. I would have thought
her
spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection.
Leon. I would have sworn it had, my lord--especially against
Benedick.
Bene. [aside] I should think this a gull but that the
white-bearded
fellow speaks it. Knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such
reverence.
Claud. [aside] He hath ta'en th' infection. Hold it up.
Pedro. Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?
Leon. No, and swears she never will. That's her torment.
Claud. 'Tis true indeed. So your daughter says. 'Shall I,' says
she, 'that have so oft encount'red him with scorn, write to
him
that I love him?'"
Leon. 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.
Claud. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty
jest
your daughter told us of.
Leon. O, when she had writ it, and was reading it over, she
found
'Benedick' and 'Beatrice' between the sheet?
Claud. That.
Leon. O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence, rail'd
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.'
Claud. Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats
her
heart, tears her hair, prays, curses--'O sweet Benedick! God
give
me patience!'
Leon. 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.
Pedro. It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if
she
will not discover it.
Claud. To what end? He would make but a sport of it and torment
the
poor lady worse.
Pedro. An he should, it were an alms to hang him! She's an
excellent sweet lady, and (out of all suspicion) she is
virtuous.
Claud. And she is exceeding wise.
Pedro. In everything but in loving Benedick.
Leon. 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.
Pedro. I would she had bestowed this dotage on me. I would have
daff'd all other respects and made her half myself. I pray
you
tell Benedick of it and hear what 'a will say.
Leon. Were it good, think you?
Claud. 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.
Pedro. 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.
Claud. He is a very proper man.
Pedro. He hath indeed a good outward happiness.
Claud. Before God! and in my mind, very wise.
Pedro. He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit.
Claud. And I take him to be valiant.
Pedro. 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.
Leon. 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.
Pedro. 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?
Claud. Never tell him, my lord. Let her wear it out with good
counsel.
Leon. Nay, that's impossible; she may wear her heart out first.
Pedro. 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.
Leon. My lord, will you .walk? Dinner is ready.
[They walk away.]
Claud. If he dote on her upon this, I will never trust my
expectation.
Pedro. 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.
Exeunt [Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato].
[Benedick advances from the arbour.]
Bene. 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 censur'd. 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
alters? 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.
Enter Beatrice.
Here comes Beatrice. By this day, she's a fair lady! I do spy
some marks of love in her.
Beat. Against my will I am sent to bid You come in to dinner.
Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.
Beat. 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.
Bene. You take pleasure then in the message?
Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knives point,
and
choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior. Fare you
well.
Exit.
Bene. 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. Exit.
<>
ACT III. Scene I.
Leonato's orchard.
Enter Hero and two Gentlewomen, Margaret and Ursula.
Hero. Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour.
There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice
Proposing with the Prince and Claudio.
Whisper her ear and tell her, I and Ursley
Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse
Is all of her. Say that thou overheard'st us;
And bid her steal into the pleached bower,
Where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun,
Forbid the sun to enter--like favourites,
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.
Marg. I'll make her come, I warrant you, presently. [Exit.]
Hero. 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.
[Enter Beatrice.]
Now begin;
For look where Beatrice like a lapwing runs
Close by the ground, to hear our conference.
[Beatrice hides in the arbour].
Urs. 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 couched in the woodbine coverture.
Fear you not my part of the dialogue.
Hero. Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing
Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.
[They approach the arbour.]
No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful.
I know her spirits are as coy and wild
As haggards of the rock.
Urs. But are you sure
That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?
Hero. So says the Prince, and my new-trothed lord.
Urs. And did they bid you tell her of it, madam?
Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it;
But I persuaded them, if they lov'd Benedick,
To wish him wrestle with affection
And never to let Beatrice know of it.
Urs. Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman
Deserve as full, as fortunate a bed
As ever Beatrice shall couch upon?
Hero. O god of love! I know he doth deserve
As much as may be yielded to a man:
But Nature never fram'd 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.
Urs. Sure I think so;
And therefore certainly it were not good
She knew his love, lest she'll make sport at it.
Hero. Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man,
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur'd,
But she would spell him backward. If fair-fac'd,
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.
Urs. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.
Hero. 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 cover'd fire,
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly.
It were a better death than die with mocks,
Which is as bad as die with tickling.
Urs. Yet tell her of it. Hear what she will say.
Hero. 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.
Urs. 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 priz'd to have) as to refuse
So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.
Hero. He is the only man of Italy,
Always excepted my dear Claudio.
Urs. I pray you be not angry with me, madam,
Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick,
For shape, for bearing, argument, and valour,
Goes foremost in report through Italy.
Hero. Indeed he hath an excellent good name.
Urs. His excellence did earn it ere he had it.
When are you married, madam?
Hero. Why, every day to-morrow! Come, go in.
I'll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel
Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.
[They walk away.]
Urs. She's lim'd, I warrant you! We have caught her, madam.
Hero. If it prove so, then loving goes by haps;
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
Exeunt [Hero and Ursula].
[Beatrice advances from the arbour.]
Beat. What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
Stand I condemn'd 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. Exit.
Scene II.
A room in Leonato's house.
Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and Leonato.
Pedro. I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then
go
I toward Arragon.
Claud. I'll bring you thither, my lord, if you'll vouchsafe me.
Pedro. 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.
Bene. Gallants, I am not as I have been.
Leon. So say I. Methinks you are sadder.
Claud. I hope he be in love.
Pedro. Hang him, truant! There's no true drop of blood in him
to be
truly touch'd with love. If he be sad, he wants money.
Bene. I have the toothache.
Pedro. Draw it.
Bene. Hang it!
Claud. You must hang it first and draw it afterwards.
Pedro. What? sigh for the toothache?
Leon. Where is but a humour or a worm.
Bene. Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.
Claud. Yet say I he is in love.
Pedro. There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a
fancy
that he hath to strange disguises; as to be a Dutchman
to-day, a
Frenchman to-morrow; 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.
Claud. If he be not in love with some woman, there is no
believing
old signs. 'A brushes his hat o' mornings. What should that
bode?
Pedro. Hath any man seen him at the barber's?
Claud. No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him, and
the
old ornament of his cheek hath already stuff'd tennis balls.
Leon. Indeed he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a
beard.
Pedro. Nay, 'a rubs himself with civet. Can you smell him out
by
that?
Claud. That's as much as to say, the sweet youth's in love.
Pedro. The greatest note of it is his melancholy.
Claud. And when was he wont to wash his face?
Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself? for the which I hear what they
say
of him.
Claud. Nay, but his jesting spirit, which is new-crept into a
lutestring, and now govern'd by stops.
Pedro. Indeed that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude,
conclude,
he is in love.
Claud. Nay, but I know who loves him.
Pedro. That would I know too. I warrant, one that knows him
not.
Claud. Yes, and his ill conditions; and in despite of all, dies
for
him.
Pedro. She shall be buried with her face upwards.
Bene. 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.
[Exeunt Benedick and Leonato.]
Pedro. For my life, to break with him about Beatrice!
Claud. '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.
Enter John the Bastard.
John. My lord and brother, God save you.
Pedro. Good den, brother.
John. If your leisure serv'd, I would speak with you.
Pedro. In private?
John. If it please you. Yet Count Claudio may hear, for what I
would speak of concerns him.
Pedro. What's the matter?
John. [to Claudio] Means your lordship to be married tomorrow?
Pedro. You know he does.
John. I know not that, when he knows what I know.
Claud. If there be any impediment, I pray you discover it.
John. 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
labour
ill bestowed!
Pedro. Why, what's the matter?
John. I came hither to tell you, and, circumstances short'ned
(for
she has been too long a-talking of), the lady is disloyal.
Claud. Who? Hero?
John. Even she--Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every man's Hero.
Claud. Disloyal?
John. 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 to-night,
you
shall see her chamber window ent'red, even the night before
her
wedding day. If you love her then, to-morrow wed her. But it
would better fit your honour to change your mind.
Claud. May this be so?
Pedro. I will not think it.
John. 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.
Claud. If I see anything to-night why I should not marry her
to-morrow, in the congregation where I should wed, there will
I
shame her.
Pedro. And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join with
thee to disgrace her.
John. I will disparage her no farther till you are my
witnesses.
Bear it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show
itself.
Pedro. O day untowardly turned!
Claud. O mischief strangely thwarting!
John. O plague right well prevented!
So will you say when you have seen the Sequel.
Exeunt.
Scene III.
A street.
Enter Dogberry and his compartner [Verges], with the Watch.
Dog. Are you good men and true?
Verg. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer
salvation,
body and soul.
Dog. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them if they
should
have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the Prince's
watch.
Verg. Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry.
Dog. First, who think you the most desartless man to be
constable?
1. Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can
write
and read.
Dog. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal. God hath bless'd you with
a
good name. To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune,
but
to write and read comes by nature.
2. Watch. Both which, Master Constable--
Dog. You have. I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your
favour, 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 lanthorn. This is your charge: you shall
comprehend
all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the Prince's
name.
2. Watch. How if 'a will not stand?
Dog. 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.
Verg. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the
Prince's subjects.
Dog. 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.
2. Watch. We will rather sleep than talk. We know what belongs
to
a watch.
Dog. 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 stol'n. Well, you are to call at all the
alehouses
and bid those that are drunk get them to bed.
2. Watch. How if they will not?
Dog. 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.
2. Watch. Well, sir.
Dog. 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 your honesty.
2. Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands
on
him?
Dog. Truly, by your office you may; but I think they that touch
pitch will be defil'd. 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.
Verg. You have been always called a merciful man, partner.
Dog. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man
who
hath any honesty in him.
Verg. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to
the
nurse and bid her still it.
2. Watch. How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us?
Dog. Why then, depart in peace and let the child wake her with
crying; for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes
will
never answer a calf when he bleats.
Verg. 'Tis very true.
Dog. 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.
Verg. Nay, by'r lady, that I think 'a cannot.
Dog. 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 offence to stay a man against his will.
Verg. By'r lady, I think it be so.
Dog. Ha, ah, ha! Well, masters, good night. An there be any
matter
of weight chances, call up me. Keep your fellows' counsels
and
your own, and good night. Come, neighbour.
2. Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge. Let us go sit here
upon the church bench till two, and then all to bed.
Dog. One word more, honest neighbours. I pray you watch about
Signior Leonato's door; for the wedding being there tomorrow,
there is a great coil to-night. Adieu. Be vigitant, I beseech
you. Exeunt [Dogberry and Verges].
Enter Borachio and Conrade.
Bora. What, Conrade!
2. Watch. [aside] Peace! stir not!
Bora. Conrade, I say!
Con. Here, man. I am at thy elbow.
Bora. Mass, and my elbow itch'd! I thought there would a scab
follow.
Con. I will owe thee an answer for that; and now forward with
thy
tale.
Bora. Stand thee close then under this penthouse, for it
drizzles
rain, and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee.
2. Watch. [aside] Some treason, masters. Yet stand close.
Bora. Therefore know I have earned of Don John a thousand
ducats.
Con. Is it possible that any villany should be so dear?
Bora. Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any villany
should be so rich; for when rich villains have need of poor
ones,
poor ones may make what price they will.
Con. I wonder at it.
Bora. That shows thou art unconfirm'd. Thou knowest that the
fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is nothing to a
man.
Con. Yes, it is apparel.
Bora. I mean the fashion.
Con. Yes, the fashion is the fashion.
Bora. Tush! I may as well say the fool's the fool. But seest
thou
not what a deformed thief this fashion is?
2. Watch. [aside] I know that Deformed. 'A bas been a vile
thief
this seven year; 'a goes up and down like a gentleman. I
remember
his name.
Bora. Didst thou not hear somebody?
Con. No; 'twas the vane on the house.
Bora. Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion
is?
how giddily 'a turns about all the hot-bloods between
fourteen
and five-and-thirty? sometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh's
soldiers in the reechy painting, sometime like god Bel's
priests
in the old church window, sometime like the shaven Hercules
in
the smirch'd worm-eaten tapestry, where his codpiece seems as
massy as his club?
Con. 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?
Bora. Not so neither. But know that I have to-night 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
good night--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 encounter.
Con. And thought they Margaret was Hero?
Bora. Two of them did, the Prince and Claudio; but the devil my
master knew she was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, which
first possess'd them, partly by the dark night, which did
deceive
them, but chiefly by my villany, which did confirm any
slander
that Don John had made, away went Claudio enrag'd; 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.
2. Watch. We charge you in the Prince's name stand!
1. Watch. Call up the right Master Constable. We have here
recover'd the most dangerous piece of lechery that ever was
known
in the commonwealth.
2. Watch. And one Deformed is one of them. I know him; 'a wears
a
lock.
Con. Masters, masters--
1. Watch. You'll be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you.
Con. Masters--
2. Watch. Never speak, we charge you. Let us obey you to go
with
us.
Bora. We are like to prove a goodly commodity, being taken up
of
these men's bills.
Con. A commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, we'll obey
you.
Exeunt.
Scene IV.
A Room in Leonato's house.
Enter Hero, and Margaret and Ursula.
Hero. Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice and desire her to
rise.
Urs. I will, lady.
Hero. And bid her come hither.
Urs. Well. [Exit.]
Marg. Troth, I think your other rebato were better.
Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this.
Marg. By my troth, 's not so good, and I warrant your cousin
will
say so.
Hero. My cousin's a fool, and thou art another. I'll wear none
but
this.
Marg. I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair were
a
thought browner; and your gown's a most rare fashion, i'
faith.
I saw the Duchess of Milan's gown that they praise so.
Hero. O, that exceeds, they say.
Marg. By my troth, 's but a nightgown in respect of yours--
cloth-o'-gold and cuts, and lac'd with silver, set with
pearls
down sleeves, side-sleeves, and skirts, round underborne with
a blush tinsel. But for a fine, quaint, graceful, and
excellent
fashion, yours is worth ten on't.
Hero. God give me joy to wear it! for my heart is exceeding
heavy.
Marg. 'Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man.
Hero. Fie upon thee! art not ashamed?
Marg. Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is not marriage
honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord honourable without
marriage? I think you would have me say, 'saving your
reverence,
a husband.' An bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I'll
offend nobody. Is there any harm in 'the heavier for a
husband'?
None, I think, an it be the right husband and the right wife.
Otherwise 'tis light, and not heavy. Ask my Lady Beatrice
else.
Here she comes.
Enter Beatrice.
Hero. Good morrow, coz.
Beat. Good morrow, sweet Hero.
Hero. Why, how now? Do you speak in the sick tune?
Beat. I am out of all other tune, methinks.
Marg. Clap's into 'Light o' love.' That goes without a burden.
Do
you sing it, and I'll dance it.
Beat. Yea, 'Light o' love' with your heels! then, if your
husband
have stables enough, you'll see he shall lack no barnes.
Marg. O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.
Beat. 'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; 'tis time you were
ready.
By my troth, I am exceeding ill. Hey-ho!
Marg. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?
Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H.
Marg. Well, an you be not turn'd Turk, there's no more sailing
by
the star.
Beat. What means the fool, trow?
Marg. Nothing I; but God send every one their heart's desire!
Hero. These gloves the Count sent me, they are an excellent
perfume.
Beat. I am stuff'd, cousin; I cannot smell.
Marg. A maid, and stuff'd! There's goodly catching of cold.
Beat. O, God help me! God help me! How long have you profess'd
apprehension?
Marg. Ever since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely?
Beat. It is not seen enough. You should wear it in your cap. By
my
troth, I am sick.
Marg. Get you some of this distill'd carduus benedictus and lay
it
to your heart. It is the only thing for a qualm.
Hero. There thou prick'st her with a thistle.
Beat. Benedictus? why benedictus? You have some moral in this
'benedictus.'
Marg. Moral? No, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I meant
plain holy thistle. You may think perchance that I think you
are
in love. Nay, by'r lady, I am not such a fool to think what I
list; nor I list not to think what I can; nor indeed I cannot
think, if I would think my heart out of thinking, that you
are in
love, or that you will be in love, or that you can be in
love.
Yet Benedick was such another, and now is he become a man. He
swore he would never marry; and yet now in despite of his
heart
he eats his meat without grudging; and how you may be
converted I
know not, but methinks you look with your eyes as other women
do.
Beat. What pace is this that thy tongue keeps?
Marg. Not a false gallop.
Enter Ursula.
Urs. Madam, withdraw. The Prince, the Count, Signior Benedick,
Don
John, and all the gallants of the town are come to fetch you
to
church.
Hero. Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula.
[Exeunt.]
Scene V.
The hall in Leonato's house.
Enter Leonato and the Constable [Dogberry] and the Headborough
[verges].
Leon. What would you with me, honest neighbour?
Dog. Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you that
decerns
you nearly.
Leon. Brief, I pray you; for you see it is a busy time with me.
Dog. Marry, this it is, sir.
Verg. Yes, in truth it is, sir.
Leon. What is it, my good friends?
Dog. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter--an
old
man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, I would
desire they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin between
his
brows.
Verg. Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man living that is
an
old man and no honester than I.
Dog. Comparisons are odorous. Palabras, neighbour Verges.
Leon. Neighbours, you are tedious.
Dog. It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor
Duke's
officers; but truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious
as a
king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all of your
worship.
Leon. All thy tediousness on me, ah?
Dog. Yea, in 'twere a thousand pound more than 'tis; for I hear
as
good exclamation on your worship as of any man in the city;
and
though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it.
Verg. And so am I.
Leon. I would fain know what you have to say.
Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your worship's
presence, ha' ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in
Messina.
Dog. A good old man, sir; he will be talking. As they say,
'When
the age is in, the wit is out.' God help us! it is a world to
see! Well said, i' faith, neighbour Verges. Well, God's a
good
man. An two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An
honest
soul, i' faith, sir, by my troth he is, as ever broke bread;
but
God is to be worshipp'd; all men are not alike, alas, good
neighbour!
Leon. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you.
Dog. Gifts that God gives.
Leon. I must leave you.
Dog. One word, sir. Our watch, sir, have indeed comprehended
two
aspicious persons, and we would have them this morning
examined
before your worship.
Leon. Take their examination yourself and bring it me. I am now
in
great haste, as it may appear unto you.
Dog. It shall be suffigance.
Leon. Drink some wine ere you go. Fare you well.
[Enter a Messenger.]
Mess. My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to her
husband.
Leon. I'll wait upon them. I am ready.
[Exeunt Leonato and Messenger.]
Dog. Go, good partner, go get you to Francis Seacoal; bid him
bring
his pen and inkhorn to the jail. We are now to examination
these
men.
Verg. And we must do it wisely.
Dog. We will spare for no wit, I warrant you. Here's that shall
drive some of them to a non-come. Only get the learned writer
to
set down our excommunication, and meet me at the jail.
[Exeunt.]
<>
ACT IV. Scene I.
A church.
Enter Don Pedro, [John the] Bastard, Leonato, Friar [Francis],
Claudio,
Benedick, Hero, Beatrice, [and Attendants].
Leon. Come, Friar Francis, be brief. Only to the plain form of
marriage, and you shall recount their particular duties
afterwards.
Friar. You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady?
Claud. No.
Leon. To be married to her. Friar, you come to marry her.
Friar. Lady, you come hither to be married to this count?
Hero. I do.
Friar. If either of you know any inward impediment why you
should
not be conjoined, I charge you on your souls to utter it.
Claud. Know you any, Hero?
Hero. None, my lord.
Friar. Know you any, Count?
Leon. I dare make his answer--none.
Claud. O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do,
not
knowing what they do!
Bene. How now? interjections? Why then, some be of laughing,
as,
ah, ha, he!
Claud. Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your leave:
Will you with free and unconstrained soul
Give me this maid your daughter?
Leon. As freely, son, as God did give her me.
Claud. And what have I to give you back whose worth
May counterpoise this rich and precious gift?
Pedro. Nothing, unless you render her again.
Claud. Sweet Prince, you learn me noble thankfulness.
There, Leonato, take her back again.
Give not this rotten orange to your friend.
She's but the sign and semblance of her honour.
Behold how like a maid she blushes here!
O, what authority and show of truth
Can cunning sin cover itself withal!
Comes not that blood as modest evidence
To witness simple virtue, Would you not swear,
All you that see her, that she were a maid
By these exterior shows? But she is none:
She knows the heat of a luxurious bed;
Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.
Leon. What do you mean, my lord?
Claud. Not to be married,
Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton.
Leon. Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof,
Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth
And made defeat of her virginity--
Claud. I know what you would say. If I have known her,
You will say she did embrace me as a husband,
And so extenuate the forehand sin.
No, Leonato,
I never tempted her with word too large,
But, as a brother to his sister, show'd
Bashful sincerity and comely love.
Hero. And seem'd I ever otherwise to you?
Claud. Out on the seeming! I will write against it.
You seem to me as Dian in her orb,
As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;
But you are more intemperate in your blood
Than Venus, or those pamp'red animals
That rage in savage sensuality.
Hero. Is my lord well that he doth speak so wide?
Leon. Sweet Prince, why speak not you?
Pedro. What should I speak?
I stand dishonour'd that have gone about
To link my dear friend to a common stale.
Leon. Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?
John. Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.
Bene. This looks not like a nuptial.
Hero. 'True!' O God!
Claud. Leonato, stand I here?
Is this the Prince, Is this the Prince's brother?
Is this face Hero's? Are our eyes our own?
Leon. All this is so; but what of this, my lord?
Claud. Let me but move one question to your daughter,
And by that fatherly and kindly power
That you have in her, bid her answer truly.
Leon. I charge thee do so, as thou art my child.
Hero. O, God defend me! How am I beset!
What kind of catechising call you this?
Claud. To make you answer truly to your name.
Hero. Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name
With any just reproach?
Claud. Marry, that can Hero!
Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue.
What man was he talk'd with you yesternight,
Out at your window betwixt twelve and one?
Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.
Hero. I talk'd with no man at that hour, my lord.
Pedro. Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato,
I am sorry you must hear. Upon my honour,
Myself, my brother, and this grieved Count
Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night
Talk with a ruffian at her chamber window,
Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain,
Confess'd the vile encounters they have had
A thousand times in secret.
John. Fie, fie! they are not to be nam'd, my lord--
Not to be spoke of;
There is not chastity, enough in language
Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady,
I am sorry for thy much misgovernment.
Claud. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been
If half thy outward graces had been plac'd
About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart!
But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! Farewell,
Thou pure impiety and impious purity!
For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love,
And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang,
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,
And never shall it more be gracious.
Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me?
[Hero swoons.]
Beat. Why, how now, cousin? Wherefore sink you down?
John. Come let us go. These things, come thus to light,
Smother her spirits up.
[Exeunt Don Pedro, Don Juan, and Claudio.]
Bene. How doth the lady?
Beat. Dead, I think. Help, uncle!
Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar!
Leon. O Fate, take not away thy heavy hand!
Death is the fairest cover for her shame
That may be wish'd for.
Beat. How now, cousin Hero?
Friar. Have comfort, lady.
Leon. Dost thou look up?
Friar. Yea, wherefore should she not?
Leon. Wherefore? Why, doth not every earthly thing
Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny
The story that is printed in her blood?
Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes;
For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,
Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,
Myself would on the rearward of reproaches
Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but one?
Child I for that at frugal nature's frame?
O, one too much by thee! Why had I one?
Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?
Why had I not with charitable hand
Took up a beggar's issue at my gates,
Who smirched thus and mir'd with infamy,
I might have said, 'No part of it is mine;
This shame derives itself from unknown loins'?
But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I prais'd,
And mine that I was proud on--mine so much
That I myself was to myself not mine,
Valuing of her--why, she, O, she is fall'n
Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again,
And salt too little which may season give
To her foul tainted flesh!
Bene. Sir, sir, be patient.
For my part, I am so attir'd in wonder,
I know not what to say.
Beat. O, on my soul, my cousin is belied!
Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?
Beat. No, truly, not; although, until last night,
I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow
Leon. Confirm'd, confirm'd! O, that is stronger made
Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron!
Would the two princes lie? and Claudio lie,
Who lov'd her so that, speaking of her foulness,
Wash'd it with tears? Hence from her! let her die.
Friar. Hear me a little;
For I have only been silent so long,
And given way unto this course of fortune,
By noting of the lady. I have mark'd
A thousand blushing apparitions
To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames
In angel whiteness beat away those blushes,
And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire
To burn the errors that these princes hold
Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool;
Trust not my reading nor my observation,
Which with experimental seal doth warrant
The tenure of my book; trust not my age,
My reverence, calling, nor divinity,
If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here
Under some biting error.
Leon. Friar, it cannot be.
Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left
Is that she will not add to her damnation
A sin of perjury: she not denies it.
Why seek'st thou then to cover with excuse
That which appears in proper nakedness?
Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accus'd of?
Hero. They know that do accuse me; I know none.
If I know more of any man alive
Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant,
Let all my sins lack mercy! O my father,
Prove you that any man with me convers'd
At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight
Maintain'd the change of words with any creature,
Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death!
Friar. There is some strange misprision in the princes.
Bene. Two of them have the very bent of honour;
And if their wisdoms be misled in this,
The practice of it lives in John the bastard,
Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies.
Leon. I know not. If they speak but truth of her,
These hands shall tear her. If they wrong her honour,
The proudest of them shall well hear of it.
Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,
Nor age so eat up my invention,
Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,
Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,
But they shall find awak'd in such a kind
Both strength of limb and policy of mind,
Ability in means, and choice of friends,
To quit me of them throughly.
Friar. Pause awhile
And let my counsel sway you in this case.
Your daughter here the princes left for dead,
Let her awhile be secretly kept in,
And publish it that she is dead indeed;
Maintain a mourning ostentation,
And on your family's old monument
Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites
That appertain unto a burial.
Leon. What shall become of this? What will this do?
Friar. Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf
Change slander to remorse. That is some good.
But not for that dream I on this strange course,
But on this travail look for greater birth.
She dying, as it must be so maintain'd,
Upon the instant that she was accus'd,
Shall be lamented, pitied, and excus'd
Of every hearer; for it so falls out
That what we have we prize not to the worth
Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost,
Why, then we rack the value, then we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio.
When he shall hear she died upon his words,
Th' idea of her life shall sweetly creep
Into his study of imagination,
And every lovely organ of her life
Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit,
More moving, delicate, and full of life,
Into the eye and prospect of his soul
Than when she liv'd indeed. Then shall he mourn
(If ever love had interest in his liver)
And wish he had not so accused her--
No, though be thought his accusation true.
Let this be so, and doubt not but success
Will fashion the event in better shape
Than I can lay it down in likelihood.
But if all aim but this be levell'd false,
The supposition of the lady's death
Will quench the wonder of her infamy.
And if it sort not well, you may conceal her,
As best befits her wounded reputation,
In some reclusive and religious life,
Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.
Bene. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you;
And though you know my inwardness and love
Is very much unto the Prince and Claudio,
Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this
As secretly and justly as your soul
Should with your body.
Leon. Being that I flow in grief,
The smallest twine may lead me.
Friar. 'Tis well consented. Presently away;
For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.
Come, lady, die to live. This wedding day
Perhaps is but prolong'd. Have patience and endure.
Exeunt [all but Benedick and Beatrice].
Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?
Beat. Yea, and I will weep a while longer.
Bene. I will not desire that.
Beat. You have no reason. I do it freely.
Bene. Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.
Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right
her!
Bene. Is there any way to show such friendship?
Beat. A very even way, but no such friend.
Bene. May a man do it?
Beat. It is a man's office, but not yours.
Bene. I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not
that
strange?
Beat. As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible
for
me to say I loved nothing so well as you. But believe me not;
and
yet I lie not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am
sorry
for my cousin.
Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.
Beat. Do not swear, and eat it.
Bene. I will swear by it that you love me, and I will make him
eat
it that says I love not you.
Beat. Will you not eat your word?
Bene. With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love
thee.
Beat. Why then, God forgive me!
Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice?
Beat. You have stayed me in a happy hour. I was about to
protest I
loved you.
Bene. And do it with all thy heart.
Beat. I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to
protest.
Bene. Come, bid me do anything for thee.
Beat. Kill Claudio.
Bene. Ha! not for the wide world!
Beat. You kill me to deny it. Farewell.
Bene. Tarry, sweet Beatrice.
Beat. I am gone, though I am here. There is no love in you.
Nay, I
pray you let me go.
Bene. Beatrice--
Beat. In faith, I will go.
Bene. We'll be friends first.
Beat. You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine
enemy.
Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy?
Beat. Is 'a not approved in the height a villain, that hath
slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O that I were a
man! What? bear her in hand until they come to take hands,
and
then with public accusation, uncover'd slander, unmitigated
rancour--O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in
the
market place.
Bene. Hear me, Beatrice!
Beat. Talk with a man out at a window!-a proper saying!
Bene. Nay but Beatrice--
Beat. Sweet Hero! she is wrong'd, she is sland'red, she is
undone.
Bene. Beat--
Beat. Princes and Counties! Surely a princely testimony, a
goodly
count, Count Comfect, a sweet gallant surely! O that I were a
man
for his sake! or that I had any friend would be a man for my
sake! But manhood is melted into cursies, valour into
compliment,
and men are only turn'd into tongue, and trim ones too. He is
now
as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie,and swears it. I
cannot be a man with wishing; therefore I will die a woman
with
grieving.
Bene. Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.
Beat. Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.
Bene. Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wrong'd
Hero?
Beat. Yea, as sure is I have a thought or a soul.
Bene. Enough, I am engag'd, I will challenge him. I will kiss
your
hand, and so I leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render
me a
dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go comfort
your
cousin. I must say she is dead-and so farewell.
[Exeunt.]
