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D. 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.

D. Pedro. She shall be buried with her face upwards.

Bene. Yet is this no charm for the tooth-aeh.— 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.

D. Pedro. For my life, to break with htm 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 Don John.

D. John. My lord and brother, God save you. D. Pedro. Good den, brother. p. John. If your leisure served, I would speak with you.

D. Pedro. In private?

D. John. If it please you ;—jet count Claudio may hear; for what I would speak of, concerns him.

D. Pedro. What's the matter?

D. John. Means your lordship to be married tomorrow? [To Claudio.

D. Pedro. You know, he does.

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

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

D. 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!

D. Pedro. Why, what's the matter?

D. John. I came hitherto tell you: and, circumstances shortened, (for she hath been too long a talking of,) the lady is disloyal.

Claud. Who? Hero?

D. John. Even she; Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every man's Hero. Claud. Disloyal?

D. 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 entered; 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?

D. Pedro. I will not think it.

D. 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 any thing to-night why I should not marry her to-morrow; in the congregation, where I should wed, there will I shame her.

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

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

D. Pedro. O day untowardty turned!

Claud. O mischief strangely thwarting!

D. John. O plague right well prevented!
So will you say, when you haveneen the sequel.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III A Street.

Enter Dogberry and Verges, with the Watch. Dogb. Are you good men and true? Verg. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul. Dogb. Nay, that were a punishment too good for

tbem, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the prince's watch.

Verg. Well, give theiu their charge, neighbour Dogberry.

Dogb. 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.

Dogb. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal; God hath blessed you with a Rood 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,

Dogb. 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 the.-e is no need of such vaniiy. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch ; therefore bear you the lantern: This is your charge; You shall comprehend all vagrom men ; You are to bid any man stand, in the prince's name.

2 Watch. How if he will not stand? Dogb. 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.

Dogb. 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 talk, is most tolerable and not to be endured.

2 Watch. We will rather sleep than talk; we know what belongs to a watch.

Dogb. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman; for I cannot see how sleeping should offend T only, have a care that your bills be not stolen :—Well, you are to call at all the alehouses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed. 2 Watch. How if they will not? Dogb Why then, let them alone till they are sober; If they make you not then the better answer, vou may say, they are not the men you took them for.

2 Watch. Well, sir.

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

2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay handt on him?

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

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

Dogb. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will; much more a man who hath any honetity 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?

Dogb. 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 It bleats. Verg. "Tis very true.

Dogb. This Is the end of the charge. Yoo, 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, he cannot. | Dogb. Five shillings to one on't, with any man that knows the statues, he may stay him: many, not without the prince be willing: for,indeed, tht watch ought to offend no man; and it is an offence* to stay a man against his will. Verg. ByT lady, I think, it be so. Dogb. Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be an; matter of weight chances, call up me: keep jour fellows' counsels and jour 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.

Dogb. One word more, honest neighbours; I tray yon, watch about signior Leonato's door; for ihe wedding being there to-morrow, there is a great coil to-night: Adieu, be visitant, 1 beseech you. [Exeunt Dogberry and Verges.

Enter Borachio and Conrade.

Bora. What ! Conrade,—

Watch. Peace, stir not. [Aside.

Bora. Conrade, I say!

Con. Here, man, I am at thy elbow.

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

Co*. 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 1 will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee.

Watch, [aside.] Some treason, masters j yet stand close.

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

Con. Is It possible that any villainy should be so dear .J

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

Can. I wonder at it.

Born, That shows, thou art unconfirmed: 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.

flora. Tush! I may as well say, the fool's the fool. But see'st thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is?

Watch. I know that Deformed; he has been a rile thief this seven year; he goes up and down like a gentleman ; I remember his name.

Bora. Didst thou not hear somebody?

Coo. No; 'twas the vane on the house.

Bora. See'st thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is? how giddily he turns about all the hot bloods, between fourteen and five and thirty ? sometime, fashioning them like Pharaoh's soldiers in the reechy painting ; sometime, like god Bel's priests In the oid church window; sometime, like the shaven Hercules in the smirched wormeaten tapestry, where his cod-piece seems as massy as his club?

Com. All this I see; ?nd see, that the fashion wears oat more apparel than the man i Hut art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion?

Bora. Xot so neither: but know, that I have tonight wooed Margaret, the lady Hero's gentlewoman, by the name of Hero; she leans me out at her mistress' chamber window, bids me a thousand times 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 oti'in the orchard this amiable encounter. Co*. And thought they, Margaret was Hero 3 flora. Two of them did, the Prince and Claudio; but the devil my master knew she was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, which first possessed them, Nj by the dark night, which did deceive them, but chiefly by my villainy, which did confirm any slander that Don John had made, away went Claudio enraged ; swore he would meet her as he was appointed, next morning at the temple, and there, before the whole congregation, shame her with

what he saw over-night, and send her home again without A husband.

1 Watch. We charge you in the prince's name, stand.

2 Watch. Call up the right master Constable: we have here recovered the most dangerous piece of lechery that ever was known in the commonwealth.

1 Watch. And one Deformed is one of them: I know him, he wears a lock.

Con. Masters, masters.

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

Con. Masters,—

1 Watch. Never speak; we charge you, let us obey you to go with us.

Bora. We are likely to prove a goodly commodity, being taken up of these men's bills.

Con. A commodity in question, 1 warrant you. Come, we'll obey you.

SCENE IV—A Room in Leonato's House.
Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula.

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

[Irs. I will, lady.

Hero. And bid her come hither.

Vri. Well. [Exit Ursula.

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

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

Marg. By my troth, it'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.

Mar/r. By my troth it's but a night gown in respect of your's; Cloth of gold, and cuts, and laced with silver ; set with pearls, down sleeves, sidesleeves, and skirts round, underborne with a blueish 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. Fye 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 Bay, saving your reverence,— a husband; an bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I'll offend nobody: Is there any harm in— the header Jbr a husband T 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.

Heat. Good morrow, sweet Hero.

Hero. Why, how now! do you speak in the sick tune?

Heat. I am out of all other tune, methlnks.

Marg. Clap US 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 barns.

Marg. O Illegitimate construction ! 1 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 turned Turk, there's no more sailing by the star.

Heat, What meant 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.

Peat. I am stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell.

Mart;. A maid, and stuffed ! 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?

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

Marg. Get you some of this distilled Carduus Benedictus, and lay it to your heart; it is the only thing for a qualm.

Hero. There thou prlck'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 with

now, in despite

out grudging : and how you may he 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.

he-enter Ursula. Vrt. Madam, withdraw ; the prince, the count, signlor 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—Another Room in Leonato's House.

Enter Leonato, with Dogberry and Verges. Leon. What would you with me, honest neigh hour?

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

Leon. Brief, I pray you; for you see, 'tis a busy time with me.

Dogb. Marry, this it is, sir. . Vtrg. Yes, in truth it is, sir.

Leon. What is it, my good friends?

Dogb. 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 theskin between his brows.

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

Dogb. Comparisons are odorous : palabrai, neigh bour Verge*.

Ixon. Neighbours, yon are tedious.

Dogb. It pleases your worship to say so, but wi 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! ha!

Dogb. Yea, and 'twere a thousand times 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. 1 would fain know what you have to say.

Verg. Many, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your worship's presence, have ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina.

Dogb. A good old man, sir; he will be talking; *a they say, When the age is In, the wit is out;

God help us! it is a world to see!—Well aald, ifaith, neighbour Verges:—well, God's a good man; an two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind :—.An honest soul, 1'faith, sir ; by my troth he is, as ever broke bread: but God is to be worshipped: All men are not alike; alas, good neighbour!

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

Dogb. Gifts, that God gives.
Leon. I must leave you.

Dogb. One word, sir; our watch, sir, have, indeed, comprehended two auspicious 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.

Dogb. It shall be suffigance.

Leon. Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well.

Enter a Messenger. Meet. My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to hei husband. Leon. I will wait upon them; I am ready.

[Exeunt Leonato and Messenger. Dogb. Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis Seacoal, bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol: we are now to examination these men. Verg. And we must do it wisely. Dogb, We will spare for no wit, I warrant you; here's that [touching his forehead.] shall drive some of them to a nan com: only get the learned writer to set down our excommunication, and meet me at the gaol. [Exeunt

ACT IV. SCENE I.—The Inside of a Church. Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Leonato, Friar, Claudlo, Benedick, Hero, and Beatrice, <Vc. 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 1 Interjections? Why, then some be of laughing, as, ha! ha ! he!

Claud. Stand thee by, friar:— Father, by your
Will you with free and unconstrained soul [leave;
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?
D. Pedro. Nothing, unless you render her again.
Claud. Sweet prince, you learn me noble thank-
There, Leonato, take her back again; [fulness

Give not this rotten orange to your friend;
She's but the sign and semblance of her honour t—
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 knit my soul to an approved wanton.

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

Claud. I know what you would say; If I have
known her,
You'll 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 thy seeming! I will write against Von seem to me as Dian in her orb; [it:

As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;
But jou are more intemperate in your blood
Than Venus, or those pamper'd animals
That rage in savage sensuality.

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

Leon. Sweet prince, why speak not you?

D. 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? [are true.

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

Bene. This looks not like a nuptial.

H ro. True, O God!

Claud. Leonato, stand I here? It 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.

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

I am sorry you must hear; Upon mine honour,
Myself, my brother, and this grieved count,
Hid 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.

D. John. Fye, fye! 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 misgovemment.

Claud. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been,
If half thy outward graces had been placed
About thy thoughts, and counsels of thy heart!
But, fare thee well,most foul, most fair ! farewell,
Thou pure impiety, and impious purity!
For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love,
And on my eye-lids shall conjecture hang,
To turn all beauty Into thoughts of harm,
And never shall it more be gracious.

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

[Hero itvoont.

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

D. John. Come, let us go: these things, come Smother her spirits up. [thus to light,

[Exeunt Don Pedro, Don John,and Claudio. Bene. How doth the lady?

Beat. Dead, I think ;—help, uncle ;—

Hero! why, Hero !—Uncle!—Signior Benedick!— friai!

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 ~J

Friar. Have comfort, lady.

Leon. Dost thou look up?

Friar. Yea; Wherefore should she not?
Leon. Wherefore? Why, doth not every earth!'
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. Grievd I, I had but one?
Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame?
O, one too much by thee! Why had I one?
Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?
Why had I not with charitable hand,
Took up a beggar's issue at my gates;
Who smirched thus, and mired with infamy,
I might have said, No part <f it mine,
This t'latnc derives itself from unknown loin**
But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I prals'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 fallen
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 attlr'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? Hencefrom her ; let her die.

Friar. Hear me a little;
For I have only been silent so lone,
And given way unto this course of fortune,
By noting of the lady; I have mark'd
A thousand blushing apparitions start
Into her face; a thousand innocent shames
In angel whiteness bear 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 observations,
Which with experimental seal doth warrant
The tenour 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 j she not denies it:
Why seek'st thou then to cover with excusa
That which appears in proper nakedness :j

Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accus'dof?

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,
I*t 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

princt . Two.

wo 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 villainies.

Leon. I know not; If they speak but truthofher, 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 thoroughly.

Friar. Pause a while.

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.

Uon. 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.

The 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 bis liver,)

And wish he had not so accused her;

No, though he thought his accusation true.

Let this be so, and doubt not but success

Will fashion the event in better shape

Than I can lay it down in likelihood.

But if all aim but this be 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. 'Tls well consented; presently away; For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure—

Come, lady, die to live i this wedding day,

Perhaps, is but prolong'd; have patience, and

[Exeunt Friar, Hero, and Leonato.

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

Beat. Yea, and I will weep awhile longer. Bene. I wilt not desire that. Beat. You have no reason, I do it freely. Bene. Surely, I do believe your fair cousin is wrong'd.

Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserve of mc that would right her 1

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 your*8.

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 by it, 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, 1 love thee.

Beat. Why then, God forgive me!

Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice?

Beat. You have staid 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 any thing 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.

Bear. You dare easier bs friends with me, than fight with mine enemy.

Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy i*

Beat. Is he 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, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour,—O God, that I were a man I 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 wronged, she is slandered, she is undone. Bene. BeatBear. Princes, and counties! Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly count-confect; a sweet gallant, surely 1 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 in to courtesies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too : he is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a He, 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 hy it.

Bene. Think you in your soul the count Claudio hath wronged Hero?

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

Bene. Enough, I am engaged, I will challenge him; I will kiss your hand, and so leave you: By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account: As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort

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