Act 1: Scene 1

[Enter LEONATO, HERO, and BEATRICE, with a Messenger]

I learn in this letter that Don Peter of Arragon
comes this night to Messina.

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

How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?

But few of any sort, and none of name.

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

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

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

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

Did he break out into tears?

In great measure.

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

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

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

What is he that you ask for, niece?

My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.

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

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

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

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

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

And a good soldier too, lady.

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

A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed with all
honourable virtues.

It is so, indeed; he is no less than a stuffed man:
but for the stuffing,–well, we are all mortal.

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

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

Is’t possible?

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

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

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

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

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

I will hold friends with you, lady.

Do, good friend.

You will never run mad, niece.

No, not till a hot January.

Don Pedro is approached.

[Enter DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, and BALTHASAR]

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

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

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

Her mother hath many times told me so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God keep your ladyship still in that mind! so some
gentleman or other shall ‘scape a predestinate
scratched face.

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

Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.

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

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

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

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

If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn.
[To DON JOHN]
Let me bid you welcome, my lord: being reconciled to
the prince your brother, I owe you all duty.

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

Please it your grace lead on?

Your hand, Leonato; we will go together.

[Exeunt all except BENEDICK and CLAUDIO]

Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato?

I noted her not; but I looked on her.

Is she not a modest young lady?

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

No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment.

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

Thou thinkest I am in sport: I pray thee tell me
truly how thou likest her.

Would you buy her, that you inquire after her?

Can the world buy such a jewel?

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

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

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

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

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

[Re-enter DON PEDRO]

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

I would your grace would constrain me to tell.

I charge thee on thy allegiance.

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

If this were so, so were it uttered.

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

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

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

You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.

By my troth, I speak my thought.

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

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

That I love her, I feel.

That she is worthy, I know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I look for an earthquake too, then.

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

I have almost matter enough in me for such an
embassage; and so I commit you–

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

The sixth of July: Your loving friend, Benedick.

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

[Exit]

My liege, your highness now may do me good.

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

Hath Leonato any son, my lord?

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

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

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

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

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

[Exeunt]

Act 1: Scene 2

[Enter LEONATO and ANTONIO, meeting]

How now, brother! Where is my cousin, your son?
hath he provided this music?

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

Are they good?

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

Hath the fellow any wit that told you this?

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

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

[Exeunt]

Act 1: Scene 3

[Enter DON JOHN and CONRADE]

What the good-year, my lord! why are you thus out
of measure sad?

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

You should hear reason.

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

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

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

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

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

Can you make no use of your discontent?

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

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

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

Marry, it is your brother’s right hand.

Who? the most exquisite Claudio?

Even he.

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

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

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

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

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

To the death, my lord.

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

We’ll wait upon your lordship.

[Exeunt]

Act 2: Scene 1

[Enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, HERO, BEATRICE, and others]

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 Signior Benedick’s tongue in Count John’s
mouth, and half Count John’s melancholy in Signior
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 every thing
and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero:
wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a Scotch jig,
a measure, and a cinque pace: 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
cinque pace 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.
[All put on their masks]
[Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, BALTHASAR,]
DON JOHN, BORACHIO, MARGARET, URSULA and others, masked]

Lady, will you walk about 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.

[Drawing her aside]

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 Signior 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
Signior 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 villany;
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.
[Music]
We must follow the leaders.

In every good thing.

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

[Dance. Then exeunt all except DON JOHN, BORACHIO, and CLAUDIO]

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 Signior Benedick?

You know me well; I am he.

Signior, 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 to-night.

Come, let us to the banquet.

[Exeunt DON JOHN and BORACHIO]

Thus answer I in the name of Benedick,
But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.
‘Tis certain so; the prince wooes 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!

[Re-enter BENEDICK]

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.

[Exit]

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.

[Re-enter DON PEDRO]

Now, signior, 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 birds’ 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 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 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 bad 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.

[Enter CLAUDIO, BEATRICE, HERO, and LEONATO]

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.

[Exit]

Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of
Signior 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 good 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 an
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 of 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. By your grace’s pardon.

[Exit]

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 Benedict.

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?

To-morrow, 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 Signior
Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of
affection the one with the 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.

[Exeunt]

Act 2: Scene 2

[Enter DON JOHN and BORACHIO]

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 any thing.

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 practise. 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.

[Exeunt]

Act 2: Scene 3

[Enter BENEDICK]

Boy!

[Enter Boy]

Signior?

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.
[Exit Boy]
I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much
another man is a fool when he dedicates his
behaviors to love, will, after he hath laughed at
such shallow follies in others, become the argument
of his own scorn by failing 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 tabour and the pipe: I have known
when he would have walked ten mile a-foot 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.

[Withdraws]

[Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, and LEONATO]

Come, shall we hear this music?

Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is,
As hush’d 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.

[Enter BALTHASAR with Music]

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 wooes,
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.

[Air]

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

[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 leafy:
Then sigh not so, &c.

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 to-morrow night we
would have it at the Lady Hero’s 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 love with
Signior Benedick?

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 Signior Benedick, whom she hath in
all outward behaviors seemed ever to abhor.

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?

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

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

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

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 afeared 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.

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

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]

[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; ’tis
so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving
me; by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor
no great argument of her folly, for I will be
horribly in love with her. I may chance have some
odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me,
because I have railed so long against marriage: but
doth not the appetite alter? a man loves the meat
in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.
Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of
the brain awe a man from the career of his 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.

[Enter BEATRICE]

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,
signior: fare you well.

[Exit]

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 3: Scene 1

[Enter HERO, MARGARET, and URSULA]

Good Margaret, run thee to the parlor;
There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice
Proposing with the prince and Claudio:
Whisper her ear and tell her, I and Ursula
Walk in the orchard and our whole discourse
Is all of her; say that thou overheard’st us;
And bid her steal into the pleached bower,
Where honeysuckles, ripen’d 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 purpose. This is thy office;
Bear thee well in it and leave us alone.

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

[Exit]

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, behind]
Now begin;
For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs
Close by the ground, to hear our conference.

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.

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

But are you sure
That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?

So says the prince and my new-trothed lord.

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

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

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

O god of love! I know he doth deserve
As much as may be yielded to a man:
But Nature never framed a woman’s heart
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice;
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising 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.

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

Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man,
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured,
But she would spell him backward: if fair-faced,
She would swear the gentleman should be her sister;
If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antique,
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.

Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.

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

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.

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

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

[Exeunt HERO and URSULA]

[Coming forward]
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]

Act 3: Scene 2

[Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, and LEONATO]

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

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

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
bow-string 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.

Gallants, I am not as I have been.

So say I. methinks you are sadder.

I hope he be in love.

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

I have the toothache.

Draw it.

Hang it!

You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards.

What! sigh for the toothache?

Where is but a humour or a worm.

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

Yet say I, he is in love.

There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be
a fancy that he hath to strange disguises; as, to be
a Dutchman today, a Frenchman 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.

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?

Hath any man seen him at the barber’s?

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

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

Nay, a’ rubs himself with civet: can you smell him
out by that?

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

The greatest note of it is his melancholy.

And when was he wont to wash his face?

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

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

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

Nay, but I know who loves him.

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

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

She shall be buried with her face upwards.

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]

For my life, to break with him about Beatrice.

‘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]

My lord and brother, God save you!

Good den, brother.

If your leisure served, I would speak with you.

In private?

If it please you: yet Count Claudio may hear; for
what I would speak of concerns him.

What’s the matter?

[To CLAUDIO] Means your lordship to be married
to-morrow?

You know he does.

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

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

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.

Why, what’s the matter?

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

Who, Hero?

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

Disloyal?

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.

May this be so?

I will not think it.

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.

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.

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

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

O day untowardly turned!

O mischief strangely thwarting!

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

[Exeunt]

Act 3: Scene 3

[Enter DOGBERRY and VERGES with the Watch]

Are you good men and true?

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

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

Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry.

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

Hugh Otecake, sir, or George Seacole; for they can
write and read.

Come hither, neighbour Seacole. God hath blessed
you with a good name: to be a well-favoured man is
the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.

Both which, master constable,–

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 lantern. This is your
charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are
to bid any man stand, in the prince’s name.

How if a’ will not stand?

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.

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

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.

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

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

How if they will not?

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.

Well, sir.

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.

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

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.

You have been always called a merciful man, partner.

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

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

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

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.

‘Tis very true.

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.

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

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.

By’r lady, I think it be so.

Ha, ha, 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.

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

One word more, honest neighbours. I pray you watch
about Signior Leonato’s door; for the wedding being
there to-morrow, there is a great coil to-night.
Adieu: be vigitant, I beseech you.

[Exeunt DOGBERRY and VERGES]

[Enter BORACHIO and CONRADE]

What Conrade!

[Aside] Peace! stir not.

Conrade, I say!

Here, man; I am at thy elbow.

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

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

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

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

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

Is it possible that any villany should be so dear?

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.

I wonder at it.

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

Yes, it is apparel.

I mean, the fashion.

Yes, the fashion is the fashion.

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

[Aside] I know that Deformed; a’ has been a vile
thief this seven year; a’ goes up and down like a
gentleman: I remember his name.

Didst thou not hear somebody?

No; ’twas the vane on the house.

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 reeky painting, sometime like god Bel’s
priests in the old church-window, sometime like the
shaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry,
where his codpiece seems as massy as his club?

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?

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.

And thought they Margaret was Hero?

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

We charge you, in the prince’s name, stand!

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

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

Masters, masters,–

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

Masters,–

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

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

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

[Exeunt]

Act 3: Scene 4

[Enter HERO, MARGARET, and URSULA]

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

I will, lady.

And bid her come hither.

Well.

[Exit]

Troth, I think your other rabato were better.

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

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

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

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.

O, that exceeds, they say.

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

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

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

Fie upon thee! art not ashamed?

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:’ and bad
thinking do not wrest true speaking, I’ll offend
nobody: is there any harm in ‘the heavier for a
husband’? None, I think, and 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]

Good morrow, coz.

Good morrow, sweet Hero.

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

I am out of all other tune, methinks.

Clap’s into ‘Light o’ love;’ that goes without a
burden: do you sing it, and I’ll dance it.

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

O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.

‘Tis almost five o’clock, cousin; tis time you were
ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill: heigh-ho!

For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?

For the letter that begins them all, H.

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

What means the fool, trow?

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

These gloves the count sent me; they are an
excellent perfume.

I am stuffed, cousin; I cannot smell.

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

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

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

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

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

There thou prickest her with a thistle.

Benedictus! why Benedictus? you have some moral in
this Benedictus.

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.

What pace is this that thy tongue keeps?

Not a false gallop.

[Re-enter URSULA]

Madam, withdraw: the prince, the count, Signior
Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the
town, are come to fetch you to church.

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

[Exeunt]

Act 3: Scene 5

[Enter LEONATO, with DOGBERRY and VERGES]

What would you with me, honest neighbour?

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

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

Marry, this it is, sir.

Yes, in truth it is, sir.

What is it, my good friends?

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.

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

Comparisons are odorous: palabras, neighbour Verges.

Neighbours, you are tedious.

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 it in
my heart to bestow it all of your worship.

All thy tediousness on me, ah?

Yea, an ’twere a thousand pound more than ’tis; for
I hear as good exclamation on your worship as of any
man in the city; and though I be but a poor man, I
am glad to hear it.

And so am I.

I would fain know what you have to say.

Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your
worship’s presence, ha’ ta’en a couple of as arrant
knaves as any in Messina.

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 worshipped; all men
are not alike; alas, good neighbour!

Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you.

Gifts that God gives.

I must leave you.

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

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

It shall be suffigance.

Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well.

[Enter a Messenger]

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

I’ll wait upon them: I am ready.

[Exeunt LEONATO and Messenger]

Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis Seacole;
bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol: we
are now to examination these men.

And we must do it wisely.

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 gaol.

[Exeunt]
[Enter DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, LEONATO, FRIAR FRANCIS,]
CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, HERO, BEATRICE, and Attendants]

Act 4: Scene 1

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

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

No.

To be married to her: friar, you come to marry her.

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

I do.

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

Know you any, Hero?

None, my lord.

Know you any, count?

I dare make his answer, none.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing, unless you render her again.

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.

What do you mean, my lord?

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

Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof,
Have vanquish’d the resistance of her youth,
And made defeat of her virginity,–

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.

And seem’d I ever otherwise to you?

Out on thee! Seeming! I will write against it:
You seem to me as Dian in her orb,
As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;
But you are more intemperate in your blood
Than Venus, or those pamper’d animals
That rage in savage sensuality.

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

Sweet prince, why speak not you?

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

Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?

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

This looks not like a nuptial.

True! O God!

Leonato, stand I here?
Is this the prince? is this the prince’s brother?
Is this face Hero’s? are our eyes our own?

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

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.

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

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

To make you answer truly to your name.

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

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.

I talk’d with no man at that hour, my lord.

Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato,
I am sorry you must hear: upon mine 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.

Fie, fie! they are not to be named, 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.

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

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

[HERO swoons]

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

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

[Exeunt DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, and CLAUDIO]

How doth the lady?

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

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

How now, cousin Hero!

Have comfort, lady.

Dost thou look up?

Yea, wherefore should she not?

Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly thing
Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny
The story that is printed in her blood?
Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes:
For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,
Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,
Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches,
Strike at thy life. Grieved I, I had but one?
Chid I for that at frugal nature’s frame?
O, one too much by thee! Why had I one?
Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?
Why had I not with charitable hand
Took up a beggar’s issue at my gates,
Who smirch’d thus and mired with infamy,
I might have said ‘No part of it is mine;
This shame derives itself from unknown loins’?
But mine and mine I loved and mine I praised
And mine that I was proud on, mine so much
That I myself was to myself not mine,
Valuing of her,–why, she, O, she is 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!

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

O, on my soul, my cousin is belied!

Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?

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

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 loved her so, that, speaking of her foulness,
Wash’d it with tears? Hence from her! let her die.

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 observations,
Which with experimental seal doth warrant
The tenor of my book; trust not my age,
My reverence, calling, nor divinity,
If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here
Under some biting error.

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?

Lady, what man is he you are accused of?

They know that do accuse me; I know none:
If I know more of any man alive
Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant,
Let all my sins lack mercy! O my father,
Prove you that any man with me conversed
At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight
Maintain’d the change of words with any creature,
Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death!

There is some strange misprision in the princes.

Two of them have the very bent of honour;
And if their wisdoms be misled in this,
The practise of it lives in John the bastard,
Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies.

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, awaked in such a kind,
Both strength of limb and policy of mind,
Ability in means and choice of friends,
To quit me of them throughly.

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.

What shall become of this? what will this do?

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 so be maintain’d,
Upon the instant that she was accused,
Shall be lamented, pitied and excused
Of every hearer: for it so falls out
That what we have we prize not to the worth
Whiles we enjoy it, but being 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 lived indeed; then shall he mourn,
If ever love had interest in his liver,
And wish he had not so accused her,
No, though he thought his accusation true.
Let this be so, and doubt not but success
Will fashion the event in better shape
Than I can lay it down in likelihood.
But if all aim but this be 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.

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.

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

‘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]

Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?

Yea, and I will weep a while longer.

I will not desire that.

You have no reason; I do it freely.

Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.

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

Is there any way to show such friendship?

A very even way, but no such friend.

May a man do it?

It is a man’s office, but not yours.

I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is
not that strange?

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.

By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.

Do not swear, and eat it.

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

Will you not eat your word?

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

Why, then, God forgive me!

What offence, sweet Beatrice?

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

And do it with all thy heart.

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

Come, bid me do any thing for thee.

Kill Claudio.

Ha! not for the wide world.

You kill me to deny it. Farewell.

Tarry, sweet Beatrice.

I am gone, though I am here: there is no love in
you: nay, I pray you, let me go.

Beatrice,–

In faith, I will go.

We’ll be friends first.

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

Is Claudio thine enemy?

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 would eat his heart
in the market-place.

Hear me, Beatrice,–

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

Nay, but, Beatrice,–

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

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 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 lie and swears it. I cannot be a
man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.

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

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

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

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

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

[Exeunt]
[Enter DOGBERRY, VERGES, and Sexton, in gowns; and]
the Watch, with CONRADE and BORACHIO]