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]