Act 1: Scene 1

My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.

Act 2: Scene 1

He is of a very melancholy disposition.

So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing,
I am yours for the walk; and especially when I walk away.

I may say so, when I please.

When I like your favour; for God defend the lute
should be like the case!

Why, then, your visor should be thatched.

I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my
cousin to a good husband.

Act 3: Scene 1

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.

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.

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.

So says the prince and my new-trothed lord.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.

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.

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

Act 3: Scene 4

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

And bid her come hither.

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

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

O, that exceeds, they say.

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

Fie upon thee! art not ashamed?

Good morrow, coz.

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

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

There thou prickest her with a thistle.

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

Act 4: Scene 1

I do.

None, my lord.

And seem’d I ever otherwise to you?

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

True! O God!

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

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

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

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!

Act 5: Scene 4

And when I lived, I was your other wife:
[Unmasking]
And when you loved, you were my other husband.

Nothing certainer:
One Hero died defiled, but I do live,
And surely as I live, I am a maid.

And here’s another
Writ in my cousin’s hand, stolen from her pocket,
Containing her affection unto Benedick.