Act 2: Scene 1

So would not I, for your own sake; for I have many
ill-qualities.

I say my prayers aloud.

God match me with a good dancer!

And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is
done! Answer, clerk.

Act 3: Scene 1

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

Act 3: Scene 4

Troth, I think your other rabato were better.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.

For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Not a false gallop.

Act 5: Scene 2

Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty?

To have no man come over me! why, shall I always
keep below stairs?

And yours as blunt as the fencer’s foils, which hit,
but hurt not.

Give us the swords; we have bucklers of our own.

Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs.