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 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 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 5: Scene 3

[Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, and three or four with tapers]

Is this the monument of Leonato?

It is, my lord.

[Reading out of a scroll]
Done to death by slanderous tongues
Was the Hero that here lies:
Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,
Gives her fame which never dies.
So the life that died with shame
Lives in death with glorious fame.
Hang thou there upon the tomb,
Praising her when I am dumb.
Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.
SONG.
Pardon, goddess of the night,
Those that slew thy virgin knight;
For the which, with songs of woe,
Round about her tomb they go.
Midnight, assist our moan;
Help us to sigh and groan,
Heavily, heavily:
Graves, yawn and yield your dead,
Till death be uttered,
Heavily, heavily.

Now, unto thy bones good night!
Yearly will I do this rite.

Good morrow, masters; put your torches out:
The wolves have prey’d; and look, the gentle day,
Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about
Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey.
Thanks to you all, and leave us: fare you well.

Good morrow, masters: each his several way.

Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds;
And then to Leonato’s we will go.

And Hymen now with luckier issue speed’s
Than this for whom we render’d up this woe.

[Exeunt]
[Enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, BENEDICK, BEATRICE,]
MARGARET, URSULA, FRIAR FRANCIS, and HERO]