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 5: Scene 4

Did I not tell you she was innocent?

So are the prince and Claudio, who accused her
Upon the error that you heard debated:
But Margaret was in some fault for this,
Although against her will, as it appears
In the true course of all the question.

Well, I am glad that all things sort so well.

And so am I, being else by faith enforced
To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.

Well, daughter, and you gentle-women all,
Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves,
And when I send for you, come hither mask’d.
[Exeunt Ladies]
The prince and Claudio promised by this hour
To visit me. You know your office, brother:
You must be father to your brother’s daughter
And give her to young Claudio.

Which I will do with confirm’d countenance.

Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.

To do what, signior?

To bind me, or undo me; one of them.
Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior,
Your niece regards me with an eye of favour.

That eye my daughter lent her: ’tis most true.

And I do with an eye of love requite her.

The sight whereof I think you had from me,
From Claudio and the prince: but what’s your will?

Your answer, sir, is enigmatical:
But, for my will, my will is your good will
May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin’d
In the state of honourable marriage:
In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.

My heart is with your liking.

And my help.
Here comes the prince and Claudio.

[Enter DON PEDRO and CLAUDIO, and two or three others]

Good morrow to this fair assembly.

Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Claudio:
We here attend you. Are you yet determined
To-day to marry with my brother’s daughter?

I’ll hold my mind, were she an Ethiope.

Call her forth, brother; here’s the friar ready.

[Exit ANTONIO]

Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what’s the matter,
That you have such a February face,
So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

I think he thinks upon the savage bull.
Tush, fear not, man; we’ll tip thy horns with gold
And all Europa shall rejoice at thee,
As once Europa did at lusty Jove,
When he would play the noble beast in love.

Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low;
And some such strange bull leap’d your father’s cow,
And got a calf in that same noble feat
Much like to you, for you have just his bleat.

For this I owe you: here comes other reckonings.
[Re-enter ANTONIO, with the Ladies masked]
Which is the lady I must seize upon?

This same is she, and I do give you her.

Why, then she’s mine. Sweet, let me see your face.

No, that you shall not, till you take her hand
Before this friar and swear to marry her.

Give me your hand: before this holy friar,
I am your husband, if you like of me.

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

Another Hero!

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

The former Hero! Hero that is dead!

She died, my lord, but whiles her slander lived.

All this amazement can I qualify:
When after that the holy rites are ended,
I’ll tell you largely of fair Hero’s death:
Meantime let wonder seem familiar,
And to the chapel let us presently.

Soft and fair, friar. Which is Beatrice?

[Unmasking] I answer to that name. What is your will?

Do not you love me?

Why, no; no more than reason.

Why, then your uncle and the prince and Claudio
Have been deceived; they swore you did.

Do not you love me?

Troth, no; no more than reason.

Why, then my cousin Margaret and Ursula
Are much deceived; for they did swear you did.

They swore that you were almost sick for me.

They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.

‘Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?

No, truly, but in friendly recompense.

Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.

And I’ll be sworn upon’t that he loves her;
For here’s a paper written in his hand,
A halting sonnet of his own pure brain,
Fashion’d to Beatrice.

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

A miracle! here’s our own hands against our hearts.
Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take
thee for pity.

I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield
upon great persuasion; and partly to save your life,
for I was told you were in a consumption.

Peace! I will stop your mouth.

[Kissing her]

[Kissing her]

How dost thou, Benedick, the married man?

I’ll tell thee what, prince; a college of
wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost
thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No:
if a man will be beaten with brains, a’ shall wear
nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do
purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any
purpose that the world can say against it; and
therefore never flout at me for what I have said
against it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my
conclusion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to
have beaten thee, but in that thou art like to be my
kinsman, live unbruised and love my cousin.

I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice,
that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single
life, to make thee a double-dealer; which, out of
question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look
exceedingly narrowly to thee.

I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice,
that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single
life, to make thee a double-dealer; which, out of
question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look
exceedingly narrowly to thee.

Come, come, we are friends: let’s have a dance ere
we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts
and our wives’ heels.

We’ll have dancing afterward.

First, of my word; therefore play, music. Prince,
thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife:
there is no staff more reverend than one tipped with horn.

[Enter a Messenger]

My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight,
And brought with armed men back to Messina.

Think not on him till to-morrow:
I’ll devise thee brave punishments for him.
Strike up, pipers.

[Dance]

[Exeunt]