Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner.

I humbly do desire your grace of pardon:
I must away this night toward Padua,
And it is meet I presently set forth.

I am sorry that your leisure serves you not.
Antonio, gratify this gentleman,
For, in my mind, you are much bound to him.
Exeunt Duke and his train

Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend
Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted
Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof,
Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew,
We freely cope your courteous pains withal.

And stand indebted, over and above,
In love and service to you evermore.

He is well paid that is well satisfied;
And I, delivering you, am satisfied
And therein do account myself well paid:
My mind was never yet more mercenary.
I pray you, know me when we meet again:
I wish you well, and so I take my leave.

Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further:
Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute,
Not as a fee: grant me two things, I pray you,
Not to deny me, and to pardon me.

You press me far, and therefore I will yield.
To ANTONIO
Give me your gloves, I'll wear them for your sake;
To BASSANIO
And, for your love, I'll take this ring from you:
Do not draw back your hand; I'll take no more;
And you in love shall not deny me this.

This ring, good sir, alas, it is a trifle!
I will not shame myself to give you this.

I will have nothing else but only this;
And now methinks I have a mind to it.

There's more depends on this than on the value.
The dearest ring in Venice will I give you,
And find it out by proclamation:
Only for this, I pray you, pardon me.

I see, sir, you are liberal in offers
You taught me first to beg; and now methinks
You teach me how a beggar should be answer'd.

Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife;
And when she put it on, she made me vow
That I should neither sell nor give nor lose it.

That 'scuse serves many men to save their gifts.
An if your wife be not a mad-woman,
And know how well I have deserved the ring,
She would not hold out enemy for ever,
For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you!
Exeunt Portia and Nerissa

My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring:
Let his deservings and my love withal
Be valued against your wife's commandment.

Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him;
Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst,
Unto Antonio's house: away! make haste.
Exit Gratiano
Come, you and I will thither presently;
And in the morning early will we both
Fly toward Belmont: come, Antonio.
Exeunt

Enter PORTIA and NERISSA

Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this deed
And let him sign it: we'll away to-night
And be a day before our husbands home:
This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo.
Enter GRATIANO

Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en
My Lord Bassanio upon more advice
Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat
Your company at dinner.

That cannot be:
His ring I do accept most thankfully:
And so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore,
I pray you, show my youth old Shylock's house.

That will I do.

Sir, I would speak with you.
Aside to PORTIA
I'll see if I can get my husband's ring,
Which I did make him swear to keep for ever.

[Aside to NERISSA] Thou mayst, I warrant.
We shall have old swearing
That they did give the rings away to men;
But we'll outface them, and outswear them too.
Aloud
Away! make haste: thou knowist where I will tarry.

Come, good sir, will you show me to this house?
Exeunt

Enter LORENZO and JESSICA

The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees
And they did make no noise, in such a night
Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls
And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents,
Where Cressid lay that night.

In such a night
Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself
And ran dismay'd away.

In such a night
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand
Upon the wild sea banks and waft her love
To come again to Carthage.

In such a night
Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs
That did renew old AEson.

In such a night
Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice
As far as Belmont.

In such a night
Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well,
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith
And ne'er a true one.

In such a night
Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,
Slander her love, and he forgave it her.

I would out-night you, did no body come;
But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.
Enter STEPHANO

Who comes so fast in silence of the night?

A friend.

A friend! what friend? your name, I pray you, friend?

Stephano is my name; and I bring word
My mistress will before the break of day
Be here at Belmont; she doth stray about
By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays
For happy wedlock hours.

Who comes with her?

None but a holy hermit and her maid.
I pray you, is my master yet return'd?

He is not, nor we have not heard from him.
But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica,
And ceremoniously let us prepare
Some welcome for the mistress of the house.
Enter LAUNCELOT

Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola!

Who calls?

Sola! did you see Master Lorenzo?
Master Lorenzo, sola, sola!

Leave hollaing, man: here.

Sola! where? where?

Here.

Tell him there's a post come from my master, with
his horn full of good news: my master will be here
ere morning.
Exit

Sweet soul, let's in, and there expect their coming.
And yet no matter: why should we go in?
My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you,
Within the house, your mistress is at hand;
And bring your music forth into the air.
Exit Stephano
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
Enter Musicians
Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn!
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,
And draw her home with music.
Music

I am never merry when I hear sweet music.

The reason is, your spirits are attentive:
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood;
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears,
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze
By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods;
Since nought so stockish, hard and full of rage,
But music for the time doth change his nature.
The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night
And his affections dark as Erebus:
Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.
Enter PORTIA and NERISSA

That light we see is burning in my hall.
How far that little candle throws his beams!
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

When the moon shone, we did not see the candle.

So doth the greater glory dim the less:
A substitute shines brightly as a king
Unto the king be by, and then his state
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook
Into the main of waters. Music! hark!

It is your music, madam, of the house.

Nothing is good, I see, without respect:
Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.

Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.

The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,
When neither is attended, and I think
The nightingale, if she should sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many things by season season'd are
To their right praise and true perfection!
Peace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion
And would not be awaked.
Music ceases

That is the voice,
Or I am much deceived, of Portia.

He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo,
By the bad voice.

Dear lady, welcome home.

We have been praying for our husbands' healths,
Which speed, we hope, the better for our words.
Are they return'd?

Madam, they are not yet;
But there is come a messenger before,
To signify their coming.

Go in, Nerissa;
Give order to my servants that they take
No note at all of our being absent hence;
Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you.
A tucket sounds

Your husband is at hand; I hear his trumpet:
We are no tell-tales, madam; fear you not.

This night methinks is but the daylight sick;
It looks a little paler: 'tis a day,
Such as the day is when the sun is hid.
Enter BASSANIO, ANTONIO, GRATIANO, and their followers

We should hold day with the Antipodes,
If you would walk in absence of the sun.

Let me give light, but let me not be light;
For a light wife doth make a heavy husband,
And never be Bassanio so for me:
But God sort all! You are welcome home, my lord.

I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my friend.
This is the man, this is Antonio,
To whom I am so infinitely bound.

You should in all sense be much bound to him.
For, as I hear, he was much bound for you.

No more than I am well acquitted of.

Sir, you are very welcome to our house:
It must appear in other ways than words,
Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy.

[To NERISSA] By yonder moon I swear you do me wrong;
In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk:
Would he were gelt that had it, for my part,
Since you do take it, love, so much at heart.

A quarrel, ho, already! what's the matter?

About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring
That she did give me, whose posy was
For all the world like cutler's poetry
Upon a knife, 'Love me, and leave me not.'

What talk you of the posy or the value?
You swore to me, when I did give it you,
That you would wear it till your hour of death
And that it should lie with you in your grave:
Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths,
You should have been respective and have kept it.
Gave it a judge's clerk! no, God's my judge,
The clerk will ne'er wear hair on's face that had it.

He will, an if he live to be a man.

Ay, if a woman live to be a man.

Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth,
A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy,
No higher than thyself; the judge's clerk,
A prating boy, that begg'd it as a fee:
I could not for my heart deny it him.

You were to blame, I must be plain with you,
To part so slightly with your wife's first gift:
A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger
And so riveted with faith unto your flesh.
I gave my love a ring and made him swear
Never to part with it; and here he stands;
I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it
Nor pluck it from his finger, for the wealth
That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano,
You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief:
An 'twere to me, I should be mad at it.

[Aside] Why, I were best to cut my left hand off
And swear I lost the ring defending it.

My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away
Unto the judge that begg'd it and indeed
Deserved it too; and then the boy, his clerk,
That took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine;
And neither man nor master would take aught
But the two rings.

What ring gave you my lord?
Not that, I hope, which you received of me.

If I could add a lie unto a fault,
I would deny it; but you see my finger
Hath not the ring upon it; it is gone.

Even so void is your false heart of truth.
By heaven, I will ne'er come in your bed
Until I see the ring.

Nor I in yours
Till I again see mine.

Sweet Portia,
If you did know to whom I gave the ring,
If you did know for whom I gave the ring
And would conceive for what I gave the ring
And how unwillingly I left the ring,
When nought would be accepted but the ring,
You would abate the strength of your displeasure.

If you had known the virtue of the ring,
Or half her worthiness that gave the ring,
Or your own honour to contain the ring,
You would not then have parted with the ring.
What man is there so much unreasonable,
If you had pleased to have defended it
With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty
To urge the thing held as a ceremony?
Nerissa teaches me what to believe:
I'll die for't but some woman had the ring.

No, by my honour, madam, by my soul,
No woman had it, but a civil doctor,
Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me
And begg'd the ring; the which I did deny him
And suffer'd him to go displeased away;
Even he that did uphold the very life
Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady?
I was enforced to send it after him;
I was beset with shame and courtesy;
My honour would not let ingratitude
So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady;
For, by these blessed candles of the night,
Had you been there, I think you would have begg'd
The ring of me to give the worthy doctor.

Let not that doctor e'er come near my house:
Since he hath got the jewel that I loved,
And that which you did swear to keep for me,
I will become as liberal as you;
I'll not deny him any thing I have,
No, not my body nor my husband's bed:
Know him I shall, I am well sure of it:
Lie not a night from home; watch me like Argus:
If you do not, if I be left alone,
Now, by mine honour, which is yet mine own,
I'll have that doctor for my bedfellow.

And I his clerk; therefore be well advised
How you do leave me to mine own protection.

Well, do you so; let not me take him, then;
For if I do, I'll mar the young clerk's pen.

I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels.

Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome notwithstanding.

Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong;
And, in the hearing of these many friends,
I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes,
Wherein I see myself--

Mark you but that!
In both my eyes he doubly sees himself;
In each eye, one: swear by your double self,
And there's an oath of credit.

Nay, but hear me:
Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear
I never more will break an oath with thee.

I once did lend my body for his wealth;
Which, but for him that had your husband's ring,
Had quite miscarried: I dare be bound again,
My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord
Will never more break faith advisedly.

Then you shall be his surety. Give him this
And bid him keep it better than the other.

Here, Lord Bassanio; swear to keep this ring.

By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor!

I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio;
For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me.

And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano;
For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor's clerk,
In lieu of this last night did lie with me.

Why, this is like the mending of highways
In summer, where the ways are fair enough:
What, are we cuckolds ere we have deserved it?

Speak not so grossly. You are all amazed:
Here is a letter; read it at your leisure;
It comes from Padua, from Bellario:
There you shall find that Portia was the doctor,
Nerissa there her clerk: Lorenzo here
Shall witness I set forth as soon as you
And even but now return'd; I have not yet
Enter'd my house. Antonio, you are welcome;
And I have better news in store for you
Than you expect: unseal this letter soon;
There you shall find three of your argosies
Are richly come to harbour suddenly:
You shall not know by what strange accident
I chanced on this letter.

I am dumb.

Were you the doctor and I knew you not?

Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold?

Ay, but the clerk that never means to do it,
Unless he live until he be a man.

Sweet doctor, you shall be my bed-fellow:
When I am absent, then lie with my wife.

Sweet lady, you have given me life and living;
For here I read for certain that my ships
Are safely come to road.

How now, Lorenzo!
My clerk hath some good comforts too for you.

Ay, and I'll give them him without a fee.
There do I give to you and Jessica,
From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift,
After his death, of all he dies possess'd of.

Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way
Of starved people.

It is almost morning,
And yet I am sure you are not satisfied
Of these events at full. Let us go in;
And charge us there upon inter'gatories,
And we will answer all things faithfully.

Let it be so: the first inter'gatory
That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is,
Whether till the next night she had rather stay,
Or go to bed now, being two hours to day:
But were the day come, I should wish it dark,
That I were couching with the doctor's clerk.
Well, while I live I'll fear no other thing
So sore as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.
Exeunt

Enter LEONATO, HERO, and BEATRICE, with a Messenger

I learn in this letter that Don Peter of Arragon
comes this night to Messina.

He is very near by this: he was not three leagues off
when I left him.

How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?

But few of any sort, and none of name.

A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings
home full numbers. I find here that Don Peter hath
bestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio.

Much deserved on his part and equally remembered by
Don Pedro: he hath borne himself beyond the
promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb,
the feats of a lion: he hath indeed better
bettered expectation than you must expect of me to
tell you how.

He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very much
glad of it.

I have already delivered him letters, and there
appears much joy in him; even so much that joy could
not show itself modest enough without a badge of
bitterness.

Did he break out into tears?

In great measure.

A kind overflow of kindness: there are no faces
truer than those that are so washed. How much
better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping!

I pray you, is Signior Mountanto returned from the
wars or no?

I know none of that name, lady: there was none such
in the army of any sort.

What is he that you ask for, niece?

My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.

O, he's returned; and as pleasant as ever he was.

He set up his bills here in Messina and challenged
Cupid at the flight; and my uncle's fool, reading
the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and challenged
him at the bird-bolt. I pray you, how many hath he
killed and eaten in these wars? But how many hath
he killed? for indeed I promised to eat all of his killing.

Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much;
but he'll be meet with you, I doubt it not.

He hath done good service, lady, in these wars.

You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it:
he is a very valiant trencherman; he hath an
excellent stomach.

And a good soldier too, lady.

And a good soldier to a lady: but what is he to a lord?

A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed with all
honourable virtues.

It is so, indeed; he is no less than a stuffed man:
but for the stuffing,--well, we are all mortal.

You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a
kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her:
they never meet but there's a skirmish of wit
between them.

Alas! he gets nothing by that. In our last
conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and
now is the whole man governed with one: so that if
he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him
bear it for a difference between himself and his
horse; for it is all the wealth that he hath left,
to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his
companion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother.

Is't possible?

Very easily possible: he wears his faith but as
the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the
next block.

I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.

No; an he were, I would burn my study. But, I pray
you, who is his companion? Is there no young
squarer now that will make a voyage with him to the devil?

He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio.

O Lord, he will hang upon him like a disease: he
is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker
runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio! if
he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a
thousand pound ere a' be cured.

I will hold friends with you, lady.

Do, good friend.

You will never run mad, niece.

No, not till a hot January.

Don Pedro is approached.
Enter DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, and BALTHASAR

Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your
trouble: the fashion of the world is to avoid
cost, and you encounter it.

Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of
your grace: for trouble being gone, comfort should
remain; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides
and happiness takes his leave.

You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this
is your daughter.

Her mother hath many times told me so.

Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?

Signior Benedick, no; for then were you a child.

You have it full, Benedick: we may guess by this
what you are, being a man. Truly, the lady fathers
herself. Be happy, lady; for you are like an
honourable father.

If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not
have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as
like him as she is.

I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior
Benedick: nobody marks you.

What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living?

Is it possible disdain should die while she hath
such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?
Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come
in her presence.

Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I
am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I
would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard
heart; for, truly, I love none.

A dear happiness to women: they would else have
been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God
and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I
had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man
swear he loves me.

God keep your ladyship still in that mind! so some
gentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate
scratched face.

Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere such
a face as yours were.

Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.

A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.

I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and
so good a continuer. But keep your way, i' God's
name; I have done.

You always end with a jade's trick: I know you of old.

That is the sum of all, Leonato. Signior Claudio
and Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath
invited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at
the least a month; and he heartily prays some
occasion may detain us longer. I dare swear he is no
hypocrite, but prays from his heart.

If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn.
To DON JOHN
Let me bid you welcome, my lord: being reconciled to
the prince your brother, I owe you all duty.

I thank you: I am not of many words, but I thank
you.

Please it your grace lead on?

Your hand, Leonato; we will go together.
Exeunt all except BENEDICK and CLAUDIO

Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato?

I noted her not; but I looked on her.

Is she not a modest young lady?

Do you question me, as an honest man should do, for
my simple true judgment; or would you have me speak
after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex?

No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment.

Why, i' faith, methinks she's too low for a high
praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little
for a great praise: only this commendation I can
afford her, that were she other than she is, she
were unhandsome; and being no other but as she is, I
do not like her.

Thou thinkest I am in sport: I pray thee tell me
truly how thou likest her.

Would you buy her, that you inquire after her?

Can the world buy such a jewel?

Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this
with a sad brow? or do you play the flouting Jack,
to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder and Vulcan a
rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take
you, to go in the song?

In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I
looked on.

I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such
matter: there's her cousin, an she were not
possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty
as the first of May doth the last of December. But I
hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you?

I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn the
contrary, if Hero would be my wife.

Is't come to this? In faith, hath not the world
one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion?
Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again?
Go to, i' faith; an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck
into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away
Sundays. Look Don Pedro is returned to seek you.
Re-enter DON PEDRO

What secret hath held you here, that you followed
not to Leonato's?

I would your grace would constrain me to tell.

I charge thee on thy allegiance.

You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb
man; I would have you think so; but, on my
allegiance, mark you this, on my allegiance. He is
in love. With who? now that is your grace's part.
Mark how short his answer is;--With Hero, Leonato's
short daughter.

If this were so, so were it uttered.

Like the old tale, my lord: 'it is not so, nor
'twas not so, but, indeed, God forbid it should be
so.'

If my passion change not shortly, God forbid it
should be otherwise.

Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy.

You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.

By my troth, I speak my thought.

And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.

And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine.

That I love her, I feel.

That she is worthy, I know.

That I neither feel how she should be loved nor
know how she should be worthy, is the opinion that
fire cannot melt out of me: I will die in it at the stake.

Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite
of beauty.

And never could maintain his part but in the force
of his will.

That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she
brought me up, I likewise give her most humble
thanks: but that I will have a recheat winded in my
forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick,
all women shall pardon me. Because I will not do
them the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the
right to trust none; and the fine is, for the which
I may go the finer, I will live a bachelor.

I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love.

With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord,
not with love: prove that ever I lose more blood
with love than I will get again with drinking, pick
out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen and hang me
up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of
blind Cupid.

Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou
wilt prove a notable argument.

If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot
at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on
the shoulder, and called Adam.

Well, as time shall try: 'In time the savage bull
doth bear the yoke.'

The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible
Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set
them in my forehead: and let me be vilely painted,
and in such great letters as they write 'Here is
good horse to hire,' let them signify under my sign
'Here you may see Benedick the married man.'

If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad.

Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in
Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly.

I look for an earthquake too, then.

Well, you temporize with the hours. In the
meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to
Leonato's: commend me to him and tell him I will
not fail him at supper; for indeed he hath made
great preparation.

I have almost matter enough in me for such an
embassage; and so I commit you--

To the tuition of God: From my house, if I had it,--

The sixth of July: Your loving friend, Benedick.

Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your
discourse is sometime guarded with fragments, and
the guards are but slightly basted on neither: ere
you flout old ends any further, examine your
conscience: and so I leave you.
Exit

My liege, your highness now may do me good.

My love is thine to teach: teach it but how,
And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn
Any hard lesson that may do thee good.

Hath Leonato any son, my lord?

No child but Hero; she's his only heir.
Dost thou affect her, Claudio?

O, my lord,
When you went onward on this ended action,
I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye,
That liked, but had a rougher task in hand
Than to drive liking to the name of love:
But now I am return'd and that war-thoughts
Have left their places vacant, in their rooms
Come thronging soft and delicate desires,
All prompting me how fair young Hero is,
Saying, I liked her ere I went to wars.

Thou wilt be like a lover presently
And tire the hearer with a book of words.
If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it,
And I will break with her and with her father,
And thou shalt have her. Was't not to this end
That thou began'st to twist so fine a story?

How sweetly you do minister to love,
That know love's grief by his complexion!
But lest my liking might too sudden seem,
I would have salved it with a longer treatise.

What need the bridge much broader than the flood?
The fairest grant is the necessity.
Look, what will serve is fit: 'tis once, thou lovest,
And I will fit thee with the remedy.
I know we shall have revelling to-night:
I will assume thy part in some disguise
And tell fair Hero I am Claudio,
And in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart
And take her hearing prisoner with the force
And strong encounter of my amorous tale:
Then after to her father will I break;
And the conclusion is, she shall be thine.
In practise let us put it presently.
Exeunt

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 dis*******?

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 **** were of
my mind! Shall we go prove what's to be done?

We'll wait upon your lordship.
Exeunt

Enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, HERO, BEATRICE, and others

Was not Count John here at supper?

I saw him not.

How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see
him but I am heart-burned an hour after.

He is of a very melancholy disposition.

He were an excellent man that were made just in the
midway between him and Benedick: the one is too
like an image and says nothing, and the other too
like my lady's eldest son, evermore tattling.

Then half Signior Benedick's tongue in Count John's
mouth, and half Count John's melancholy in Signior
Benedick's face,--

With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money
enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman
in the world, if a' could get her good-will.

By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a
husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.

In faith, she's too curst.

Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen God's
sending that way; for it is said, 'God sends a curst
cow short horns;' but to a cow too curst he sends none.

So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns.

Just, if he send me no husband; for the which
blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and
evening. Lord, I could not endure a husband with a
beard on his face: I had rather lie in the woollen.

You may light on a husband that hath no beard.

What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel
and make him my waiting-gentlewoman? He that hath a
beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no
beard is less than a man: and he that is more than
a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a
man, I am not for him: therefore, I will even take
sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and lead his
apes into hell.

Well, then, go you into hell?

No, but to the gate; and there will the devil meet
me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and
say 'Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to
heaven; here's no place for you maids:' so deliver
I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the
heavens; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and
there live we as merry as the day is long.

[To HERO] Well, niece, I trust you will be ruled
by your father.

Yes, faith; it is my cousin's duty to make curtsy
and say 'Father, as it please you.' But yet for all
that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else
make another curtsy and say 'Father, as it please
me.'

Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.

Not till God make men of some other ****l than
earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be
overmastered with a pierce of valiant dust? to make
an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl?
No, uncle, I'll none: Adam's sons are my brethren;
and, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.

Daughter, remember what I told you: if the prince
do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer.

The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be
not wooed in good time: if the prince be too
important, tell him there is measure in every thing
and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero:
wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a Scotch jig,
a measure, and a cinque pace: the first suit is hot
and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as
fantastical; the wedding, mannerly-modest, as a
measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes
repentance and, with his bad legs, falls into the
cinque pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave.

Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.

I have a good eye, uncle; I can see a church by daylight.

The revellers are entering, brother: make good room.
All put on their masks
Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, BALTHASAR, DON JOHN, BORACHIO, MARGARET, URSULA and others, masked

Lady, will you walk about with your friend?

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

With me in your company?

I may say so, when I please.

And when please you to say so?

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

My visor is Philemon's roof; within the house is Jove.

Why, then, your visor should be thatched.

Speak low, if you speak love.
Drawing her aside

Well, I would you did like me.

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

Which is one?

I say my prayers aloud.

I love you the better: the hearers may cry, Amen.

God match me with a good dancer!

Amen.

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

No more words: the clerk is answered.

I know you well enough; you are Signior Antonio.

At a word, I am not.

I know you by the waggling of your head.

To tell you true, I counterfeit him.

You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were
the very man. Here's his dry hand up and down: you
are he, you are he.

At a word, I am not.

Come, come, do you think I do not know you by your
excellent wit? can virtue hide itself? Go to,
mum, you are he: graces will appear, and there's an
end.

Will you not tell me who told you so?

No, you shall pardon me.

Nor will you not tell me who you are?

Not now.

That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit
out of the 'Hundred Merry Tales:'--well this was
Signior Benedick that said so.

What's he?

I am sure you know him well enough.

Not I, believe me.

Did he never make you laugh?

I pray you, what is he?

Why, he is the prince's jester: a very dull fool;
only his gift is in devising impossible slanders:
none but libertines delight in him; and the
commendation is not in his wit, but in his villany;
for he both pleases men and angers them, and then
they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in
the fleet: I would he had boarded me.

When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him what you say.

Do, do: he'll but break a comparison or two on me;
which, peradventure not marked or not laughed at,
strikes him into melancholy; and then there's a
partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no
supper that night.
Music
We must follow the leaders.

In every good thing.

Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at
the next turning.
Dance. Then exeunt all except DON JOHN, BORACHIO, and CLAUDIO

Sure my brother is amorous on Hero and hath
withdrawn her father to break with him about it.
The ladies follow her and but one visor remains.

And that is Claudio: I know him by his bearing.

Are not you Signior Benedick?

You know me well; I am he.

Signior, you are very near my brother in his love:
he is enamoured on Hero; I pray you, dissuade him
from her: she is no equal for his birth: you may
do the part of an honest man in it.

How know you he loves her?

I heard him swear his affection.

So did I too; and he swore he would marry her to-night.

Come, let us to the banquet.
Exeunt DON JOHN and BORACHIO

Thus answer I in the name of Benedick,
But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.
'Tis certain so; the prince wooes for himself.
Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore, all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.
This is an accident of hourly proof,
Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero!
Re-enter BENEDICK

Count Claudio?

Yea, the same.

Come, will you go with me?

Whither?

Even to the next willow, about your own business,
county. What fashion will you wear the garland of?
about your neck, like an usurer's chain? or under
your arm, like a lieutenant's scarf? You must wear
it one way, for the prince hath got your Hero.

I wish him joy of her.

Why, that's spoken like an honest drovier: so they
sell bullocks. But did you think the prince would
have served you thus?

I pray you, leave me.

Ho! now you strike like the blind man: 'twas the
boy that stole your meat, and you'll beat the post.

If it will not be, I'll leave you.
Exit

Alas, poor hurt fowl! now will he creep into sedges.
But that my Lady Beatrice should know me, and not
know me! The prince's fool! Ha? It may be I go
under that title because I am merry. Yea, but so I
am apt to do myself wrong; I am not so reputed: it
is the base, though bitter, disposition of Beatrice
that puts the world into her person and so gives me
out. Well, I'll be revenged as I may.
Re-enter DON PEDRO

Now, signior, where's the count? did you see him?

Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame.
I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a
warren: I told him, and I think I told him true,
that your grace had got the good will of this young
lady; and I offered him my company to a willow-tree,
either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or
to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped.

To be whipped! What's his fault?

The flat transgression of a schoolboy, who, being
overjoyed with finding a birds' nest, shows it his
companion, and he steals it.

Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The
transgression is in the stealer.

Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made,
and the garland too; for the garland he might have
worn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on
you, who, as I take it, have stolen his birds' nest.

I will but teach them to sing, and restore them to
the owner.

If their singing answer your saying, by my faith,
you say honestly.

The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you: the
gentleman that danced with her told her she is much
wronged by you.

O, she misused me past the endurance of a block!
an oak but with one green leaf on it would have
answered her; my very visor began to assume life and
scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been
myself, that I was the prince's jester, that I was
duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest
with such impossible conveyance upon me that I stood
like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at
me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs:
if her breath were as terrible as her terminations,
there were no living near her; she would infect to
the north star. I would not marry her, though she
were endowed with all that Adam bad left him before
he transgressed: she would have made Hercules have
turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make
the fire too. Come, talk not of her: you shall find
her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God
some scholar would conjure her; for certainly, while
she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a
sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose, because they
would go thither; so, indeed, all disquiet, horror
and perturbation follows her.

Look, here she comes.
Enter CLAUDIO, BEATRICE, HERO, and LEONATO

Will your grace command me any service to the
world's end? I will go on the slightest errand now
to the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on;
I will fetch you a tooth-picker now from the
furthest inch of Asia, bring you the length of
Prester John's foot, fetch you a hair off the great
Cham's beard, do you any embassage to the Pigmies,
rather than hold three words' conference with this
harpy. You have no employment for me?

None, but to desire your good company.

O God, sir, here's a dish I love not: I cannot
endure my Lady Tongue.
Exit

Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of
Signior Benedick.

Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave
him use for it, a double heart for his single one:
marry, once before he won it of me with false dice,
therefore your grace may well say I have lost it.

You have put him down, lady, you have put him down.

So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I
should prove the mother of fools. I have brought
Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.

Why, how now, count! wherefore are you sad?

Not sad, my lord.

How then? sick?

Neither, my lord.

The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor
well; but civil count, civil as an orange, and
something of that jealous complexion.

I' faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true;
though, I'll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is
false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and
fair Hero is won: I have broke with her father,
and his good will obtained: name the day of
marriage, and God give thee joy!

Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my
fortunes: his grace hath made the match, and an
grace say Amen to it.

Speak, count, 'tis your cue.

Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were
but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as
you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for
you and dote upon the exchange.

Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth
with a kiss, and let not him speak neither.

In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.

Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on
the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his
ear that he is in her heart.

And so she doth, cousin.

Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the
world but I, and I am sunburnt; I may sit in a
corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!

Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.

I would rather have one of your father's getting.
Hath your grace ne'er a brother like you? Your
father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them.

Will you have me, lady?

No, my lord, unless I might have another for
working-days: your grace is too costly to wear
every day. But, I beseech your grace, pardon me: I
was born to speak all mirth and no matter.

Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best
becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in
a merry hour.

No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there
was a star danced, and under that was I born.
Cousins, God give you joy!

Niece, will you look to those things I told you of?

I cry you mercy, uncle. By your grace's pardon.
Exit

By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.

There's little of the melancholy element in her, my
lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps, and
not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say,
she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked
herself with laughing.

She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.

O, by no means: she mocks all her wooers out of suit.

She were an excellent wife for Benedict.

O Lord, my lord, if they were but a week married,
they would talk themselves mad.

County Claudio, when mean you to go to church?

To-morrow, my lord: time goes on crutches till love
have all his rites.

Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just
seven-night; and a time too brief, too, to have all
things answer my mind.

Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing:
but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go
dully by us. I will in the interim undertake one of
Hercules' labours; which is, to bring Signior
Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of
affection the one with the other. I would fain have
it a match, and I doubt not but to fashion it, if
you three will but minister such assistance as I
shall give you direction.

My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten
nights' watchings.

And I, my lord.

And you too, gentle Hero?

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

And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband that
I know. Thus far can I praise him; he is of a noble
strain, of approved valour and confirmed honesty. I
will teach you how to humour your cousin, that she
shall fall in love with Benedick; and I, with your
two helps, will so practise on Benedick that, in
despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he
shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this,
Cupid is no longer an archer: hi s glory shall be
ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me,
and I will tell you my drift.
Exeunt

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-********

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

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

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