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

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

Enter LEONATO, with DOGBERRY and VERGES

What would you with me, honest neighbour?

Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you
that decerns you nearly.

Brief, I pray you; for you see it is a busy time with me.

Marry, this it is, sir.

Yes, in truth it is, sir.

What is it, my good friends?

Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the
matter: an old man, sir, and his wits are not so
blunt as, God help, I would desire they were; but,
in faith, honest as the skin between his brows.

Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man living
that is an old man and no honester than I.

Comparisons are odorous: palabras, neighbour Verges.

Neighbours, you are tedious.

It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the
poor duke's officers; but truly, for mine own part,
if I were as tedious as a king, I could find it in
my heart to bestow it all of your worship.

All thy tediousness on me, ah?

Yea, an 'twere a thousand pound more than 'tis; for
I hear as good exclamation on your worship as of any
man in the city; and though I be but a poor man, I
am glad to hear it.

And so am I.

I would fain know what you have to say.

Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your
worship's presence, ha' ta'en a couple of as arrant
knaves as any in Messina.

A good old man, sir; he will be talking: as they
say, when the age is in, the wit is out: God help
us! it is a world to see. Well said, i' faith,
neighbour Verges: well, God's a good man; an two men
ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An honest
soul, i' faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever
broke bread; but God is to be worshipped; all men
are not alike; alas, good neighbour!

Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you.

Gifts that God gives.

I must leave you.

One word, sir: our watch, sir, have indeed
comprehended two aspicious persons, and we would
have them this morning examined before your worship.

Take their examination yourself and bring it me: I
am now in great haste, as it may appear unto you.

It shall be suffigance.

Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well.
Enter a Messenger

My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to
her husband.

I'll wait upon them: I am ready.
Exeunt LEONATO and Messenger

Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis Seacole;
bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol: we
are now to examination these men.

And we must do it wisely.

We will spare for no wit, I warrant you; here's
that shall drive some of them to a non-come: only
get the learned writer to set down our
excommunication and meet me at the gaol.
Exeunt

Enter DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, LEONATO, FRIAR FRANCIS, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, HERO, BEATRICE, and Attendants

Come, Friar Francis, be brief; only to the plain
form of marriage, and you shall recount their
particular duties afterwards.

You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady.

No.

To be married to her: friar, you come to marry her.

Lady, you come hither to be married to this count.

I do.

If either of you know any inward impediment why you
should not be conjoined, charge you, on your souls,
to utter it.

Know you any, Hero?

None, my lord.

Know you any, count?

I dare make his answer, none.

O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily
do, not knowing what they do!

How now! interjections? Why, then, some be of
laughing, as, ah, ha, he!

Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your leave:
Will you with free and unconstrained soul
Give me this maid, your daughter?

As freely, son, as God did give her me.

And what have I to give you back, whose worth
May counterpoise this rich and precious gift?

Nothing, unless you render her again.

Sweet prince, you learn me noble thankfulness.
There, Leonato, take her back again:
Give not this rotten orange to your friend;
She's but the sign and semblance of her honour.
Behold how like a maid she blushes here!
O, what authority and show of truth
Can cunning sin cover itself withal!
Comes not that blood as modest evidence
To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear,
All you that see her, that she were a maid,
By these exterior shows? But she is none:
She knows the heat of a luxurious bed;
Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.

What do you mean, my lord?

Not to be married,
Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton.

Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof,
Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth,
And made defeat of her virginity,--

I know what you would say: if I have known her,
You will say she did embrace me as a husband,
And so extenuate the 'forehand sin:
No, Leonato,
I never tempted her with word too large;
But, as a brother to his sister, show'd
Bashful sincerity and comely love.

And seem'd I ever otherwise to you?

Out on thee! Seeming! I will write against it:
You seem to me as Dian in her orb,
As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;
But you are more intemperate in your blood
Than Venus, or those pamper'd animals
That rage in savage sensuality.

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

Sweet prince, why speak not you?

What should I speak?
I stand dishonour'd, that have gone about
To link my dear friend to a common stale.

Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?

Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.

This looks not like a nuptial.

True! O God!

Leonato, stand I here?
Is this the prince? is this the prince's brother?
Is this face Hero's? are our eyes our own?

All this is so: but what of this, my lord?

Let me but move one question to your daughter;
And, by that fatherly and kindly power
That you have in her, bid her answer truly.

I charge thee do so, as thou art my child.

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

To make you answer truly to your name.

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

Marry, that can Hero;
Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue.
What man was he talk'd with you yesternight
Out at your window betwixt twelve and one?
Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.

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

Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato,
I am sorry you must hear: upon mine honour,
Myself, my brother and this grieved count
Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night
Talk with a ruffian at her chamber-window
Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain,
Confess'd the vile encounters they have had
A thousand times in secret.

Fie, fie! they are not to be named, my lord,
Not to be spoke of;
There is not chastity enough in ********
Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady,
I am sorry for thy much misgovernment.

O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been,
If half thy outward graces had been placed
About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart!
But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell,
Thou pure impiety and impious purity!
For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love,
And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang,
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,
And never shall it more be gracious.

Hath no man's dagger here a point for me?
HERO swoons

Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you down?

Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light,
Smother her spirits up.
Exeunt DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, and CLAUDIO

How doth the lady?

Dead, I think. Help, uncle!
Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar!

O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand.
Death is the fairest cover for her shame
That may be wish'd for.

How now, cousin Hero!

Have comfort, lady.

Dost thou look up?

Yea, wherefore should she not?

Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly thing
Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny
The story that is printed in her blood?
Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes:
For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,
Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,
Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches,
Strike at thy life. Grieved I, I had but one?
Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame?
O, one too much by thee! Why had I one?
Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?
Why had I not with charitable hand
Took up a beggar's issue at my gates,
Who smirch'd thus and mired with infamy,
I might have said 'No part of it is mine;
This shame derives itself from unknown loins'?
But mine and mine I loved and mine I praised
And mine that I was proud on, mine so much
That I myself was to myself not mine,
Valuing of her,--why, she, O, she is fallen
Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again
And salt too little which may season give
To her foul-tainted flesh!

Sir, sir, be patient.
For my part, I am so attired in wonder,
I know not what to say.

O, on my soul, my cousin is belied!

Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?

No, truly not; although, until last night,
I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.

Confirm'd, confirm'd! O, that is stronger made
Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron!
Would the two princes lie, and Claudio lie,
Who loved her so, that, speaking of her foulness,
Wash'd it with tears? Hence from her! let her die.

Hear me a little;
For I have only been silent so long
And given way unto this course of fortune.
...
By noting of the lady I have mark'd
A thousand blushing apparitions
To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames
In angel whiteness beat away those blushes;
And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire,
To burn the errors that these princes hold
Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool;
Trust not my reading nor my observations,
Which with experimental seal doth warrant
The tenor of my book; trust not my age,
My reverence, calling, nor divinity,
If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here
Under some biting error.

Friar, it cannot be.
Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left
Is that she will not add to her damnation
A sin of perjury; she not denies it:
Why seek'st thou then to cover with excuse
That which appears in proper nakedness?

Lady, what man is he you are accused of?

They know that do accuse me; I know none:
If I know more of any man alive
Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant,
Let all my sins lack mercy! O my father,
Prove you that any man with me conversed
At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight
Maintain'd the change of words with any creature,
Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death!

There is some strange misprision in the princes.

Two of them have the very bent of honour;
And if their wisdoms be misled in this,
The practise of it lives in John the bastard,
Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies.

I know not. If they speak but truth of her,
These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour,
The proudest of them shall well hear of it.
Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,
Nor age so eat up my invention,
Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,
Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,
But they shall find, awaked in such a kind,
Both strength of limb and policy of mind,
Ability in means and choice of friends,
To quit me of them throughly.

Pause awhile,
And let my counsel sway you in this case.
Your daughter here the princes left for dead:
Let her awhile be secretly kept in,
And publish it that she is dead indeed;
Maintain a mourning ostentation
And on your family's old monument
Hang mournful epitaphs and do all rites
That appertain unto a burial.

What shall become of this? what will this do?

Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf
Change slander to remorse; that is some good:
But not for that dream I on this strange course,
But on this travail look for greater birth.
She dying, as it must so be maintain'd,
Upon the instant that she was accused,
Shall be lamented, pitied and excused
Of every hearer: for it so falls out
That what we have we prize not to the worth
Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost,
Why, then we rack the value, then we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio:
When he shall hear she died upon his words,
The idea of her life shall sweetly creep
Into his study of imagination,
And every lovely organ of her life
Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit,
More moving-delicate and full of life,
Into the eye and prospect of his soul,
Than when she lived indeed; then shall he mourn,
If ever love had interest in his liver,
And wish he had not so accused her,
No, though he thought his accusation true.
Let this be so, and doubt not but success
Will fashion the event in better shape
Than I can lay it down in likelihood.
But if all aim but this be levell'd false,
The supposition of the lady's death
Will quench the wonder of her infamy:
And if it sort not well, you may conceal her,
As best befits her wounded reputation,
In some reclusive and religious life,
Out of all eyes, tongues, minds and injuries.

Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you:
And though you know my inwardness and love
Is very much unto the prince and Claudio,
Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this
As secretly and justly as your soul
Should with your body.

Being that I flow in grief,
The smallest twine may lead me.

'Tis well consented: presently away;
For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.
Come, lady, die to live: this wedding-day
Perhaps is but prolong'd: have patience and endure.
Exeunt all but BENEDICK and BEATRICE

Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?

Yea, and I will weep a while longer.

I will not desire that.

You have no reason; I do it freely.

Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.

Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her!

Is there any way to show such friendship?

A very even way, but no such friend.

May a man do it?

It is a man's office, but not yours.

I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is
not that strange?

As strange as the thing I know not. It were as
possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as
you: but believe me not; and yet I lie not; I
confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin.

By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.

Do not swear, and eat it.

I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make
him eat it that says I love not you.

Will you not eat your word?

With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest
I love thee.

Why, then, God forgive me!

What offence, sweet Beatrice?

You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to
protest I loved you.

And do it with all thy heart.

I love you with so much of my heart that none is
left to protest.

Come, bid me do any thing for thee.

Kill Claudio.

Ha! not for the wide world.

You kill me to deny it. Farewell.

Tarry, sweet Beatrice.

I am gone, though I am here: there is no love in
you: nay, I pray you, let me go.

Beatrice,--

In faith, I will go.

We'll be friends first.

You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy.

Is Claudio thine enemy?

Is he not approved in the height a villain, that
hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O
that I were a man! What, bear her in hand until they
come to take hands; and then, with public
accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour,
--O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart
in the market-place.

Hear me, Beatrice,--

Talk with a man out at a window! A proper saying!

Nay, but, Beatrice,--

Sweet Hero! She is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone.

Beat--

Princes and counties! Surely, a princely testimony,
a goodly count, Count Comfect; a sweet gallant,
surely! O that I were a man for his sake! or that I
had any friend would be a man for my sake! But
manhood is melted into courtesies, valour into
compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and
trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules
that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a
man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.

Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.

Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.

Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero?

Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul.

Enough, I am engaged; I will challenge him. I will
kiss your hand, and so I leave you. By this hand,
Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you
hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your
cousin: I must say she is dead: and so, farewell.
Exeunt

Enter DOGBERRY, VERGES, and Sexton, in gowns; and the Watch, with CONRADE and BORACHIO

Is our whole dissembly appeared?

O, a stool and a cushion for the sexton.

Which be the malefactors?

Marry, that am I and my partner.

Nay, that's certain; we have the exhibition to examine.

But which are the offenders that are to be
examined? let them come before master constable.

Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your
name, friend?

Borachio.

Pray, write down, Borachio. Yours, sirrah?

I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.

Write down, master gentleman Conrade. Masters, do
you serve God?

Yea, sir, we hope.

Write down, that they hope they serve God: and
write God first; for God defend but God should go
before such villains! Masters, it is proved already
that you are little better than false knaves; and it
will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer
you for yourselves?

Marry, sir, we say we are none.

A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you: but I
will go about with him. Come you hither, sirrah; a
word in your ear: sir, I say to you, it is thought
you are false knaves.

Sir, I say to you we are none.

Well, stand aside. 'Fore God, they are both in a
tale. Have you writ down, that they are none?

Master constable, you go not the way to examine:
you must call forth the watch that are their accusers.

Yea, marry, that's the eftest way. Let the watch
come forth. Masters, I charge you, in the prince's
name, accuse these men.

This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince's
brother, was a villain.

Write down Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat
perjury, to call a prince's brother villain.

Master constable,--

Pray thee, fellow, peace: I do not like thy look,
I promise thee.

What heard you him say else?

Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of
Don John for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully.

Flat burglary as ever was committed.

Yea, by mass, that it is.

What else, fellow?

And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to
disgrace Hero before the whole assembly. and not marry her.

O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting
redemption for this.

What else?

This is all.

And this is more, masters, than you can deny.
Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away;
Hero was in this manner accused, in this very manner
refused, and upon the grief of this suddenly died.
Master constable, let these men be bound, and
brought to Leonato's: I will go before and show
him their examination.
Exit

Come, let them be opinioned.

Let them be in the hands--

Off, coxcomb!

God's my life, where's the sexton? let him write
down the prince's officer coxcomb. Come, bind them.
Thou naughty varlet!

Away! you are an ass, you are an ass.

Dost thou not suspect my place? dost thou not
suspect my years? O that he were here to write me
down an ass! But, masters, remember that I am an
ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not
that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of
piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness.
I am a wise fellow, and, which is more, an officer,
and, which is more, a householder, and, which is
more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in
Messina, and one that knows the law, go to; and a
rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath
had losses, and one that hath two gowns and every
thing handsome about him. Bring him away. O that
I had been writ down an ass!
Exeunt

Enter LEONATO and ANTONIO

If you go on thus, you will kill yourself:
And 'tis not wisdom thus to second grief
Against yourself.

I pray thee, cease thy counsel,
Which falls into mine ears as profitless
As water in a sieve: give not me counsel;
Nor let no comforter delight mine ear
But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine.
Bring me a father that so loved his child,
Whose joy of her is overwhelm'd like mine,
And bid him speak of patience;
Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine
And let it answer every strain for strain,
As thus for thus and such a grief for such,
In every lineament, branch, shape, and form:
If such a one will smile and stroke his beard,
Bid sorrow wag, cry 'hem!' when he should groan,
Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk
With candle-wasters; bring him yet to me,
And I of him will gather patience.
But there is no such man: for, brother, men
Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief
Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,
Their counsel turns to passion, which before
Would give preceptial medicine to rage,
Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,
Charm ache with air and agony with words:
No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience
To those that wring under the load of sorrow,
But no man's virtue nor sufficiency
To be so moral when he shall endure
The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel:
My griefs cry louder than advertisement.

Therein do men from children nothing differ.

I pray thee, peace. I will be flesh and blood;
For there was never yet philosopher
That could endure the toothache patiently,
However they have writ the style of gods
And made a push at chance and sufferance.

Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself;
Make those that do offend you suffer too.

There thou speak'st reason: nay, I will do so.
My soul doth tell me Hero is belied;
And that shall Claudio know; so shall the prince
And all of them that thus dishonour her.

Here comes the prince and Claudio hastily.
Enter DON PEDRO and CLAUDIO

Good den, good den.

Good day to both of you.

Hear you. my lords,--

We have some haste, Leonato.

Some haste, my lord! well, fare you well, my lord:
Are you so hasty now? well, all is one.

Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man.

If he could right himself with quarreling,
Some of us would lie low.

Who wrongs him?

Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou dissembler, thou:--
Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword;
I fear thee not.

Marry, beshrew my hand,
If it should give your age such cause of fear:
In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.

Tush, tush, man; never fleer and jest at me:
I speak not like a dotard nor a fool,
As under privilege of age to brag
What I have done being young, or what would do
Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head,
Thou hast so wrong'd mine innocent child and me
That I am forced to lay my reverence by
And, with grey hairs and bruise of many days,
Do challenge thee to trial of a man.
I say thou hast belied mine innocent child;
Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart,
And she lies buried with her ancestors;
O, in a tomb where never scandal slept,
Save this of hers, framed by thy villany!

My villany?

Thine, Claudio; thine, I say.

You say not right, old man.

My lord, my lord,
I'll prove it on his body, if he dare,
Despite his nice fence and his active practise,
His May of youth and bloom of lustihood.

Away! I will not have to do with you.

Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill'd my child:
If thou kill'st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.

He shall kill two of us, and men indeed:
But that's no matter; let him kill one first;
Win me and wear me; let him answer me.
Come, follow me, boy; come, sir boy, come, follow me:
Sir boy, I'll whip you from your foining fence;
Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will.

Brother,--

******* yourself. God knows I loved my niece;
And she is dead, slander'd to death by villains,
That dare as well answer a man indeed
As I dare take a serpent by the tongue:
Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops!

Brother Antony,--

Hold you *******. What, man! I know them, yea,
And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple,--
Scrambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys,
That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander,
Go anticly, show outward hideousness,
And speak off half a dozen dangerous words,
How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst;
And this is all.

But, brother Antony,--

Come, 'tis no matter:
Do not you meddle; let me deal in this.

Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience.
My heart is sorry for your daughter's death:
But, on my honour, she was charged with nothing
But what was true and very full of proof.

My lord, my lord,--

I will not hear you.

No? Come, brother; away! I will be heard.

And shall, or some of us will smart for it.
Exeunt LEONATO and ANTONIO

See, see; here comes the man we went to seek.
Enter BENEDICK

Now, signior, what news?

Good day, my lord.

Welcome, signior: you are almost come to part
almost a fray.

We had like to have had our two noses snapped off
with two old men without teeth.

Leonato and his brother. What thinkest thou? Had
we fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them.

In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I came
to seek you both.

We have been up and down to seek thee; for we are
high-proof melancholy and would fain have it beaten
away. Wilt thou use thy wit?

It is in my scabbard: shall I draw it?

Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side?

Never any did so, though very many have been beside
their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do the
minstrels; draw, to pleasure us.

As I am an honest man, he looks pale. Art thou
sick, or angry?

What, courage, man! What though care killed a cat,
thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.

Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, and you
charge it against me. I pray you choose another subject.

Nay, then, give him another staff: this last was
broke cross.

By this light, he changes more and more: I think
he be angry indeed.

If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle.

Shall I speak a word in your ear?

God bless me from a challenge!

[Aside to CLAUDIO] You are a villain; I jest not:
I will make it good how you dare, with what you
dare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I will
protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet
lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me
hear from you.

Well, I will meet you, so I may have good cheer.

What, a feast, a feast?

I' faith, I thank him; he hath bid me to a calf's
head and a capon; the which if I do not carve most
curiously, say my knife's naught. Shall I not find
a woodcock too?

Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily.

I'll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the
other day. I said, thou hadst a fine wit: 'True,'
said she, 'a fine little one.' 'No,' said I, 'a
great wit:' 'Right,' says she, 'a great gross one.'
'Nay,' said I, 'a good wit:' 'Just,' said she, 'it
hurts nobody.' 'Nay,' said I, 'the gentleman
is wise:' 'Certain,' said she, 'a wise gentleman.'
'Nay,' said I, 'he hath the tongues:' 'That I
believe,' said she, 'for he swore a thing to me on
Monday night, which he forswore on Tuesday morning;
there's a double tongue; there's two tongues.' Thus
did she, an hour together, transshape thy particular
virtues: yet at last she concluded with a sigh, thou
wast the properest man in Italy.

For the which she wept heartily and said she cared
not.

Yea, that she did: but yet, for all that, an if she
did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly:
the old man's daughter told us all.

All, all; and, moreover, God saw him when he was
hid in the garden.

But when shall we set the savage bull's horns on
the sensible Benedick's head?

Yea, and **** underneath, 'Here dwells Benedick the
married man'?

Fare you well, boy: you know my mind. I will leave
you now to your gossip-like humour: you break jests
as braggarts do their blades, which God be thanked,
hurt not. My lord, for your many courtesies I thank
you: I must discontinue your company: your brother
the bastard is fled from Messina: you have among
you killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord
Lackbeard there, he and I shall meet: and, till
then, peace be with him.
Exit

He is in earnest.

In most profound earnest; and, I'll warrant you, for
the love of Beatrice.

And hath challenged thee.

Most sincerely.

What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his
doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!

He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an ape a
doctor to such a man.

But, soft you, let me be: pluck up, my heart, and
be sad. Did he not say, my brother was fled?
Enter DOGBERRY, VERGES, and the Watch, with CONRADE and BORACHIO

Come you, sir: if justice cannot tame you, she
shall ne'er weigh more reasons in her balance: nay,
an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be looked to.

How now? two of my brother's men bound! Borachio
one!

Hearken after their offence, my lord.

Officers, what offence have these men done?

Marry, sir, they have committed false report;
moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily,
they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have
belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust
things; and, to conclude, they are lying knaves.

First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I
ask thee what's their offence; sixth and lastly, why
they are committed; and, to conclude, what you lay
to their charge.

Rightly reasoned, and in his own division: and, by
my troth, there's one meaning well suited.

Who have you offended, masters, that you are thus
bound to your answer? this learned constable is
too cunning to be understood: what's your offence?

Sweet prince, let me go no farther to mine answer:
do you hear me, and let this count kill me. I have
deceived even your very eyes: what your wisdoms
could not discover, these shallow fools have brought
to light: who in the night overheard me confessing
to this man how Don John your brother incensed me
to slander the Lady Hero, how you were brought into
the orchard and saw me court Margaret in Hero's
garments, how you disgraced her, when you should
marry her: my villany they have upon record; which
I had rather seal with my death than repeat over
to my shame. The lady is dead upon mine and my
master's false accusation; and, briefly, I desire
nothing but the reward of a villain.

Runs not this speech like iron through your blood?

I have drunk poison whiles he utter'd it.

But did my brother set thee on to this?

Yea, and paid me richly for the practise of it.

He is composed and framed of treachery:
And fled he is upon this villany.

Sweet Hero! now thy image doth appear
In the rare semblance that I loved it first.

Come, bring away the plaintiffs: by this time our
sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the matter:
and, masters, do not forget to specify, when time
and place shall serve, that I am an ass.

Here, here comes master Signior Leonato, and the
Sexton too.
Re-enter LEONATO and ANTONIO, with the Sexton

Which is the villain? let me see his eyes,
That, when I note another man like him,
I may avoid him: which of these is he?

If you would know your wronger, look on me.

Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast kill'd
Mine innocent child?

Yea, even I alone.

No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself:
Here stand a pair of honourable men;
A third is fled, that had a hand in it.
I thank you, princes, for my daughter's death:
Record it with your high and worthy deeds:
'Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.

I know not how to pray your patience;
Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself;
Impose me to what penance your invention
Can lay upon my sin: yet sinn'd I not
But in mistaking.

By my soul, nor I:
And yet, to satisfy this good old man,
I would bend under any heavy weight
That he'll enjoin me to.

I cannot bid you bid my daughter live;
That were impossible: but, I pray you both,
Possess the people in Messina here
How innocent she died; and if your love
Can labour ought in sad invention,
Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb
And sing it to her bones, sing it to-night:
To-morrow morning come you to my house,
And since you could not be my son-in-law,
Be yet my nephew: my brother hath a daughter,
Almost the copy of my child that's dead,
And she alone is heir to both of us:
Give her the right you should have given her cousin,
And so dies my revenge.

O noble sir,
Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me!
I do embrace your offer; and dispose
For henceforth of poor Claudio.

To-morrow then I will expect your coming;
To-night I take my leave. This naughty man
Shall face to face be brought to Margaret,
Who I believe was pack'd in all this wrong,
Hired to it by your brother.

No, by my soul, she was not,
Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me,
But always hath been just and virtuous
In any thing that I do know by her.

Moreover, sir, which indeed is not under white and
black, this plaintiff here, the offender, did call
me ass: I beseech you, let it be remembered in his
punishment. And also, the watch heard them talk of
one Deformed: they say be wears a key in his ear and
a lock hanging by it, and borrows money in God's
name, the which he hath used so long and never paid
that now men grow hard-hearted and will lend nothing
for God's sake: pray you, examine him upon that point.

I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.

Your worship speaks like a most thankful and
reverend youth; and I praise God for you.

There's for thy pains.

God save the foundation!

Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee.

I leave an arrant knave with your worship; which I
beseech your worship to correct yourself, for the
example of others. God keep your worship! I wish
your worship well; God restore you to health! I
humbly give you leave to depart; and if a merry
meeting may be wished, God prohibit it! Come, neighbour.
Exeunt DOGBERRY and VERGES

Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell.

Farewell, my lords: we look for you to-morrow.

We will not fail.

To-night I'll mourn with Hero.

[To the Watch] Bring you these fellows on. We'll
talk with Margaret,
How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.
Exeunt, severally

Enter BENEDICK and MARGARET, meeting

Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at
my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice.

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

In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living
shall come over it; for, in most comely truth, thou
deservest it.

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

Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's mouth; it catches.

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

A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt a
woman: and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice: I give
thee the bucklers.

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

If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the
pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons for maids.

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

And therefore will come.
Exit MARGARET
Sings
The god of love,
That sits above,
And knows me, and knows me,
How pitiful I deserve,--
I mean in singing; but in loving, Leander the good
swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and
a whole bookful of these quondam carpet-mangers,
whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a
blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned
over and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I
cannot show it in rhyme; I have tried: I can find
out no rhyme to 'lady' but 'baby,' an innocent
rhyme; for 'scorn,' 'horn,' a hard rhyme; for,
'school,' 'fool,' a babbling rhyme; very ominous
endings: no, I was not born under a rhyming planet,
nor I cannot woo in festival terms.
Enter BEATRICE
Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee?

Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me.

O, stay but till then!

'Then' is spoken; fare you well now: and yet, ere
I go, let me go with that I came; which is, with
knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio.

Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee.

Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but
foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I
will depart unkissed.

Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense,
so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee
plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge; and either
I must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe
him a coward. And, I pray thee now, tell me for
which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?

For them all together; which maintained so politic
a state of evil that they will not admit any good
part to intermingle with them. But for which of my
good parts did you first suffer love for me?

Suffer love! a good epithet! I do suffer love
indeed, for I love thee against my will.

In spite of your heart, I think; alas, poor heart!
If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for
yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates.

Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

It appears not in this confession: there's not one
wise man among twenty that will praise himself.

An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived in
the lime of good neighbours. If a man do not erect
in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live
no longer in monument than the bell rings and the
widow weeps.

And how long is that, think you?

Question: why, an hour in clamour and a quarter in
rheum: therefore is it most expedient for the
wise, if Don Worm, his conscience, find no
impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of his
own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for
praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is
praiseworthy: and now tell me, how doth your cousin?

Very ill.

And how do you?

Very ill too.

Serve God, love me and mend. There will I leave
you too, for here comes one in haste.
Enter URSULA

Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder's old
coil at home: it is proved my Lady Hero hath been
falsely accused, the prince and Claudio mightily
abused; and Don John is the author of all, who is
fed and gone. Will you come presently?

Will you go hear this news, signior?

I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be
buried in thy eyes; and moreover I will go with
thee to thy uncle's.
Exeunt

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

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

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.

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

Enter GOWER

Before the palace of Antioch

To sing a song that old was sung,
From ashes ancient Gower is come;
Assuming man's infirmities,
To glad your ear, and please your eyes.
It hath been sung at festivals,
On ember-eves and holy-ales;
And lords and ladies in their lives
Have read it for restoratives:
The purchase is to make men glorious;
Et bonum quo antiquius, eo melius.
If you, born in these latter times,
When wit's more ripe, accept my rhymes.
And that to hear an old man sing
May to your wishes pleasure bring
I life would wish, and that I might
Waste it for you, like taper-light.
This Antioch, then, Antiochus the Great
Built up, this city, for his chiefest seat:
The fairest in all Syria,
I tell you what mine authors say:
This king unto him took a fere,
Who died and left a female heir,
So buxom, blithe, and full of face,
As heaven had lent her all his grace;
With whom the father liking took,
And her to incest did provoke:
Bad child; worse father! to entice his own
To evil should be done by none:
But custom what they did begin
Was with long use account no sin.
The beauty of this sinful dame
Made many princes thither frame,
To seek her as a bed-fellow,
In marriage-pleasures play-fellow:
Which to prevent he made a law,
To keep her still, and men in awe,
That whoso ask'd her for his wife,
His riddle told not, lost his life:
So for her many a wight did die,
As yon grim looks do testify.
What now ensues, to the judgment of your eye
I give, my cause who best can justify.
Exit