I learn in this letter
that Don Pedro of Aragon
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 Pedro
hath bestowed much honor
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.
I pray you, is Signior Mountanto
returned from the war 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.
He's returned,
and as pleasant as ever he was.
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 help to eat them:
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:
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
will make a voyage with him to the devil?
He is most in the company
of the right noble Claudio.
Oh, 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 1,000 pounds ere he 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 approaching!
Good Signior Leonato,
are you 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.
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!
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 her father's 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,
when 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.
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.
You are a rare parrot.
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, in God's name.
I have done.
You always end with a jade's trick.
I know you of old.
This is the sum of all,
Signior Claudio, 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.
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?
- We will go together.
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 a professed tyrant to their sex?
No. I pray thee speak in sober judgment.
Why?
I' faith, methinks she's too tall
for a great praise,
too brown for a fair praise,
and too lean for a large praise.
Only this commendation I can afford her,
Were she other than she is,
she were unhandsome,
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?
Come, in what key shall a man take you,
to go in the song?
In mine eyes 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.
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?
Shall I never see a bachelor
of three-score again?
I' faith; if thou wilt needs
thrust thy neck into a yoke,
wear the print of it
and sigh away Sundays, go to.
What secret hath held you
here that you followed not?
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? That is your grace's part.
Mark how short his answer is:
- With Hero, Leonato's long daughter!
- If this were so, so were it uttered.
Amen, if you love her;
for the lady is very well worthy.
You speak this to fetch me in.
- By my troth, I speak my thought.
- And in faith, my lord, I speak mine.
By my two faiths and troths,
my lord, I speak 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 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;
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 a good horse to hire."
Let them signify under my sign, "Here
you may see Benedick the married man."
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.
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?
My lord, when you went onward
on this ended action,
I looked 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 returned 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.
I will break with her and 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 reveling tonight.
I will assume thy part in some disguise,
and tell fair Hero that 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 practice
let us put it presently.
How now, wife! Where is Balthasar?
Hath he provided the music?
He is very busy about it.
But, husband, I can tell
you news that you yet dreamt not of.
- Are they good?
- They show well outward.
I overheard the prince discover to Claudio
that he loved our daughter,
and meant to acknowledge it
this night in a dance:
The prince!
If he founds her accordant,
he means to take the present time by the top
and instantly break with you of it.
We will hold it as a dream
till it appear itself:
but I will acquaint our daughter withal,
that she may be the better prepared for an answer,
if peradventure this be true.
Go you and tell her of it.
Balthasar, you know what you have to do.
I cry you mercy; go you with me,
and I will use your skill.
Have a care this busy time.
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.
If when I have heard it,
what blessing brings it?
If not a present remedy,
at least a patient sufferance.
I wonder that thou 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 humor.
Yea... but you must not
make full show of this
till you may do so 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 root
by the fair weather that you make yourself.
It is needful that you frame the season
for your own harvest.
I had rather be a canker in a hedge
than a rose in his grace!
and it better fits my blood to be
disdained of all
than to fashion a carriage to rob
love from any:
In this, though I cannot be said
to be a flattering, honest man,
it must not be denied
but I am a plain-dealing villain.
I am trusted with
a muzzle and enfranchised with a clog;
therefore I have decreed
not to sing in my cage.
If I had my mouth, I would bite.
If I had my liberty,
I would do my liking.
In the meantime, let me be that I am,
and seek not to alter me.
Can you make no use of your discontent?
I make all use of it, for I use it only.
Who comes here?
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?
- I heard it agreed upon
that the prince should woo Hero
for himself, and having obtained her,
give her to Count Claudio.
Come! Come, let us thither.
This may prove food to my displeasure.
That young start-up
hath all the glory of my overthrow.
If I can cross him any way,
I bless myself every way.
You are both sure, and will assist me?
To the death, my lord.
Let us to the great supper: their cheer is the
greater that I am subdued.
Would the cook were of my mind!
- Shall we go prove what's to be done?
- We'll wait upon your lordship.
- 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's 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 he 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 woolen.
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.
He that is more than a youth
is not for me.
He that is less than a man,
I am not for him.
therefore, I shall even take
sixpence in earnest of the bear-keeper,
and lead his apes into hell.
- Well, then, go you into hell?
- No, but to the gate.
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.
Daughter, 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,
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 metal than earth.
Would it not grieve a woman to be
overmastered by 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 do hold it a sin
to match in my kindred.
Daughter, remember what I told you:
if the prince do solicit 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 all 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 revelers are entering!
Make good room.
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.
Speak low, if you speak love.
- 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!
No more words: the clerk is answered.
I know you well enough.
You are my husband.
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.
- 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.
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.
His only 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.
We must follow the leaders.
Sure my brother is amorous on Hero
and hath withdrawn her father
to break with him about it.
- Are not you Signior Benedick?
- You know me well. I am he.
Signior, you are very near my brother
in his love.
He is enamored 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.
He swore he would marry her tonight.
Come, let us to the banquet.
Thus answer I in name of Benedick,
but hear these ill news
with the ears of Claudio.
'Tis certain so.
The prince woos 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!
- Count Claudio.
- Yea, the same.
- Come, will you go with me?
- Whither?
Even to the next willow,
about your own business.
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.
Did you think the prince
would have served you thus?
- I pray you, leave me.
- Hey! 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.
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.
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.
Now, signior, where's the count?
Did you see him?
My lord, I told him,
and I think I told him true,
that your grace had got
the will of his Hero.
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.
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 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 had left him before he transgressed:
she would have made Hercules
have turned the spit,
yea, and have cleft his club
to make the fire too.
Come, talk not of her.
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 follow her.
Look, here she comes.
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,
I will fetch you a hair
off the great Cham's beard,
do you any embassage to the pygmies,
rather than endure three words' conference
with this harpy!
You have no employment for me?
None, but to desire your good company.
Oh, God.
Sir, here's a dish I love not.
I cannot endure my Lady Tongue!
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 you Count Claudio,
whom you sent me to seek.
- 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 all 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 everyone 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 only a maid could come by them.
Will you have me, lady?
No.
My lord...
Unless I might have another one
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.
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 dreamt of unhappiness
and waked herself with laughing.
She cannot endure
to hear tell of a husband.
Oh, by no means.
She mocks all her wooers out of suit.
She were an excellent wife
for Benedick.
My lord, if they were but a week married,
they would talk themselves mad.
How now, Claudio!
- When mean you to go to church?
- Tomorrow, my lord.
Time goes on crutches till love
have all his rites.
Not till Monday, my dear son,
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' labors,
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 will but minister 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 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 him;
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.
His glory shall be ours,
for we are the only love gods.
Go in with me, I will tell you my drift.
It is so; the Count Claudio shall
marry the daughter of Leonato.
Yea, my lord; but I can cross it.
Any bar, any cross, any impediment
will be medicinable to me:
I am sick in displeasure to him,
and whatsoever comes athwart his affection
ranges evenly with mine.
How canst thou cross this marriage?
Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly that no
dishonesty shall appear in me.
Show me briefly how.
I think I told your lordship a year since,
how much I am in the favour of Margaret,
the waiting gentlewoman to Hero.
I remember. What life is in that,
to be the death of this marriage?
The poison of that lies in you to temper.
Go you to the prince your brother;
spare not to tell him
that he hath wronged his honour
in marrying the renowned Claudio
--whose estimation do you mightily hold up--
to a contaminated stale,
such a one as Hero.
What proof shall I make of that?
Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex Claudio,
to undo Hero and kill Leonato.
Look you for any other issue?
Only to despite them,
I will endeavour any thing.
Go, then; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro
and the Count Claudio alone:
tell them that you know
that Hero loves me;
They will scarcely believe this without trial:
offer them instances; which shall bear no less
likelihood than to see me court her privately,
hear me call Margaret Hero,
and bring them to see this the very night
before the intended wedding,
and there shall appear such seeming truth
of Hero's disloyalty
that jealousy shall be called
assurance and all the preparation overthrown.
Grow this to what adverse issue it can,
I will put it in practise.
Be cunning in the working this, and
thy fee is a thousand ducats.
Be you constant in the accusation,
and my cunning shall not shame me.
I will presently go learn their day of marriage.
Boy!
Signior?
In my chamber-window lies a book.
Bring it hither to me.
I am here already, sir.
I know that.
I would have thee hence,
and here again.
A book?
A book.
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 falling 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 would he rather hear
the tabor and the pipe.
I have known when he would have walked
ten mile afoot to see a good armor,
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.
Well, 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 hath 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 re...
...of what colour it please God.
The prince and Monsieur Love.
I will hide me.
Come, shall we hear this music?
Yea, my good lord. How still the morning is,
as hush'd on purpose to grace harmony!
- See you where Benedick hath hid himself?
- Very well, my lord.
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.
I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.
Because you talk of wooing, I will sing.
Now is his soul ravished.
Is it not strange that sheeps' guts
should hale souls out of men's bodies?
By my troth, a good song.
And an ill singer, my lord.
No, no; thou singest
well enough for a shift.
An' he had been a dog that should have
howled thus, they'd have hanged him.
Yea, marry, Balthasar, dost thou hear?
I pray thee, get us some excellent music
for tomorrow night.
- The best I can, my lord.
- Do so: farewell.
Come hither, Leonato.
What was it you told me of today?
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.
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.
Maybe she doth but counterfeit?
- Faith, like enough.
- Oh, 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.
- How?
How, I pray you?
You amaze me!
I should have thought her spirit had been invincible
against all assaults of affection.
I should think this a gull,
but that Leonato speaks it.
Knavery cannot,
sure, hide himself in such reverence.
- He hath taken the infection: hold it up.
- Has 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?"
Then she tears the letter
into a thousand pieces...
Then down upon her knees she falls.
Weeps, sobs, beats her heart,
tears her hair, prays, curses,
"Oh, sweet Benedick!"
"God give me patience!"
She does indeed. My daughter says so.
She rails at herself, that she should be so immodest
to write to one that she knows would flout her;
and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her
that my daughter is sometime afeared
she will do a desperate outrage to herself!
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.
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 he 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.
If she should make tender of her affection,
'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.
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
to have 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 the same net be spread for Beatrice.
That must your daughter
and her gentlewoman carry.
Let us send her
to call him in to dinner.
This can be no trick.
The conference was sadly borne.
They have the truth of this from Hero.
They seemed to pity the lady.
It seems her affections have the 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 show any sign of affection.
I did never think to marry.
I must not seem proud.
Happy are those 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,
that 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
he cannot endure in his age.
Shall these quips and sentences
and paper bullets of the brain
awe a man from the career
of his humor?
No!
The world must be... peopled!
When I said I would die a bachelor,
I did not think I would 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.
Against my will I am sent to bid you
come in to dinner.
Fair Beatrice!
I thank you for your pain.
I took no more pains for those thanks
than you took 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 sparrow withal.
You have no stomach, Signior:
fare you well.
"Against my will I am sent
to bid you come in to dinner. "
Double meaning in that!
"I took no more pains for those thanks
than you took pains to thank me", well...
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 on her,
I am a villain...
If I do not love her...
I am a fool.
I will go...
...get her picture.
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 your mother walk hereabout,
and our whole discourse
is all of her;
say that thou overheard'st us;
and bid her steal where she can hide her
to listen to our purpose.
This is thy office; bear thee well
in it and leave us alone.
I'll make her come,
I warrant you, presently.
Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come,
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.
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 you and I for Beatrice.
Fear you not my part of the dialogue.
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 he deserve as full as fortunate
a bed as ever Beatrice
shall couch upon?
Oh, 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 wise.
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.
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.
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.
Do not do your cousin
such a wrong.
She cannot be so much without
true judgment, having so swift and excellent wit,
as she is prized to have, as to refuse
so rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.
- Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.
- His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.
- When are you married, madam?
- Why, every day. Tomorrow!
Come, go in: I'll show thee some attires,
and have thy counsel
which is the best to furnish me tomorrow.
She's limed, I warrant you.
We've caught her, madam.
If it proves so,
then loving goes by haps.
Some Cupid kills with arrows,
some with traps.
What?
Fire is in mine ears?
Can this be true?
Stand I condemned
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!
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?
George Seacole; for they
can write and read.
Come hither, neighbour Seacole.
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 the language
comes by nature.
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 for such vanity.
You are thought here to be
the most fit and...
...senseless man for the constable
of the watch,
therefore bear you the lantern.
There you go, congratulations,
welcome aboard.
This is your charge:
you are to comprehend all vagrom men,
you are to bid any man stand,
in the prince's name.
How if he 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 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.
You speak like an ancient
and a 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.
'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.
Well, masters, good night.
And, there be any matter
of weight chances, call up me.
Keep your fellows' counsels
and your own; and good night.
- Good night!
- Good night. Over.
Come, neighbor!
Well, constable,
we hear our charge.
Let us sit here till two,
and then to bed.
One word more, honest neighbors.
Over.
Over!
I pray you,
keep a watch about town,
for the wedding being tomorrow,
there is a great coil tonight.
Adieu.
Be vigitant, I beseech you.
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 gloss of your new marriage
as to show a child his new coat
and forbid him to wear it.
No, 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 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!
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?
Well, every one can master a grief
but he that has it.
Yet say I, he is in love.
- Hath any man seen him at the barber's?
- No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him.
Indeed, he looks younger than he did,
by the loss of a beard.
And when was he wont
to wash his face?
Yea, or to paint himself? for the which,
I hear what they say of him.
Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him:
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.
For my life, to break
with him about Beatrice!
'Tis even so. Hero and Ursula have by this
played their parts with Beatrice;
and then the two bears will not bite
one another when they meet.
Oh, no.
- My lord and brother, God save you.
- Good evening, 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?
- Means your lordship to be married tomorrow?
- 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,
but let that appear here after
and e'en better than me,
by that I now will manifest.
For my brother,
I think he holds you well,
and in dearness of heart hath help 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 tonight,
you shall see the proof
even the night
before her wedding-day.
If you love her then,
tomorrow 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 tonight
why I should not marry her
in the congregation tomorrow,
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.
- What, Conrade!
- Peace! Stir not.
- Comrade, 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.
- 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.
Some treason! Stand close!
Didst thou not hear somebody?
No, he marks us not.
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.
Know that I have tonight
wooed Margaret,
the lady Hero's gentlewoman,
by the name of Hero!
I tell this tale vilely.
I should first tell thee
how the prince and Claudio,
planted and placed and possessed
by my master Don John,
saw afar off 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 with her,
as appointed, next morning,
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 the most
dangerous piece of lechery
ever known in the commonwealth.
Masters, masters!
Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice
and desire her to rise.
- I will, lady.
- And bit her come hither.
- 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 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 set with pearls,
down sleeves, side sleeves,
and skirts 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?
If bad thinking do not twist
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.
- 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.
'Tis almost twelve 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?
- What means the fool?
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.
Why, then get you some of this
new medicine: Carduus Benedictus.
- 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 with this Carduus Benedictus.
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.
Madam, I am to fetch you the prince,
the count, Don John, Signior Benedick...
and all the gallants
of the town to come!
Help to dress me, good Meg.
Friar Francis, be brief;
only to the plain form of marriage,
and you shall recount their
particular duties afterwards.
- What would you with me, honest neighbor?
- Marry, sir!
I would have some confidence with
your worship that decerns you nearly.
With some haste, 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.
Neighbors, you are tedious.
Well, if it pleases
your worship to say so,
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 on your worship.
All thy tediousness on me?
I would fain know what you have to say.
Merry, 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, sir;
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.
- My Lord.
- Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well.
They stay for you to give
your daughter to her husband.
I'll wait upon them: I am ready.
Go, good neighbour, go, get you to the jail;
we are now to examination those men.
And we must do it wisely.
We will spare for no wit,
I warrant you.
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,
I 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?
- 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 honor.
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 vanquished 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,
showed bashful sincerity
and comely love.
And seemed 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 pampered animals
that rage in savage sensuality.
Is my lord well,
that he doth speak so wide?
- Why speak not you?
- What should I speak?
I stand dishonored that I 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 talked
with you yesternight
in private betwixt twelve and one?
Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.
I talked with no man at that hour,
my lord.
Why, then you are no maiden.
Leonato, I am sorry you must hear.
Upon mine honor, myself, my brother
and this grieved count did see her,
hear her at that hour last night,
talk with a ruffian in the open air,
who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain,
confessed 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 language
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?
Why, how now, Hero!
wherefore sink you down?
Come, let us go. These things,
come thus to light, smother her spirits up.
- How doth the lady?
- Dead, I think. Uncle, help!
Hero! 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.
- 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 open 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.
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,
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.
- On my life, 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.
Confirmed! Confirmed!
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,
my observation, 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!
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,
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 epitaph
and do all rites that appertain
unto a burial.
What shall become of this?
What will this do?
She dying, as it must be so maintained,
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 appareled in more precious habit
more moving-delicate and full of life,
than when she lived indeed.
Then shall he mourn, and wish
he had not so accused her.
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.
Come, lady.
Die to live.
This wedding day perhaps
is but prolonged.
Have patience and endure.
Lady Beatrice.
Have you wept all this while?
Yea.
- And I will weep awhile longer.
- I will not desire that.
You have no reason. I do it freely.
Surely.
I do believe your
fair cousin is wronged.
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 love 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 by it, 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, oh may God forgive me.
What offense, 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
there is none left to protest.
Come, bid me do anything for thee.
Kill Claudio.
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,
dishonored my kinswoman?
Oh, that I were a man!
What, bear her in hand
until they come to take hands,
and then with public accusation,
uncovered slander,
unmitigated rancor...
Oh, God, that I were a man!
I would eat his heart
in the market place!
Hear me, Beatrice.
Talk with a man in the open air.
- A proper saying!
- Nay, but, Beatrice...
Sweet Hero!
She is wronged, she is slandered.
- She is undone!
- Beatri...
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
who 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 do
have a thought, or a soul.
Enough.
I am engaged.
I will challenge him.
I will kiss your hand
and so 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.
Make way! Coming through!
Excuse me, please!
Forsooth.
Is our whole dissembly appeared?
- 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.
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;
how answer you for yourselves?
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 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?
That he had received
a thousand ducats of Don John
for accusing the lady Hero wrongfully.
- Flat burglary as ever was committed.
- 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 brought to Leonato.
I will go before and show
him their examination.
- Off, coxcomb!
- God's my life, where's the sexton?
Let him write down
the prince's officer coxcomb.
Away! You are an ass!
You are an ass.
Dost thou not suspect my place?
Dost thou not suspect my years?
Oh, 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, a pretty
a piece of flesh as any is in Messina,
- And law...
- And one that knows the law, go to;
- Rich!
- And a rich fellow enough, go to;
- And losses!
- And a fellow that hath had losses,
and one that hath two coats and every
thing handsome about him.
Come, bring him away.
O that I had been writ down an ass!
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 overwhelmed 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,
if such a one will smile
and stroke his beard,
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.
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.
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.
- Good day.
- 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.
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!
Thou dissembler, thou... Never lay thy hand
upon thy sword. I fear thee not.
Marry, beshrew my hand if it
should give such cause of fear.
- My hand meant nothing to my sword.
- Tush, tush.
Never fleer and jest at me.
I speak not like a dotard nor a fool.
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, I'll prove it on his body if he dare!
Away, I will not have
to do with you!
Canst thou so daff me?
Thou hast killed my child!
If thou kill'st me, boy,
thou shalt kill a man.
- Peace, Leonato.
- Let him answer me.
Come, follow me, boy;
come, sir boy, come, follow me:
sir boy, I'll whip you
from your foining fence...
- Wife...
- Content yourself.
God knows I loved my child,
and she is dead,
slandered to death by villains,
that dare as well answer a man indeed
as I dare take a serpent by the tongue:
Hold you content.
What, man! I know them, yea,
and what they weigh,
even to the utmost scruple...
Scambling, outfacing,
fashion-monging boy,
that lies and cogs, and flouts,
depraves and slanders.
And speaks off half a dozen
dangerous words,
how he might hurt his enemies,
if he dursts; and this is all.
Do not you meddle;
let me deal in this.
Sir, madam,
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, Innogen. Away.
I will be heard!
See, see; here comes
the man we went to seek.
- Now, signior, what news?
- Good day, my lord.
Welcome, signior: you are almost
come to part almost a fray.
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?
- As I am an honest man, he looks pale.
Art thou sick, or angry?
Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career,
and you charge it against me.
I pray you choose another subject.
By this light, he changes more and more:
I think he be angry indeed.
Shall I speak a word in your ear?
- God bless me from a challenge!
- 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.
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."
"Nay," said I, "a good wit".
"Just," said she, "it hurts nobody."
"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."
Yet at last she concluded with a sigh,
thou wast the properest man
in Messina.
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.
Until we do
peace be with him.
He is in earnest.
In most profound earnest; and, I'll warrant
you, for the love of Beatrice.
- And hath challenged thee.
- Most sincerely.
Soft you, did he not say,
my brother was fled?
Come you, sir:
you must be looked to.
Two of my brother's men bound!
Officers, what offense
have these men done?
Marry, sir; they have committed false report,
moreover, they have spoken untruths,
secondarily, they are slanders,
sixthly and lastly, they belied a lady,
thirdly, they have
verified unjust things,
and to conclude,
they are lying knaves.
Firstly, I ask thee
what they have done;
thirdly, I ask thee
what's their offence;
sixthly and lastly, why they are
committed; and, to conclude,
what you lay to their charge.
Masters, this learned constable is
too cunning to be understood.
What's your offence?
Sweet prince, 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 your brother, Don John
incensed me to slander the lady Hero,
and how you saw me
court Margaret in Hero's garments.
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.
- 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.
Which is the villain?
Which of these is he?
If you would know your wronger,
look on me.
Art thou the slave that with thy breath
hast killed mine innocent child?
Yea, even I alone.
Nay, not so, villain.
Thou beliest thyself.
Here stand a pair of honorable 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 sinned 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.
Do so tonight; tomorrow morning
come you to my house,
and since you could not be
my son-in-law,
be yet my nephew.
My wife hath a niece, almost the copy
of our child that's dead.
Give her the right
you should have given her cousin,
and so dies my revenge.
Oh, noble sir.
Your overkindness
doth wring tears from me.
Tomorrow then I will
expect your coming.
Tonight we take our leave.
This naughty man shall face to face
be brought to Margaret,
who I believe was packed
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.
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.
Pray you, examine him upon that point.
I thank thee for
thy care and honest pains.
Your worship speaks like
a 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 prisoners,
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, neighbours!
Until tomorrow morning,
lords, farewell.
- We will not fail.
- Tonight I'll mourn with Hero.
Bring you these fellows on.
We'll talk with Margaret,
How her acquaintance grew
with this lewd fellow.
The God of love...
That...
sits above...
I 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:
so, I pray thee, call Beatrice.
I give thee the bucklers.
Give us the swords;
we have bucklers of our own.
Well, I will call Beatrice to you,
who I think hath legs.
And therefore will come.
The God of love,
that sits above...
Leander the good swimmer,
Troilus the first employer of panders,
and a whole book full of these
quondam carpet-mongers
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.
To "scorn"...
"Horn"? A hard rhyme.
Very ominous endings.
No, I was not born
under a rhyming planet,
nor I cannot woo in festival terms.
Sweet Beatrice.
Wouldst thou come when I called?
Yea, signior,
and depart when you bid me.
Oh, stay but till then.
"Then" is spoken.
Fare you well.
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.
But I pray thee now, tell me,
for which of my bad parts
did thou first fall in love with me?
For them all together,
which maintains
so politic a state of evil
that they will not admit any good part
to intermingle with them.
But I pray you,
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.
And now tell me,
how doth your cousin?
Very ill.
And how do you?
Very ill, too.
Serve God,
love me...
...and mend.
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 fled and gone.
Will you come presently?
Will you come 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.
"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.
Lie thou there upon the tomb,
praising her when I am dumb."
Now, unto thy bones good night!
Yearly will I do this rite.
Good morrow, Claudio.
You and I must go.
Leonato waits upon us both.
Good morrow to this
fair assembly.
Good morrow, prince;
good morrow, Claudio.
We here attend you.
Are you yet determined
- today to marry with Innogen's niece?
- I am.
Go, Innogen, and call her forth.
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 it.
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.
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.
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.
Meantime let wonder seem familiar.
Soft and fair, lady!
Which is Beatrice?
I answer to that name.
What is your will?
- Do not you love me?
- 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...
No more than reason.
Why, then my cousin Margaret
and Ursula are much deceived;
- they swore you did.
- They swore you were sick for me.
They swore you were
well-nigh dead for me.
'Tis no such matter.
Then you do not love me?
Truly, no, but in
friendly recompense.
Come, cousin. I am sure
you love the gentleman!
I'll be sworn upon it that he loves her,
for here's a paper written in his hand,
a halting sonnet of his own pure brain,
fashioned 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 under great persuasion,
and partly to save your life,
for I was told you were
in a consumption.
Peace!
I will stop your mouth.
How dost thou, Benedick,
the married man?
I'll tell thee what, Prince,
a college of wit-crackers
cannot flout me out of my humor.
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.
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!
- Come, come.
We're friends.
We'll have a dance
ere we are married,
that we may lighten our own hearts
and our wives' heels.
We'll have dancing afterwards.
First, of my word.
Therefore play, music!
Prince...
Thou art sad.
Get thee a wife.
Get thee a wife.
My lord, your brother John
is ta'en in flight
and brought with armed men
back to Messina.
Think not on him till tomorrow.
I'll devise brave punishments for him.
Strike up!
Ooh, Pipers!