Much Ado About Nothing (2012) Script

I learnin this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this day to Messina.

He is very near by this, not three leagues off.

Have any gentlemen been 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 upon 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.

Rarh!

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

I know none of that name, lady.

My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.

O, 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 holp to eat it.

He is a very valiant trencherman, he hath an excellent stomach.

And a good soldier too, lady.

And a good soldier to a lady.

But what is he to a lord?

A lord to a lord, a man to a man, stuffed with all honorable virtue.

It is so, indeed, he is no less than a stuffed man.

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.

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, and he were, I would burn my study.

But, I pray you, who is his companion?

Is there no young squarer now that will make a voyage with him to the devil?

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

O, lord, he will hang upon him like a disease.

He is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad.

O, God help the noble Claudio!

If he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a thousand pound ere he be cured.


Good Signior Leonato, You are come to welcome your trouble.

The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.

Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of your grace.

For trouble being gone, comfort should remain.

But when you depart from me sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.

Hmm, 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.

Truly, truly, the lady fathers herself.

Be happy, lady, for you are like an honorable father.

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

I wonder that you would still be talking, Signior Benedick.

Nobody marks you.

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

Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?

Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence.

Then is courtesy a turncoat.

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

Dear happiness to women, else would they have been troubled with a pernicious suitor.

I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humor for that.

I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.

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

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

Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.

Um, 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 in your way, God's name, I have done.

You always end with a jade's trick.

I know you of old.

Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath invited you all.

I tell him we shall stay here at the least the month, and he heartily prays some occasion may detain us longer.

Lady.

Let me bid you welcome, my lord.

Being reconciled with the prince your brother, I owe you all duty.

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

Please it your grace lead on?

Your hand, Leonato. 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 being a professed tyrant to their sex?

No, I pray thee speak in sober judgment.

Why, i' faith, methinks she is too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise, too little for a great praise.

Only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome, and being no other than 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?

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

I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such matter.

There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.

But I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you?

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

Is it come to this?

Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again?

Go ty i' faith, an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away Sundays.

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

I would your grace would constrain me to tell.

I charge thee on thy allegiance.

O, on my allegiance? Mark you this.

On my allegiance he is in love.

With who? Now that is your grace's part.

Mark you how short his answer is.

With Hero, Leonato's short daughter.

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

You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.

By my troth, I speak my thought.

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

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

That I love her I feel.

And that she is worthy, I know.

That I neither feel how she should be loved nor know how she should be worthy is the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me.

I will die in it at the stake.

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

That a woman conceived me, I give her thanks, 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 from 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 shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love.

With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord, not with love.

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 plant them in my forehead and let me be vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write, "Here is good horse to hire," let them signify under my sign, "Here may you see Benedick the married man."

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

I look for an earthquake too, then.

Hath Leonato any son, my lord?

No child but Hero, she's his only heir.

Dost thou affect her, Claudio?

O, my lord, when you went onward on this ended action, I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye, that liked, but had a rougher task in hand than to drive liking to the name of love.

and that war-thoughts have left their places vacant, in their rooms come thronging soft and delicate desires, all prompting me how fair young Hero is, saying, "I liked her ere I went to wars."

Thou wilt be like a lover presently and tire the hearer with a book of words.

If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it, and I will break with her and with her father, and thou shalt have her.

I know we shall have reveling to-night. Hmm.

I will assume thy part in some disguise and tell fair Hero I am Claudio, and in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart and take her hearing prisoner with the force and strong encounter of my amorous tale.

Then after to her father will I break, and the conclusion is she shall be thine.

What the good-year, my lord.

Why are you thus out of measure sad?

There is no measure in the occasion that breeds, therefore the sadness is without limit.

You should hear reason.

And when I have heard it, what blessing brings it?

If not a present remedy, at least a patient sufferance.

I 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 the full show of this till you may do it without controlment.

You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath ta'en you newly into his grace, where it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself.

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.

If I had my mouth,

I would bite.

Can you make no use of your discontent?

I make all use of it, for I use it only.

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.

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 in any way, I bless myself every way.

You are both sure, and will assist me?

To the death, my lord.

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 for an hour after.

He is of a very melancholy disposition.

He were an excellent man that were made just in the midway between him and Benedick.

The one is too like an image and says nothing, the other too like my lady's eldest son, evermore tattling.

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

O, for the which blessing I am on 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 upon a husband that hath no beard.

What would I do with him?

Dress him in my apparel and make him my waiting gentlewoman?

He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man, and he that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man, I am not for him.

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."

And yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy and say, "Father, as it please me."

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

Not till God make men of some other metal than earth.

Lady, will you walk about with your friend?


Well, I would you did like me.

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

Hmm. 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.


Will you not tell me who told you so?

No, you shall pardon me.

Nor will you tell me who you are?

Not now.

That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit out of the Hundred Merry Tales..

Well, this was Signior Benedick that said so.

What's he?

I'm sure you know him well enough.

Not I, believe me.

Did he never make you laugh?

I pray you, what is he?

Why, he is the prince's jester.

A very dull fool, only his gift is in devising impossible slanders.

None but libertines delight in him, and his commendation is not in his wit, but in his villainy, for he both pleases men and angers them, and then they laugh at him and beat him.

I'm sure he's 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 and not laughed at, sends 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.

In every good thing.

Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning.


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, and he swore he would marry her to-night.

Come, let us to the banquet.


'Tis certain so, the prince woos for himself.

Friendship is constant in all other things save in the offices and affairs of love, for beauty is a witch against whose charms faith melteth into blood.

Count Claudio?

Yea, the same.

Come, go with me. The prince hath got your Hero.

I wish him joy of her.

Did you think the prince would have used you thus?

I pray you, leave me.

Ho! Now you strike like the blind man.

'Twas the boy that stole your meat, and you will 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?

It may be I go under that title because I am merry.

Yea, but so I am apt to do myself wrong, I am not so reputed.

It is the base, though bitter, disposition of Beatrice that puts the world into her person and so gives me out.

Well, I will be revenged as I may.


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

Troth, my lord, I found him as melancholy as a lodge in a warren.

I told him, and I think I told him true, that your grace had got the good will of this young lady here.

The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you.

The gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you.

O, she misused me past the endurance of a block!

She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the prince's jester.

That I was duller than a great thaw, huddling jest upon jest with such impossible conveyance 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 would be 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.

Come, talk not of her.

I would to God some scholar would conjure her.

For certainly, while she is here, all disquiet, horror, and perturbation follows 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 from the furthest inch of Asia, bring you a hair off the great Cham's beard, do you any embassage to the Pigmies rather than hold three words' conference with this harpy.

You have no employment for me?

None, but to desire your good company.

O God, sir, here is 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.

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

So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools.

I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.

Why, how now, Claudio! 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. 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 fortune.

His grace hath made the match that 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 myself for you and dote upon the exchange.

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

In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.

Yea, my lord. I thank it, poor fool, it keeps me on the windy side of care.

My cousin tells him in his ear he is in her heart.

And so she doth, cousin.

Oh, good Lord, for alliance!

Thus goes every one into the world but I, and I am sunburnt.

I will sit in a corner and cry, "Heigh-ho for a husband!"

Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.

I'd rather have one of your father's getting.

Hath your grace ne'er a brother like you?

Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them.

Will you have me, lady?

No, my lord, unless I might have another for working-days.

Your grace is too costly to wear every day.

But, I beseech your grace, pardon me.

I was born to speak all mirth and no matter.

Your silence most offends me, 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 a star danced, and under that was I born.

Cousins, God give you joy!

By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.

There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord.

She is never sad but when she sleeps, and not ever sad then, for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked herself with laughing.

She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.

O, by no means.

She mocks all her wooers out of suit.

She were an excellent wife for Benedick.

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

County Claudiy, when mean you to go to church?

To-morrow, my lord.

Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.

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

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 three will minister assistance.

My lord, I am for you, though it cost me 10 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.

Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband that I know.

Thus far can I praise him, he is of a noble strain, of approved valor and confirmed honesty.

I will teach you how to humor your cousin, that she shall fall in love with Benedick, and I, with your two helps, will so practice 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.

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 thwart this marriage?

I think I told your lordship a year since, how much I am in favor of Margaret, the waiting gentlewoman to Hero.

I remember.

I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night, appoint her to look out at her lady's chamber window.

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 honor 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?


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, now he had rather hear the tabor and the pipe.

I have known when he would have walked

10 mile a-foot to see a good armor, and now will he lie 10 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.

Now is he turned orthography, his words a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes.

May I be so converted and see with these eyes?

I cannot tell, I think not.

I will not be sworn, but love may transform me to an oyster.

But I'll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool.

One woman is fair, yet I am well.

Another is wise, yet I am well.

Another virtuous, yet I am well.

But till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.

Rich she shall be, that's certain.

Wise, or I'll none.

Virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her.

Fair, or I'll never look on her. Mild, or come not near me.

Noble, or not I for an angel.

Of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what color it please God.

The prince and Monsieur Love.

I will hide me in the arbor.

Come, shall we hear this music?

Yea, my good lord.

Come hither, Leonato.

What was it you told me of to-day, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?

I did never think that lady would have loved any man.

No, nor I neither, but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviors seemed ever to abhor.

Is't possible? Sits the wind in that corner?

By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it but that she loves him with an enraged affection.

It is past the infinite of thought.

You amaze me.

I would have thought her spirit was invincible against all assaults of affection.

I would have sworn it had, my lord, especially against Benedick.

Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?

No, and swears she never will, that is her torment.

'Tis true, indeed, so your daughter says, "Shall I" she says, "that so oft encountered him with scorn, write to him that I love him?"

O, she railed at herself, that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her.

"I measure him," says she, "by my own spirit, "for I should flout him, if he writ to me.

"Yea, though I love him, I should."

Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses, "O, sweet, Benedick! God give me patience!"

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.

She doth well.

If she should make tender of her love

'tis very possible he'll scorn it, for the man, as you know all, hath a contemptible spirit.

He is a very proper man.

He hath indeed a good outward happiness.

Before God! And, in my mind, very wise.

He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit.

Well, I'm sorry for your niece.

I love Benedick well, and I could wish he would modestly examine himself, to see how much he is unworthy so good a lady.

My lord, will you walk?

Dinner is ready.

This can be no trick. The conference was sadly borne.

They have the truth of this from Hero.

Love me?

Why, it must be requited.

I hear how I am censured.

They say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her.

They say too that she will rather die than give any sign of affection.

I did never think to marry.

I must not seem proud.

Happy are they that hear their detractions and can put them to mending.

They say the lady is fair, 'tis a truth, I can bear them witness.

And virtuous, 'tis so, I cannot reprove it.

And wise, but for loving me.

By my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her!

I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage.

But doth not the appetite alter?

A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.

Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humor?

No, the world must be peopled.

When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married.

Here comes Beatrice.

By this day. She's a fair lady.

I do spy some marks of love in her.

Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.

Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.

I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me.

If it had been painful, I would not have come.

You take pleasure then in the message?

Yea, signior, just so much as you may take upon a knife's point.

You have no stomach, signior. Fare you well.

"Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner."

There's a double meaning in that.

"I took no more pains for those thanks

"than you took pains to thank me."

That's as much as to say, any pains that I take for you is as good as thanks.

If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain.

If I do not love her, I am a fool.

I will go get her picture.

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 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 restle with affection, and never to let Beatrice know of it.

Why did you so?

Doth not the gentleman deserve as full a fortunate a bed as ever Beatrice shall couch upon?

O, god of love! I know he doth deserve as much as may be yielded to a man.

But nature never framed a woman's heart of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice.

Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, misprising what they look on, and her wit values itself so highly that to her all matter else seems weak.

She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project of affection, she is so self-endeared.

Sure, I think so.

And therefore certainly it were not good she knew his love, lest she make sport at it.

No, rather I will go to Benedick and counsel him to fight against his passion.

Truly, I'll devise some honest slanders to stain my cousin with.

One doth not know how much an ill word may empoison liking.

O, do not do your cousin such a wrong.

She cannot be so much without true judgment.

Having so swift and excellent a wit, as she is prized to have, as to refuse so rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.

He is the only man of Italy. Mmm.

Always excepted my dear Claudio.

Come, go in. I'll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.

What fire is in my ears?

Can this be true?

Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much?

Contempt, farowell.

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.

I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon.

I'll bring you thither, my lord, if you'll vouchsafe me.

Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new gloss of your marriage as to show a child his new coat and forbid him to wear it.

I will only be bold with Benedick for his company, for, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth.

He hath twice or thrice cut Cupid's bow-string and the little hangman dare not shoot at him.

Gallants, I am not as I have been.

So say I, methinks you are sadder.

I hope he be in love.

Hang him truant!

There's no true drop of blood in him, to be truly touched with love.

If he be sad, he wants money.

I have the toothache.

What? Sigh for the toothache?

Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.

If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs.

Hath any man seen him at the barber's?

No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him, and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuffed tennis-balls.

Nay, a'rubs himself with civet.

Can you not smell him out by that?

And when was he wont to wash his face?

Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him.

Conclude, conclude he is in love.

Old signior, walk aside with me.

I have studied eight or nine wise words that I would speak to you, which these hobby-horses must not hear.

For my life, to break with him about Beatrice.

'Tis even so.

Hero and Margaret have by this played their parts with Beatrice, and then the two bears will not bite one another when they meet.

My lord and brother, God save you.

Good den, brother.

If your leisure served, I would speak with you.

In private?

If it please you.

Yet Count Claudio may hear, for what I would speak of concerns him.

What's the matter?

Means your lordship to be married to-morrow?

You know he does.

I know not that when he knows what I know.

If there be any impediment, I pray you, discover it.

You may think I love you not.

Let that appear hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now will manifest.

Why, what's the matter?

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.

Think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it.

Wonder not till further warrant.

Go but with me to-night, you shall see her chamber-window entered, even the night before her wedding-day.

If you love her then to-morrow wed her.

But it would better fit your honor to change your mind.

May this be so?

I will not think it.

If you will follow me, I will show you enough,

and when you have seen more and heard more, proceed accordingly.


Are you good men and true?

Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul.

Give them their charge, neighbor 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, neighbor Seacole.

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 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.

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?

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 to 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.

This is the end of the charge.

If you meet the prince in the night, you may stay him.

Nay, by'r our lady, that I think he cannot.

Marry, not without the prince be willing.

For, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man, and it is an offense to stay a man against his will.

By'r lady, I think it be so.

Well, masters, good night.

An there be any matter of weight chances, call up me.

Adieu.

Be vigitant, I beseech you.

Well, masters, we hear our charge.

Let us go sit upon the church-bench till 2:00, and then all to bed.

What Conrade!

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. Now forward with thy tale.

Stand thee close, then, and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee.

Some treason, masters.

Yet stand close.

Therefore know I have earned of Don John a thousand ducats.

Is it possible that any villainy should be so dear?

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 and Claudio, planted and placed 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 and partly by the dark night, but chiefly by my villainy, away went Claudio enraged, swore he would meet her next morning and there, before the whole congregation, shame her with what he saw o'er night, 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.

Masters. Masters...

Never speak.

We charge you let us obey you to go with us.


Troth, I think your other gown 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. Thou art another.

I'll wear none but this.

Good morrow, coz.

Good morrow, sweet Hero.

Why how now? Do you speak in the sick tune?

Mmm. I am all out of other tune, methinks.

It is almost 5:00, 'tis time you were ready.

By my troth, I am exceedingly ill.

Heigh-ho.

For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?

These gloves the count sent me, they're an excellent perfume.

I am stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell.

A maid, and stuffed!

There's goodly catching of cold.

By my troth, I am sick.

Get you some of this Carduus Benedictus, and lay it to your heart.

It's the only thing for a qualm.

Benedictus!

Why... Why Benedictus?

You have some moral in this Benedictus.

Moral? No, by my troth, I have no moral meaning.

I meant, plain holy-thistle.

There thou prickest her with a thistle.

Madam, withdraw.

The prince, the count.

Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the town have come to fetch you to church.

What would you with me, honest neighbor?

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?

Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter.

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...

Comparisons are odorous.

Neighbors, you are tedious.

It pleases your worship to say so, sir, but we are the poor duke's officers.

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. God help us.

Well said, neighbor Verges.

An two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind.

I must leave you.

A word, sir.

Our watch, sir, have indeed comprehended two auspicious 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.

Go, good partner, go.

We are now to examination these men.


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 urge you to utter it upon your souls.

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, some may be of laughing, as...

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 is but the sign and semblance of her honor.

Behold how like a maid she blushes here!

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 her 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 dishonor'd, that have gone about to link my dear friend to a common stale.

What man was he talk'd with you yesternight out at your window betwixt 12:00 and 1:00?

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'm 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 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 enough chastity in language but offense 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.

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

Why, how now, cousin? 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. Help, uncle!

O Hero! Why, Hero?

Signior Benedick.

O Fate! Take not away thy heavy hand.

Death were 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.

Grieved I, I had but one?

Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame?

O, one too much by thee!

Why ever wast thou one?

Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?

Sir.

Sir, be patient. For my own part, I am attired in wonder and 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.

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!

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, then let all my sins lack mercy.

My father, prove you that any man with me conversed at hours unmeet or if 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 honor.

If their wisdoms be misled in this, the practice of it lives in John the bastard, whose spirits toil in frame of villainies.

I know not.

But if they speak but truth, these hands shall tear thee.

If they wrong her honor, the proudest of them shall well hear of it.

Pause awhile, and let my counsel sway you in this case.

Your daughter here the princes left for dead.

Let her be kept awhile secretly inside, and publish it that she is dead indeed.

What shall become of this?

When Claudio shall hear that she has died upon his words, the idea of her life shall sweetly creep into the study of his imagination.

And every organ of her lovely life shall come apparell'd in more precious habit, more moving-gentle 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 to be true.

Sir, Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you.

Being that I flow in grief

the smallest twine may lead me.

Come, lady. Die to live.

This wedding-day is but perhaps prolong'd.


Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?

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.

The man might deserve of me who 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 much 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 offense, sweet Beatrice?

You have stayed me in a happy hour.

I was about to protest that I love 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.

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 my enemy.

Is Claudio thine enemy?

Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonored 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 rancor...

O God, that I were a man!

I would eat his heart in the market-place.

Hear me, Beatrice...

Talk with a man at a window.

O a proper saying.

Nay, but, Beatrice...

Sweet Hero.

She is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone.

Beatrice.

Princes and counties.

A goodly count. O that I were a man for his sake!

Or that I had any friend who would be a man for my sake!

But manhood is melted into curtsies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongues, and trim ones too.

For 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.

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?

As sure as I have thought or a soul.

Enough, I am engaged.

I will challenge him.

I will kiss your hand.

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.


What is your name, friend?

Borachio.

Pray, write down, Borachio.

Yours, sirrah?

My name is 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 will go near to be thought so shortly.

How answer you for yourselves?

Marry, sir, we say we are none.

A marvelous witty fellow, I assure you, but I will go about with her.

A word in your ear, sir.

I say to you, 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 is 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, that's 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, fellows?

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 this grief suddenly died.

Master constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato.

I will go before and show him their examination.

Come, let them be opinioned.

Let them be in the hands...

Off, coxcomb!

God's my life, where's the sexton?

Let her 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 she 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.

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!

O that I had been writ down an ass!

Now, signior, what news?

Good day, my lord.

We've 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'm an honest man, he looks pale.

Art thou sick, or angry?

What, courage, man!

What though care killed a cat thou hast mettle in thee to kill care.

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

Yea, and text underneath, "Here dwells Benedick the married man"?

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.

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

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 you.

Did he not say, my brother was fled?

Officers, what offense 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.

This learned constable is too cunning to be understood.

What's your offense?

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 overheard me confessing how your brother incensed me to slander the Lady Hero, how you saw me court Margaret in Hero's garments, how you disgraced her.

My villainy they have upon record, which I had rather seal with my death than repeat over to my shame.

Runs not this speech like iron through your blood?

I have drunk poison whiles he utter'd it.

Come, bring away the plaintiffs, and, masters, do not forget to specify, when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass.

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.

Here stann*k 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 thy 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 on me what penance your invention can lay upon my sin, yet sinn'd I not but in mistaking.

By my soul, nor I.

And 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 labor 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,

for 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.

I do embrace your offer and dispose for henceforth of poor Claudio.

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 I do know by her.

Moreover, sir.

Although it be not under white and black, this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass.

I beseech you, let it be remembered in her punishment.

I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.

God keep your worship. I humbly give you leave to depart, and should a merry meeting be wished, God prohibit it.

Come, neighbor.

Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell.

We will not fail.

Bring you these fellows on.


Pray thee, 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 bucklers.

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

The god of love sits above 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, 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.

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, 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 will 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 would 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.

If you will spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours, for I could never love that which my friend hates.

Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

I pray thee, 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!

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's 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.

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.

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 sir, your niece regards me with an eye of favor.

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.

For my will, my will is your good will may stand with ours in this day to be conjoin'd in the state of honorable marriage.

In which, dear Friar, I shall entreat your pains.


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.

Come forth.

Here's the friar. Ready.

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.

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?

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 you were almost sick for me.

Well, 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.

I am sure you love the gentleman.

And 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, 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'll have thee, but, by this light, I take thee for pity.

O, 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.

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.

Thinkest thou I care for a satire or an epigram?

No, 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.

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.

Let's dance ere we are married, that it may lighten our hearts and our wives' heels.

We'll have dancing afterward.

First, upon my word. Therefore, play, music.

Prince, thou art sad.

Get thee a wife, get thee a wife.