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ОглавлениеACT 4.
Scene 1. The Inside of a Church.
[Enter DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, LEONATO, FRIAR FRANCIS, CLAUDIO,
BENEDICK, HERO, BEATRICE, &c.]
LEONATO. Come, Friar Francis, be brief: only to the plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their particular duties afterwards.
FRIAR.
You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady?
CLAUDIO.
No.
LEONATO.
To be married to her, friar; you come to marry her.
FRIAR.
Lady, you come hither to be married to this count?
HERO.
I do.
FRIAR. If either of you know any inward impediment, why you should not be conjoined, I charge you, on your souls, to utter it.
CLAUDIO.
Know you any, Hero?
HERO.
None, my lord.
FRIAR.
Know you any, count?
LEONATO.
I dare make his answer; none.
CLAUDIO. O! what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do!
BENEDICK. How now! Interjections? Why then, some be of laughing, as ah! ha! he!
CLAUDIO. Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your leave: Will you with free and unconstrained soul Give me this maid, your daughter?
LEONATO.
As freely, son, as God did give her me.
CLAUDIO.
And what have I to give you back whose worth
May counterpoise this rich and precious gift?
DON PEDRO.
Nothing, unless you render her again.
CLAUDIO.
Sweet prince, you learn me noble thankfulness.
There, Leonato, take her back again:
Give not this rotten orange to your friend;
She’s but the sign and semblance of her honour.
Behold! how like a maid she blushes here.
O! what authority and show of truth
Can cunning sin cover itself withal.
Comes not that blood as modest evidence
To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear,
All you that see her, that she were a maid,
By these exterior shows? But she is none:
She knows the heat of a luxurious bed;
Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.
LEONATO.
What do you mean, my lord?
CLAUDIO.
Not to be married,
Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton.
LEONATO.
Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof,
Have vanquish’d the resistance of her youth,
And made defeat of her virginity,—
CLAUDIO.
I know what you would say: if I have known her,
You’ll say she did embrace me as a husband,
And so extenuate theforehand sin: No, Leonato,
I never tempted her with word too large;
But, as a brother to his sister, show’d
Bashful sincerity and comely love.
HERO.
And seem’d I ever otherwise to you?
CLAUDIO.
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.
HERO.
Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?
LEONATO.
Sweet prince, why speak not you?
DON PEDRO.
What should I speak?
I stand dishonour’d, that have gone about
To link my dear friend to a common stale.
LEONATO.
Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?
DON JOHN.
Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.
BENEDICK.
This looks not like a nuptial.
HERO.
True! O God!
CLAUDIO.
Leonato, stand I here? Is this the prince?
Is this the prince’s brother?
Is this face Hero’s? Are our eyes our own?
LEONATO.
All this is so; but what of this, my lord?
CLAUDIO.
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.
LEONATO.
I charge thee do so, as thou art my child.
HERO.
O, God defend me! how am I beset!
What kind of catechizing call you this?
CLAUDIO.
To make you answer truly to your name.
HERO.
Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name
With any just reproach?
CLAUDIO.
Marry, that can Hero:
Hero itself can blot out Hero’s virtue.
hat man was he talk’d with you yesternight
Out at your window, betwixt twelve and one?
Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.
HERO.
I talk’d with no man at that hour, my lord.
DON PEDRO.
Why, then are you no maiden.
Leonato, I am sorry you must hear: upon my honour,
Myself, my brother, and this grieved count,
Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night,
Talk with a ruffian at her chamber-window;
Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain,
Confess’d the vile encounters they have had
A thousand times in secret.
DON JOHN.
Fie, fie! they are not to be nam’d, 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.
CLAUDIO.
O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been,
If half thy outward graces had been plac’d
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.
LEONATO.
Hath no man’s dagger here a point for me?
[HERO swoons.]
BEATRICE.
Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you down?
DON JOHN.
Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light,
Smother her spirits up.
[Exeunt DON PEDRO, DON JOHN and CLAUDIO.]
BENEDICK.
How doth the lady?
BEATRICE.
Dead, I think! help, uncle! Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior
Benedick! Friar!
LEONATO.
O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand:
Death is the fairest cover for her shame
That may be wish’d for.
BEATRICE.
How now, cousin Hero?
FRIAR.
Have comfort, lady.
LEONATO.
Dost thou look up?
FRIAR.
Yea; wherefore should she not?
LEONATO.
Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly thing
Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny
The story that is printed in her blood?
Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes;
For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,
Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,
Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches,
Strike at thy life. Griev’d I, I had but one?
Chid I for that at frugal nature’s frame?
O! one too much by thee. Why had I one?
Why ever wast thou lovely in mine eyes?
Why had I not with charitable hand
Took up a beggar’s issue at my gates,
Who smirched thus, and mir’d with infamy,
I might have said, ‘No part of it is mine;
This shame derives itself from unknown loins?’
But mine, and mine I lov’d, and mine I prais’d,
And mine that I was proud on, mine so much
That I myself was to myself not mine,
Valuing of her; why, she—O! she is fallen
Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again,
And salt too little which may season give
To her foul-tainted flesh.
BENEDICK.
Sir, sir, be patient.
For my part, I am so attir’d in wonder,
I know not what to say.
BEATRICE.
O! on my soul, my cousin is belied!
BENEDICK.
Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?
BEATRICE. No, truly, not; although, until last night I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.
LEONATO.
Confirm’d, confirm’d! O! that is stronger made,
Which was before barr’d up with ribs of iron.
Would the two princes lie? and Claudio lie,
Who lov’d her so, that, speaking of her foulness,
Wash’d it with tears? Hence from her! let her die.
FRIAR.
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 bear away those blushes;
And in her eye there hath appear’d a fire,
To burn the errors that these princes hold
Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool;
Trust not my reading nor my observations,
Which with experimental seal doth warrant
The tenure of my book; trust not my age,
My reverence, calling, nor divinity,
If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here
Under some biting error.
LEONATO.
Friar, it cannot be.
Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left
Is that she will not add to her damnation
A sin of perjury: she not denies it.
Why seek’st thou then to cover with excuse
That which appears in proper nakedness?
FRIAR.
Lady, what man is he you are accus’d of?
HERO.
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 convers’d
At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight
Maintain’d the change of words with any creature,
Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death.
FRIAR.
There is some strange misprision in the princes.
BENEDICK.
Two of them have the very bent of honour;
And if their wisdoms be misled in this,
The practice of it lives in John the bastard,
Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies.
LEONATO.
I know not. If they speak but truth of her,
These hands shall tear her;if they wrong her honour,
The proudest of them shall well hear of it.
Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,
Nor age so eat up my invention,
Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,
Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,
But they shall find, awak’d 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.
FRIAR.
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;
nd on your family’s old monument
Hang mournful epitaphs and do all rites
That appertain unto a burial.
LEONATO.
What shall become of this? What will this do?
FRIAR.
Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf
Change slander to remorse; that is some good.
But not for that dream I on this strange course,
But on this travail look for greater birth.
She dying, as it must be so maintain’d,
Upon the instant that she was accus’d,
Shall be lamented, pitied and excus’d
Of every hearer; for it so falls out
That what we have we prize not to the worth
Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack’d and lost,
Why, then we rack the value, then we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio:
When he shall hear she died upon his words,
The idea of her life shall sweetly creep
Into his study of imagination,
And every lovely organ of her life
Shall come apparell’d in more precious habit,
More moving-delicate, and full of life
Into the eye and prospect of his soul,
Than when she liv’d indeed: then shall he mourn,—
If ever love had interest in his liver,—
And wish he had not so accused her,
No, though be thought his accusation true.
Let this be so, and doubt not but success
Will fashion the event in better shape
Than I can lay it down in likelihood.
But if all aim but this be levell’d false,
The supposition of the lady’s death
Will quench the wonder of her infamy:
And if it sort not well, you may conceal her,—
As best befits her wounded reputation,—
In some reclusive and religious life,
Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.
BENEDICK.
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.
LEONATO.
Being that I flow in grief, The smallest twine may lead me.
FRIAR.
‘Tis well consented: presently away;
For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.
Come, lady, die to live: this wedding day
Perhaps is but prolong’d: have patience and endure.
[Exeunt FRIAR, HERO, and LEONATO.]
BENEDICK.
Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?
BEATRICE.
Yea, and I will weep a while longer.
BENEDICK.
I will not desire that.
BEATRICE.
You have no reason; I do it freely.
BENEDICK.
Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.
BEATRICE.
Ah! how much might the man deserve of me that would right her.
BENEDICK.
Is there any way to show such friendship?
BEATRICE.
A very even way, but no such friend.
BENEDICK.
May a man do it?
BEATRICE.
It is a man’s office, but not yours.
BENEDICK. I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?
BEATRICE.
As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say
I loved nothing so well as you; but believe me not, and yet I lie not;
I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin.
BENEDICK.
By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.
BEATRICE.
Do not swear by it, and eat it.
BENEDICK. I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you.
BEATRICE.
Will you not eat your word?
BENEDICK.
With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee.
BEATRICE.
Why then, God forgive me!
BENEDICK.
What offence, sweet Beatrice?
BEATRICE. You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to protest I loved you.
BENEDICK.
And do it with all thy heart.
BEATRICE.
I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.
BENEDICK.
Come, bid me do anything for thee.
BEATRICE.
Kill Claudio.
BENEDICK.
Ha! not for the wide world.
BEATRICE.
You kill me to deny it. Farewell.
BENEDICK.
Tarry, sweet Beatrice.
BEATRICE. I am gone, though I am here: there is no love in you: nay, I pray you, let me go.
BENEDICK.
Beatrice,—
BEATRICE.
In faith, I will go.
BENEDICK.
We’ll be friends first.
BEATRICE.
You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy.
BENEDICK.
Is Claudio thine enemy?
BEATRICE. Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O! that I were a man. What! bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour,—O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the marketplace.
BENEDICK.
Hear me, Beatrice,—
BEATRICE.
Talk with a man out at a window! a proper saying!
BENEDICK.
Nay, but Beatrice,—
BEATRICE.
Sweet Hero! she is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone.
BENEDICK.
Beat—-
BEATRICE. Princes and counties! Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly 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 cursies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.
BENEDICK.
Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.
BEATRICE.
Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.
BENEDICK.
Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero?
BEATRICE.
Yea, as sure is I have a thought or a soul.
BENEDICK. 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.
[Exeunt.]
Scene 2. A Prison.
[Enter DOGBERRY, VERGES, and SEXTON, in gowns; and the Watch, with CONRADE and BORACHIO.]
DOGBERRY.
Is our whole dissembly appeared?
VERGES.
O! a stool and a cushion for the sexton.
SEXTON.
Which be the malefactors?
DOGBERRY.
Marry, that am I and my partner.
VERGES.
Nay, that’s certain: we have the exhibition to examine.
SEXTON. But which are the offenders that are to be examined? let them come before Master constable.
DOGBERRY.
Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your name, friend?
BORACHIO.
Borachio.
DOGBERRY.
Pray write down Borachio. Yours, sirrah?
CONRADE.
I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.
DOGBERRY.
Write down Master gentleman Conrade. Masters, do you serve God?
BOTH.
Yea, sir, we hope.
DOGBERRY. Write down that they hope they serve God: and write God first; for God defend but God should go before such villains! Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves, and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for yourselves?
CONRADE.
Marry, sir, we say we are none.
DOGBERRY.
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.
BORACHIO.
Sir, I say to you we are none.
DOGBERRY. Well, stand aside. Fore God, they are both in a tale. Have you writ down, that they are none?
SEXTON. Master constable, you go not the way to examine: you must call forth the watch that are their accusers.
DOGBERRY.
Yea, marry, that’s the eftest way. Let the watch come forth.
Masters, I charge you, in the prince’s name, accuse these men.
FIRST WATCH. This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince’s brother, was a villain.
DOGBERRY. Write down Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat perjury, to call a prince’s brother villain.
BORACHIO.
Master Constable,—
DOGBERRY.
Pray thee, fellow, peace: I do not like thy look, I promise thee.
SEXTON.
What heard you him say else?
SECOND WATCH. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don John for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully.
DOGBERRY.
Flat burglary as ever was committed.
VERGES.
Yea, by the mass, that it is.
SEXTON. What else, fellow?
FIRST WATCH. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her.
DOGBERRY. O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this.
SEXTON.
What else?
SECOND WATCH.
This is all.
SEXTON. 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 manner refused, and, upon the grief of this, suddenly died. Master Constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato’s: I will go before and show him their examination.
[Exit.]
DOGBERRY.
Come, let them be opinioned.
VERGES.
Let them be in the hands—
CONRADE.
Off, coxcomb!
DOGBERRY. God’s my life! where’s the sexton? let him write down the prince’s officer coxcomb. Come, bind them. Thou naughty varlet!
CONRADE.
Away! you are an ass; you are an ass.
DOGBERRY. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! but, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow; and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any 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 everything handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass!
[Exeunt.]
ACT 5.
Scene 1. Before LEONATO’S House.
[Enter LEONATO and ANTONIO.]
ANTONIO.
If you go on thus, you will kill yourself
And ‘tis not wisdom thus to second grief
Against yourself.
LEONATO.
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 lov’d his child,
Whose joy of her is overwhelm’d like mine,
And bid him speak to me of patience;
Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine,
And let it answer every strain for strain,
As thus for thus and such a grief for such,
In every lineament, branch, shape, and form:
If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard;
Bid sorrow wag, cry ‘hem’ when he should groan,
Patch grief with proverbs; make misfortune drunk
With candle-wasters; bring him yet to me,
And I of him will gather patience.
But there is no such man; for, brother, men
Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief
Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,
Their counsel turns to passion, which before
Would give preceptial medicine to rage,
Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,
Charm ache with air and agony with words.
No, no; ‘tis all men’s office to speak patience
To those that wring under the load of sorrow,
But no man’s virtue nor sufficiency
To be so moral when he shall endure
The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel:
My griefs cry louder than advertisement.
ANTONIO.
Therein do men from children nothing differ.
LEONATO.
I pray thee peace! I will be flesh and blood;
For there was never yet philosopher
That could endure the toothache patiently,
However they have writ the style of gods
And made a push at chance and sufferance.
ANTONIO.
Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself;
Make those that do offend you suffer too.
LEONATO.
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.
ANTONIO.
Here comes the prince and Claudio hastily.
[Enter DON PEDRO and CLAUDIO.]
DON PEDRO.
Good den, good den.
CLAUDIO.
Good day to both of you.
LEONATO.
Hear you, my lords,—
DON PEDRO.
We have some haste, Leonato.
LEONATO.
Some haste, my lord! well, fare you well, my lord:
Are you so hasty now?—well, all is one.
DON PEDRO.
Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man.
ANTONIO.
If he could right himself with quarrelling,
Some of us would lie low.
CLAUDIO.
Who wrongs him?
LEONATO.
Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou dissembler, thou.
Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword; I fear thee not.
CLAUDIO.
Marry, beshrew my hand,
If it should give your age such cause of fear.
In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.
LEONATO.
Tush, tush, man! never fleer and jest at me:
I speak not like a dotard nor a fool,
As, under privilege of age, to brag
What I have done being young, or what would do,
Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head,
Thou hast so wrong’d mine innocent child and me
That I am forc’d 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 lied buried with her ancestors;
O! in a tomb where never scandal slept,
Save this of hers, fram’d by thy villany!
CLAUDIO.
My villany?
LEONATO.
Thine, Claudio; thine, I say.
DON PEDRO.
You say not right, old man,
LEONATO.
My lord, my lord,
I’ll prove it on his body, if he dare,
Despite his nice fence and his active practice,
His May of youth and bloom of lustihood.
CLAUDIO.
Away! I will not have to do with you.
LEONATO.
Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill’d my child;
If thou kill’st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.
ANTONIO.
He shall kill two of us, and men indeed:
But that’s no matter; let him kill one first:
Win me and wear me; let him answer me.
Come, follow me, boy; come, sir boy, come, follow me.
Sir boy, I’ll whip you from your foining fence;
Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will.
LEONATO.
Brother,—
ANTONIO.
Content yourself. God knows I lov’d my niece;
And she is dead, slander’d to death by villains,
That dare as well answer a man indeed
As I dare take a serpent by the tongue.
Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops!
LEONATO.
Brother Antony,—
ANTONIO.
Hold your content. What, man! I know them, yea,
And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple,
Scambling, outfacing, fashion-monging boys,
That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander,
Go antickly, show outward hideousness,
And speak off half a dozen dangerous words,
How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst;
And this is all!
LEONATO.
But, brother Antony,—
ANTONIO.
Come, ‘tis no matter:
Do not you meddle, let me deal in this.
DON PEDRO.
Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience.
My heart is sorry for your daughter’s death;
But, on my honour, she was charg’d with nothing
But what was true and very full of proof.
LEONATO.
My lord, my lord—
DON PEDRO.
I will not hear you.
LEONATO.
No? Come, brother, away. I will be heard.—
ANTONIO.
And shall, or some of us will smart for it.
[Exeunt LEONATO and ANTONIO.]
[Enter BENEDICK.]
DON PEDRO.
See, see; here comes the man we went to seek.
CLAUDIO.
Now, signior, what news?
BENEDICK.
Good day, my lord.
DON PEDRO.
Welcome, signior: you are almost come to part almost a fray.
CLAUDIO. We had like to have had our two noses snapped off with two old men without teeth.
DON PEDRO. Leonato and his brother. What think’st thou? Had we fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them.
BENEDICK. In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I came to seek you both.
CLAUDIO. 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?
BENEDICK.
It is in my scabbard; shall I draw it?
DON PEDRO.
Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side?
CLAUDIO. 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.
DON PEDRO.
As I am an honest man, he looks pale. Art thou sick, or angry?
CLAUDIO. What, courage, man! What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.
BENEDICK. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, an you charge it against me. I pray you choose another subject.
CLAUDIO.
Nay then, give him another staff: this last was broke cross.
DON PEDRO. By this light, he changes more and more: I think he be angry indeed.
CLAUDIO.
If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle.
BENEDICK.
Shall I speak a word in your ear?
CLAUDIO.
God bless me from a challenge!
BENEDICK. [Aside to CLAUDIO.] You are a villain, I jest not: I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me hear from you.
CLAUDIO.
Well I will meet you, so I may have good cheer.
DON PEDRO.
What, a feast, a feast?
CLAUDIO.
I’ faith, I thank him; he hath bid me to a calf’s-head and a capon,
the which if I do not carve most curiously, say my knife’s naught.
Shall I not find a woodcock too?
BENEDICK.
Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily.
DON PEDRO.
I’ll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the other day. I said,
thou hadst a fine wit. ‘True,’ says she, ‘a fine little one.’
‘No,’ said I, ‘a great wit.’
‘Right,’ said she, ‘a great gross one.’
‘Nay,’ said I, ‘a good wit.’
‘Just,’ said she, ‘it hurts nobody.’
‘Nay,’ said I, ‘the gentleman is wise.’
‘Certain,’ said she,a wise gentleman.’
‘Nay,’ said I, ‘he hath the tongues.’
‘That I believe’ said she, ‘for he swore a thing to me on Monday
night, which he forswore on Tuesday morning: there’s a double tongue;
there’s two tongues.’
Thus did she, an hour together, trans-shape thy particular virtues;
yet at last she concluded with a sigh, thou wast the properest man in
Italy.
CLAUDIO.
For the which she wept heartily and said she cared not.
DON PEDRO. Yea, that she did; but yet, for all that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly. The old man’s daughter told us all.
CLAUDIO.
All, all; and moreover, God saw him when he was hid in the garden.
DON PEDRO.
But when shall we set the savage bull’s horns on the sensible
Benedick’s head?
CLAUDIO.
Yea, and text underneath, ‘Here dwells Benedick the married man!’
BENEDICK. Fare you well, boy: you know my mind. I will leave you now to your gossip-like humour; you break jests as braggarts do their blades, which, God be thanked, hurt not. My lord, for your many courtesies I thank you: I must discontinue your company. Your brother the bastard is fled from Messina: you have, among you, killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord Lackbeard there, he and I shall meet; and till then, peace be with him.
[Exit.]
DON PEDRO.
He is in earnest.
CLAUDIO.
In most profound earnest; and, I’ll warrant you, for the love of
Beatrice.
DON PEDRO.
And hath challenged thee?
CLAUDIO.
Most sincerely.
DON PEDRO. What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!
CLAUDIO. He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an ape a doctor to such a man.
DON PEDRO. But, soft you; let me be: pluck up, my heart, and be sad! Did he not say my brother was fled?
[Enter DOGBERRY, VERGES, and the Watch, with CONRADE and
BORACHIO.]
DOGBERRY. Come you, sir: if justice cannot tame you, she shall ne’er weigh more reasons in her balance. Nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be looked to.
DON PEDRO.
How now! two of my brother’s men bound! Borachio, one!
CLAUDIO.
Hearken after their offence, my lord.
DON PEDRO.
Officers, what offence have these men done?
DOGBERRY. 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.
DON PEDRO. First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I ask thee what’s their offence; sixth and lastly, why they are committed; and, to conclude, what you lay to their charge?
CLAUDIO. Rightly reasoned, and in his own division; and, by my troth, there’s one meaning well suited.
DON PEDRO.
Who have you offended, masters, that you are thus bound to your
answer? this learned constable is too cunning to be understood.
What’s your offence?
BORACHIO. Sweet prince, let me go no further to mine answer: do you hear me, and let this count kill me. I have deceived even your very eyes: what your wisdoms could not discover, these shallow fools have brought to light; who, in the night overheard me confessing to this man how Don John your brother incensed me to slander the Lady Hero; how you were brought into the orchard and saw me court Margaret in Hero’s garments; how you disgraced her, when you should marry her. My villany they have upon record; which I had rather seal with my death than repeat over to my shame. The lady is dead upon mine and my master’s false accusation; and, briefly, I desire nothing but the reward of a villain.
DON PEDRO.
Runs not this speech like iron through your blood?
CLAUDIO.
I have drunk poison whiles he utter’d it.
DON PEDRO.
But did my brother set thee on to this?
BORACHIO.
Yea; and paid me richly for the practice of it.
DON PEDRO.
He is compos’d and fram’d of treachery:
And fled he is upon this villany.
CLAUDIO.
Sweet Hero! now thy image doth appear In the rare semblance that
I lov’d it first.
DOGBERRY. 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.
VERGES.
Here, here comes Master Signior Leonato, and the sexton too.
[Re-enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, and the Sexton.]
LEONATO.
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?
BORACHIO.
If you would know your wronger, look on me.
LEONATO.
Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast kill’d
Mine innocent child?
BORACHIO.
Yea, even I alone.
LEONATO.
No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself:
Here stand a pair of honourable men;
A third is fled, that had a hand in it.
I thank you, princes, for my daughter’s death:
Record it with your high and worthy deeds.
‘Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.
CLAUDIO.
I know not how to pray your patience;
Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself;
Impose me to what penance your invention
Can lay upon my sin: yet sinn’d I not
But in mistaking.
DON PEDRO.
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.
LEONATO.
I cannot bid you bid my daughter live;
That were impossible; but, I pray you both,
Possess the people in Messina here
How innocent she died; and if your love
Can labour aught in sad invention,
Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb,
And sing it to her bones: sing it tonight.
Tomorrow morning come you to my house,
And since you could not be my son-in-law,
Be yet my nephew. My brother hath a daughter,
Almost the copy of my child that’s dead,
And she alone is heir to both of us:
Give her the right you should have given her cousin,
And so dies my revenge.
CLAUDIO.
O noble sir,
Your overkindness doth wring tears from me!
I do embrace your offer; and dispose
For henceforth of poor Claudio.
LEONATO.
Tomorrow then I will expect your coming;
Tonight I take my leave. This naughty man
Shall face to face be brought to Margaret,
Who, I believe, was pack’d in all this wrong,
Hir’d to it by your brother.
BORACHIO.
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 anything that I do know by her.
DOGBERRY. Moreover, sir,—which, indeed, is not under white and black,— this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass: I beseech you, let it be remembered in his punishment. And also, the watch heard them talk of one Deformed: they say he wears a key in his ear and a lock hanging by it, and borrows money in God’s name, the which he hath used so long and never paid, that now men grow hard-hearted, and will lend nothing for God’s sake. Pray you, examine him upon that point.
LEONATO.
I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.
DOGBERRY.
Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverent youth, and
I praise God for you.
LEONATO.
There’s for thy pains.
DOGBERRY.
God save the foundation!
LEONATO.
Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee.
DOGBERRY. I leave an arrant knave with your worship; which I beseech your worship to correct yourself, for the example of others. God keep your worship! I wish your worship well; God restore you to health! I humbly give you leave to depart, and if a merry meeting may be wished, God prohibit it! Come, neighbour.
[Exeunt DOGBERRY and VERGES.]
LEONATO.
Until tomorrow morning, lords, farewell.
ANTONIO.
Farewell, my lords: we look for you tomorrow.
DON PEDRO.
We will not fail.
CLAUDIO.
Tonight I’ll mourn with Hero.
[Exeunt DON PEDRO and CLAUDIO.]
LEONATO.
[To the Watch.] Bring you these fellows on. We’ll talk with
Margaret, How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.
[Exeunt.]
Scene 2. LEONATO’S Garden.
[Enter BENEDICK and MARGARET, meeting.]
BENEDICK. Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice.
MARGARET.
Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty?
BENEDICK. In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it; for, in most comely truth, thou deservest it.
MARGARET.
To have no man come over me! why, shall I always keep below stairs?
BENEDICK.
Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound’s mouth; it catches.
MARGARET.
And yours as blunt as the fencer’s foils, which hit, but hurt not.
BENEDICK. A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt a woman: and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice. I give thee the bucklers.
MARGARET.
Give us the swords, we have bucklers of our own.
BENEDICK. If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons for maids.
MARGARET.
Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs.
BENEDICK.
And therefore will come.
[Exit MARGARET.]
The god of love,
That sits above,
And knows me, and knows me,
How pitiful I deserve,—
I mean, in singing: but in loving, Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and a whole 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 rime; I have tried: I can find out no rime to ‘lady’ but ‘baby’, an innocent rhyme; for ‘scorn,’ ‘horn’, a hard rime; for ‘school’, ‘fool’, a babbling rhyme; very ominous endings: no, I was not born under a riming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms.
[Enter BEATRICE.]
Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee?
BEATRICE.
Yea, signior; and depart when you bid me.
BENEDICK.
O, stay but till then!
BEATRICE. ‘Then’ is spoken; fare you well now: and yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for; which is, with knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio.
BENEDICK.
Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee.
BEATRICE. Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed.
BENEDICK. Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge, and either I must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe him a coward. And, I pray thee now, tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?
BEATRICE.
For them all together; which maintained so politic a state of evil
that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them.
But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?
BENEDICK. ‘Suffer love,’ a good epithet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.
BEATRICE. 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.
BENEDICK.
Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
BEATRICE. It appears not in this confession: there’s not one wise man among twenty that will praise himself.
BENEDICK. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived in the time of good neighbours. If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps.
BEATRICE.
And how long is that think you?
BENEDICK. Question: why, an hour in clamour and a quarter in rheum: therefore is it most expedient for the wise,—if Don Worm, his conscience, find no impediment to the contrary,—to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy. And now tell me, how doth your cousin?
BEATRICE.
Very ill.
BENEDICK.
And how do you?
BEATRICE.
Very ill too.
BENEDICK. Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste.
[Enter URSULA.]
URSULA. Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder’s old coil at home: it is proved, my Lady Hero hath been falsely accused, the prince and Claudio mightily abused; and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone. Will you come presently?
BEATRICE.
Will you go hear this news, signior?
BENEDICK. I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes; and moreover I will go with thee to thy uncle’s.
[Exeunt.]
Scene 3. The Inside of a Church.
[Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, and Attendants, with music and tapers,]
CLAUDIO.
Is this the monument of Leonato?
A LORD.
It is, my lord.
CLAUDIO.
[Reads from a scroll.]
Done to death by slanderous tongues
Was the Hero that here lies:
Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,
Gives her fame which never dies.
So the life that died with shame
Lives in death with glorious fame.
Hang thou there upon the tomb,
Praising her when I am dumb.
Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.
SONG.
Pardon, goddess of the night,
Those that slew thy virgin knight;
For the which, with songs of woe,
Round about her tomb they go.
Midnight, assist our moan;
Help us to sigh and groan,
Heavily, heavily:
Graves, yawn and yield your dead,
Till death be uttered,
Heavily, heavily.
CLAUDIO.
Now, unto thy bones good night!
Yearly will I do this rite.
DON PEDRO.
Good morrow, masters: put your torches out.
The wolves have prey’d; and look, the gentle day,
Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about
Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey.
Thanks to you all, and leave us: fare you well.
CLAUDIO.
Good morrow, masters: each his several way.
DON PEDRO. Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds; And then to Leonato’s we will go.
CLAUDIO.
And Hymen now with luckier issue speed’s,
Than this for whom we rend’red up this woe!
[Exeunt.]
Scene 4. A Room in LEONATO’S House.
[Enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, BENEDICK, BEATRICE, MARGARET, URSULA,
FRIAR FRANCIS, and HERO.]
FRIAR.
Did I not tell you she was innocent?
LEONATO.
So are the prince and Claudio, who accus’d 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.
ANTONIO.
Well, I am glad that all things sort so well.
BENEDICK.
And so am I, being else by faith enforc’d
To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.
LEONATO.
Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all,
Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves,
And when I send for you, come hither mask’d:
The prince and Claudio promis’d by this hour
To visit me.
[Exeunt Ladies.]
You know your office, brother;
You must be father to your brother’s daughter,
And give her to young Claudio.
ANTONIO.
Which I will do with confirm’d countenance.
BENEDICK.
Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.
FRIAR.
To do what, signior?
BENEDICK.
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.
LEONATO.
That eye my daughter lent her: ‘tis most true.
BENEDICK.
And I do with an eye of love requite her.
LEONATO.
The sight whereof I think, you had from me,
From Claudio, and the prince. But what’s your will?
BENEDICK.
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.
LEONATO.
My heart is with your liking.
FRIAR.
And my help. Here comes the prince and Claudio.
[Enter DON PEDRO and CLAUDIO, with Attendants.]
DON PEDRO.
Good morrow to this fair assembly.
LEONATO.
Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Claudio:
We here attend you. Are you yet determin’d
To-day to marry with my brother’s daughter?
CLAUDIO.
I’ll hold my mind, were she an Ethiope.
LEONATO.
Call her forth, brother: here’s the friar ready.
[Exit ANTONIO.]
DON PEDRO.
Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what’s the matter,
That you have such a February face,
So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?
CLAUDIO.
I think he thinks upon the savage bull.
Tush! fear not, man, we’ll tip thy horns with gold,
And all Europa shall rejoice at thee,
As once Europa did at lusty Jove,
When he would play the noble beast in love.
BENEDICK.
Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low:
And some such strange bull leap’d your father’s cow,
And got a calf in that same noble feat,
Much like to you, for you have just his bleat.
CLAUDIO.
For this I owe you: here comes other reckonings.
[Re-enter ANTONIO, with the ladies masked.]
Which is the lady I must seize upon?
ANTONIO.
This same is she, and I do give you her.
CLAUDIO.
Why then, she’s mine. Sweet, let me see your face.
LEONATO.
No, that you shall not, till you take her hand
Before this friar, and swear to marry her.
CLAUDIO.
Give me your hand: before this holy friar,
I am your husband, if you like of me.
HERO.
And when I liv’d, I was your other wife:
[Unmasking.] And when you lov’d, you were my other husband.
CLAUDIO.
Another Hero!
HERO.
Nothing certainer:
One Hero died defil’d, but I do live,
And surely as I live, I am a maid.
DON PEDRO.
The former Hero! Hero that is dead!
LEONATO.
She died, my lord, but whiles her slander liv’d.
FRIAR.
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.
BENEDICK.
Soft and fair, friar. Which is Beatrice?
BEATRICE.
[Unmasking.] I answer to that name. What is your will?
BENEDICK.
Do not you love me?
BEATRICE.
Why, no; no more than reason.
BENEDICK.
Why, then, your uncle and the prince and Claudio
Have been deceived; for they swore you did.
BEATRICE.
Do not you love me?
BENEDICK.
Troth, no; no more than reason.
BEATRICE.
Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula,
Are much deceiv’d; for they did swear you did.
BENEDICK.
They swore that you were almost sick for me.
BEATRICE.
They swore that you were wellnigh dead for me.
BENEDICK.
Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?
BEATRICE.
No, truly, but in friendly recompense.
LEONATO.
Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.
CLAUDIO.
And I’ll be sworn upon ‘t that he loves her;
For here’s a paper written in his hand,
A halting sonnet of his own pure brain,
Fashion’d to Beatrice.
HERO.
And here’s another,
Writ in my cousin’s hand, stolen from her pocket,
Containing her affection unto Benedick.
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.
BEATRICE. 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.
BENEDICK.
Peace! I will stop your mouth. [Kisses her.]
BENEDICK. I’ll tell thee what, prince; a college of witcrackers cannout flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No; if man will be beaten with brains, a’ shall wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it, for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee; but, in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruised, and love my cousin.
CLAUDIO. I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double-dealer; which, out of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look exceeding narrowly to thee.
BENEDICK. Come, come, we are friends. Let’s have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives’ heels.
LEONATO.
We’ll have dancing afterward.
BENEDICK. First, of my word; therefore play, music! Prince, thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife: there is no staff more reverent than one tipped with horn.
[Enter Messenger.]
MESSENGER.
My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight,
And brought with armed men back to Messina.
BENEDICK.
Think not on him till tomorrow: I’ll devise thee brave
punishments for him.
Strike up, pipers!
[Dance. Exeunt.]
THE END
