Читать книгу The Complete Works of Shakespeare - William Shakespeare, Masterpiece Everywhere - Страница 141

Enter Leonato, Benedick, [Beatrice,] Margaret, Ursula, old man [Antonio], Friar [Francis], Hero.

Friar.

Did I not tell you she was innocent?

Leon.

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.

Ant.

Well, I am glad that all things sorts so well.

Bene.

And so am I, being else by faith enforc’d

To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.

Leon.

Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all,

Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves,

And when I send for you, come hither masked.

The Prince and Claudio promis’d by this hour

To visit me. You know your office, brother:

You must be father to your brother’s daughter,

And give her to young Claudio.

Exeunt Ladies.

Ant. Which I will do with confirm’d countenance.

Bene. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.

Friar. To do what, signior?

Bene.

To bind me, or undo me—one of them.

Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior,

Your niece regards me with an eye of favor.

Leon.

That eye my daughter lent her, ’tis most true.

Bene.

And I do with an eye of love requite her.

Leon.

The sight whereof I think you had from me,

From Claudio, and the Prince. But what’s your will?

Bene.

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 honorable marriage,

In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.

Leon.

My heart is with your liking.

Friar.

And my help.

Here comes the Prince and Claudio.

Enter Prince [Don Pedro] and Claudio and two or three other.

D. Pedro.

Good morrow to this fair assembly.

Leon.

Good morrow, Prince; good morrow, Claudio;

We here attend you. Are you yet determined

To-day to marry with my brother’s daughter?

Claud.

I’ll hold my mind were she an Ethiope.

Leon.

Call her forth, brother, here’s the friar ready.

[Exit Antonio.]

D. Pedro.

Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what’s the matter,

That you have such a February face,

So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness?

Claud.

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.

Bene.

Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low,

And some such strange bull leapt your father’s cow,

And got a calf in that same noble feat

Much like to you, for you have just his bleat.

Enter Brother [Antonio], Hero, Beatrice, Margaret, Ursula, [the ladies masked].

Claud.

For this I owe you: here comes other reck’nings.

Which is the lady I must seize upon?

[Ant.]

This same is she, and I do give you her.

Claud.

Why then she’s mine. Sweet, let me see your face.

Leon.

No, that you shall not till you take her hand,

Before this friar, and swear to marry her.

Claud.

Give me your hand before this holy friar—

I am your husband if you like of me.

Hero [Unmasking.]

And when I liv’d, I was your other wife,

And when you lov’d, you were my other husband.

Claud.

Another Hero!

Hero.

Nothing certainer:

One Hero died defil’d, but I do live,

And surely as I live, I am a maid.

D. Pedro.

The former Hero! Hero that is dead!

Leon.

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.

Mean time let wonder seem familiar,

And to the chapel let us presently.

Bene.

Soft and fair, friar. Which is Beatrice?

Beat. [Unmasking.]

I answer to that name. What is your will?

Bene.

Do not you love me?

Beat.

Why, no, no more than reason.

Bene.

Why then your uncle and the Prince and Claudio

Have been deceived. They swore you did.

Beat.

Do not you love me?

Bene.

Troth, no, no more than reason.

Beat.

Why then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula

Are much deceiv’d, for they did swear you did.

Bene.

They swore that you were almost sick for me.

Beat.

They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.

Bene.

’Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?

Beat.

No, truly, but in friendly recompense.

Leon.

Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.

Claud.

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, stol’n from her pocket,

Containing her affection unto Benedick.

Bene. A miracle! here’s our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee, but by this light, I take thee for pity.

Beat. 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.

[Bene.] Peace, I will stop your mouth.

[Kissing her.]

D. Pedro.

How dost thou, Benedick the married man?

Bene. I’ll tell thee what, Prince: a college of wit- crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No, if a man will be beaten with brains, ’a shall wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it, 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 unbruis’d, and love my cousin.

Claud. I had well hop’d thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgell’d 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.

Bene. 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.

Leon. We’ll have dancing afterward.

Bene. 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 tipp’d with horn.

Enter Messenger.

Mess.

My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight,

And brought with armed men back to Messina.

Bene. Think not on him till to-morrow. I’ll devise thee brave punishments for him. Strike up, pipers.

Dance. [Exeunt.]

¶

Francis Wheatley, p. — James Fittler, e.