Act IV. Scene IV.


A Street.
   
 
Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus and the Officer.
   
  Ant. E.  Fear me not, man; I will not break away:   
I’ll give thee, ere I leave thee, so much money,      4
To warrant thee, as I am ’rested for.   
My wife is in a wayward mood to-day,   
And will not lightly trust the messenger.   
That I should be attach’d in Ephesus,      8
I tell you, ’twill sound harshly in her ears.   
 
Enter DROMIO of Ephesus with a rope’s end.
   
Here comes my man: I think he brings the money.   
How now, sir! have you that I sent you for?     12
  Dro. E.  Here’s that, I warrant you, will pay them all.   
  Ant. E.  But where’s the money?   
  Dro. E.  Why, sir, I gave the money for the rope.   
  Ant. E.  Five hundred ducats, villain, for a rope?     16
  Dro. E.  I’ll serve you, sir, five hundred at the rate.   
  Ant. E.  To what end did I bid thee hie thee home?   
  Dro. E.  To a rope’s end, sir; and to that end am I return’d.   
  Ant. E.  And to that end, sir, I will welcome you.  [Beats him.     20
  Off.  Good sir, be patient.   
  Dro. E.  Nay, ’tis for me to be patient; I am in adversity.   
  Off.  Good now, hold thy tongue.   
  Dro. E.  Nay, rather persuade him to hold his hands.     24
  Ant. E.  Thou whoreson, senseless villain!   
  Dro. E.  I would I were senseless, sir, that I might not feel your blows.   
  Ant. E.  Thou art sensible in nothing but blows, and so is an ass.   
  Dro. E.  I am an ass indeed; you may prove it by my long ears. I have served him from the hour of my nativity to this instant, and have nothing at his hands for my service but blows. When I am cold, he heats me with beating; when I am warm, he cools me with beating I am waked with it when I sleep; raised with it when I sit; driven out of doors with it when I go from home; welcomed home with it when I return; nay, I bear it on my shoulders, as a beggar wont her brat; and, I think, when he hath lamed me, I shall beg with it from door to door.     28
  Ant. E.  Come, go along; my wife is coming yonder.   
 
Enter ADRIANA, LUCIANA, the Courtezan, and PINCH.
   
  Dro. E.  Mistress, respice finem, respect your end; or rather, to prophesy like the parrot, ‘Beware the rope’s end.’   
  Ant. E.  Wilt thou still talk?  [Beats him.     32
  Cour.  How say you now? is not your husband mad?   
  Adr.  His incivility confirms no less.   
Good Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer;   
Establish him in his true sense again,     36
And I will please you what you will demand.   
  Luc.  Alas! how fiery and how sharp he looks.   
  Cour.  Mark how he trembles in his ecstasy!   
  Pinch.  Give me your hand and let me feel your pulse.     40
  Ant. E.  There is my hand, and let it feel your ear.  [Strikes him.   
  Pinch.  I charge thee, Satan, hous’d within this man,   
To yield possession to my holy prayers,   
And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight:     44
I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven.   
  Ant. E.  Peace, doting wizard, peace! I am not mad.   
  Adr.  O! that thou wert not, poor distressed soul!   
  Ant. E.  You minion, you, are these your customers?     48
Did this companion with the saffron face   
Revel and feast it at my house to-day,   
Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut   
And I denied to enter in my house?     52
  Adr.  O husband, God doth know you din’d at home;   
Where would you had remain’d until this time,   
Free from these slanders and this open shame!   
  Ant. E.  Din’d at home! Thou villain, what say’st thou?     56
  Dro. E.  Sir, sooth to say, you did not dine at home.   
  Ant. E.  Were not my doors lock’d up and I shut out?   
  Dro. E.  Perdy, your doors were lock’d and you shut out.   
  Ant. E.  And did not she herself revile me there?     60
  Dro. E.  Sans fable, she herself revil’d you there.   
  Ant. E.  Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt, and scorn me?   
  Dro. E.  Certes, she did; the kitchen-vestal scorn’d you.   
  Ant. E.  And did not I in rage depart from thence?     64
  Dro. E.  In verity you did: my bones bear witness,   
That since have felt the vigour of his rage.   
  Adr.  Is’t good to soothe him in these contraries?   
  Pinch.  It is no shame: the fellow finds his vein,     68
And, yielding to him humours well his frenzy.   
  Ant. E.  Thou hast suborn’d the goldsmith to arrest me.   
  Adr.  Alas! I sent you money to redeem you,   
By Dromio here, who came in haste for it.     72
  Dro. E.  Money by me! heart and good will you might;   
But surely, master, not a rag of money.   
  Ant. E.  Went’st not thou to her for a purse of ducats?   
  Adr.  He came to me, and I deliver’d it.     76
  Luc.  And I am witness with her that she did.   
  Dro. E.  God and the rope-maker bear me witness   
That I was sent for nothing but a rope!   
  Pinch.  Mistress, both man and master is possess’d:     80
I know it by their pale and deadly looks.   
They must be bound and laid in some dark room.   
  Ant. E.  Say, wherefore didst thou lock me forth to-day?   
And why dost thou deny the bag of gold?     84
  Adr.  I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth.   
  Dro. E.  And, gentle master, I receiv’d no gold;   
But I confess, sir, that we were lock’d out.   
  Adr.  Dissembling villain! thou speak’st false in both.     88
  Ant. E.  Dissembling harlot! thou art false in all;   
And art confederate with a damned pack   
To make a loathsome abject scorn of me;   
But with these nails I’ll pluck out those false eyes     92
That would behold in me this shameful sport.   
  Adr.  O! bind him, bind him, let him not come near me.   
  Pinch.  More company! the fiend is strong within him.   
  Luc.  Ay me! poor man, how pale and wan he looks!     96
 
Enter three or four and bind ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus.
   
  Ant. E.  What, will you murder me? Thou gaoler, thou;   
I am thy prisoner: wilt thou suffer them   
To make a rescue?    100
  Off.        Masters, let him go:   
He is my prisoner, and you shall not have him.   
  Pinch.  Go bind this man, for he is frantic too.  [They bind DROMIO of Ephesus.   
  Adr.  What wilt thou do, thou peevish officer?    104
Hast thou delight to see a wretched man   
Do outrage and displeasure to himself?   
  Off.  He is my prisoner: if I let him go,   
The debt he owes will be requir’d of me.    108
  Adr.  I will discharge thee ere I go from thee:   
Bear me forthwith unto his creditor,   
And, knowing how the debt grows, I will pay it.   
Good Master doctor, see him safe convey’d    112
Home to my house. O most unhappy day!   
  Ant. E.  O most unhappy strumpet!   
  Dro. E.  Master, I am here enter’d in bond for you.   
  Ant. E.  Out on thee, villain! wherefore dost thou mad me?    116
  Dro. E.  Will you be bound for nothing? be mad, good master; cry, ‘the devil!’   
  Luc.  God help, poor souls! how idly do they talk.   
  Adr.  Go bear him hence. Sister, go you with me.—  [Exeunt PINCH and Assistants with ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus and DROMIO of Ephesus.   
Say now, whose suit is he arrested at?    120
  Off.  One Angelo, a goldsmith; do you know him?   
  Adr.  I know the man. What is the sum he owes?   
  Off.  Two hundred ducats.   
  Adr.        Say, how grows it due?    124
  Off.  Due for a chain your husband had of him.   
  Adr.  He did bespeak a chain for me, but had it not.   
  Cour.  When as your husband all in rage, to-day   
Came to my house, and took away my ring,—    128
The ring I saw upon his finger now,—   
Straight after did I meet him with a chain.   
  Adr.  It may be so, but I did never see it.   
Come, gaoler, bring me where the goldsmith is:    132
I long to know the truth hereof at large.   
 
Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and DROMIO of Syracuse, with rapiers drawn.
   
  Luc.  God, for thy mercy! they are loose again.   
  Adr.  And come with naked swords. Let’s call more help    136
To have them bound again.   
  Off.        Away! they’ll kill us.  [Exeunt ADRIANA, LUCIANA, and Officer.   
  Ant. S.  I see, these witches are afraid of swords.   
  Dro. S.  She that would be your wife now ran from you.    140
  Ant. S.  Come to the Centaur; fetch our stuff from thence:   
I long that we were safe and sound aboard.   
  Dro. S.  Faith, stay here this night, they will surely do us no harm; you saw they speak us fair, give us gold: methinks they are such a gentle nation, that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, I could find in my heart to stay here still, and turn witch.   
  Ant. S.  I will not stay to-night for all the town;    144
Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene I.


A Street before an Abbey.
   
 
Enter Merchant and ANGELO.
   
  Ang.  I am sorry, sir, that I have hinder’d you;   
But, I protest, he had the chain of me,      4
Though most dishonestly he doth deny it.   
  Mer.  How is the man esteem’d here in the city?   
  Ang.  Of very reverend reputation, sir,   
Of credit infinite, highly belov’d,      8
Second to none that lives here in the city:   
His word might bear my wealth at any time.   
  Mer.  Speak softly: yonder, as I think, he walks.   
 
Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and DROMIO of Syracuse.
     12
  Ang.  ’Tis so; and that self chain about his neck   
Which he forswore most monstrously to have.   
Good sir, draw near to me, I’ll speak to him.   
Signior Antipholus, I wonder much     16
That you would put me to this shame and trouble;   
And not without some scandal to yourself,   
With circumstance and oaths so to deny   
This chain which now you wear so openly:     20
Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment,   
You have done wrong to this my honest friend,   
Who, but for staying on our controversy,   
Had hoisted sail and put to sea to-day.     24
This chain you had of me; can you deny it?   
  Ant. S.  I think I had: I never did deny it.   
  Mer.  Yes, that you did, sir, and forswore it too.   
  Ant. S.  Who heard me to deny it or forswear it?     28
  Mer.  These ears of mine, thou know’st, did hear thee.   
Fie on thee, wretch! ’tis pity that thou liv’st   
To walk where any honest men resort.   
  Ant. S.  Thou art a villain to impeach me thus:     32
I’ll prove mine honour and mine honesty   
Against thee presently, if thou dar’st stand.   
  Mer.  I dare, and do defy thee for a villain.  [They draw.   
 
Enter ADRIANA, LUCIANA, Courtezan, and Others.
     36
  Adr.  Hold! hurt him not, for God’s sake! he is mad.   
Some get within him, take his sword away.   
Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house.   
  Dro. S.  Run, master, run; for God’s sake, take a house!     40
This is some priory: in, or we are spoil’d.  [Exeunt ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and DROMIO of Syracuse to the Abbey.   
 
Enter the Abbess.
   
  Abb.  Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng you hither?   
  Adr.  To fetch my poor distracted husband hence.     44
Let us come in, that we may bind him fast,   
And bear him home for his recovery.   
  Ang.  I knew he was not in his perfect wits.   
  Mer.  I am sorry now that I did draw on him.     48
  Abb.  How long hath this possession held the man?   
  Adr.  This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad,   
And much different from the man he was;   
But, till this afternoon his passion     52
Ne’er brake into extremity of rage.   
  Abb.  Hath he not lost much wealth by wrack of sea?   
Buried some dear friend? Hath not else his eye   
Stray’d his affection in unlawful love?     56
A sin prevailing much in youthful men,   
Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing.   
Which of these sorrows is he subject to?   
  Adr.  To none of these, except it be the last;     60
Namely, some love that drew him oft from home.   
  Abb.  You should for that have reprehended him.   
  Adr.  Why, so I did.   
  Abb.        Ay, but not rough enough.     64
  Adr.  As roughly as my modesty would let me.   
  Abb.  Haply, in private.   
  Adr.        And in assemblies too.   
  Abb.  Ay, but not enough.     68
  Adr.  It was the copy of our conference:   
In bed, he slept not for my urging it;   
At board, he fed not for my urging it;   
Alone, it was the subject of my theme;     72
In company I often glanced it:   
Still did I tell him it was vile and bad.   
  Abb.  And thereof came it that the man was mad:   
The venom clamours of a jealous woman     76
Poison more deadly than a mad dog’s tooth.   
It seems, his sleeps were hinder’d by thy railing,   
And thereof comes it that his head is light.   
Thou say’st his meat was sauc’d with thy up-braidings:     80
Unquiet meals make ill digestions;   
Thereof the raging fire of fever bred:   
And what’s a fever but a fit of madness?   
Thou say’st his sports were hinder’d by thy brawls:     84
Sweet recreation barr’d, what doth ensue   
But moody moping, and dull melancholy,   
Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair,   
And at her heels a huge infectious troop     88
Of pale distemperatures and foes to life?   
In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest   
To be disturb’d, would mad or man or beast:   
The consequence is then, thy jealous fits     92
Have scar’d thy husband from the use of wits.   
  Luc.  She never reprehended him but mildly   
When he demean’d himself rough, rude, and wildly.   
Why bear you these rebukes and answer not?     96
  Adr.  She did betray me to my own reproof.   
Good people, enter, and lay hold on him.   
  Abb.  No; not a creature enters in my house.   
  Adr.  Then, let your servants bring my husband forth.    100
  Abb.  Neither: he took this place for sanctuary,   
And it shall privilege him from your hands   
Till I have brought him to his wits again,   
Or lose my labour in assaying it.    104
  Adr.  I will attend my husband, be his nurse,   
Diet his sickness, for it is my office,   
And will have no attorney but myself;   
And therefore let me have him home with me.    108
  Abb.  Be patient; for I will not let him stir   
Till I have us’d the approved means I have,   
With wholesome syrups, drugs, and holy prayers,   
To make of him a formal man again.    112
It is a branch and parcel of mine oath,   
A charitable duty of my order;   
Therefore depart and leave him here with me.   
  Adr.  I will not hence and leave my husband here;    116
And ill it doth beseem your holiness   
To separate the husband and the wife.   
  Abb.  Be quiet, and depart: thou shalt not have him.  [Exit.   
  Luc.  Complain unto the duke of this indignity.    120
  Adr.  Come, go: I will fall prostrate at his feet,   
And never rise until my tears and prayers   
Have won his Grace to come in person hither,   
And take perforce my husband from the abbess.    124
  Sec. Mer.  By this, I think, the dial points at five:   
Anon, I’m sure, the duke himself in person   
Comes this way to the melancholy vale,   
The place of death and sorry execution,    128
Behind the ditches of the abbey here.   
  Ang.  Upon what cause?   
  Sec. Mer.  To see a reverend Syracusian merchant,   
Who put unluckily into this bay    132
Against the laws and statutes of this town,   
Beheaded publicly for his offence.   
  Ang.  See where they come: we will behold his death.   
  Luc.  Kneel to the duke before he pass the abbey.    136
 
Enter DUKE attended; ÆGEON bare-headed; with the Headsman and other Officers.
   
  Duke.  Yet once again proclaim it publicly,   
If any friend will pay the sum for him,   
He shall not die; so much we tender him.    140
  Adr.  Justice, most sacred duke, against the abbess!   
  Duke.  She is a virtuous and a reverend lady:   
It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong.   
  Adr.  May it please your Grace, Antipholus, my husband,    144
Whom I made lord of me and all I had,   
At your important letters, this ill day   
A most outrageous fit of madness took him,   
That desperately he hurried through the street,—    148
With him his bondman, all as mad as he,—   
Doing displeasure to the citizens   
By rushing in their houses, bearing thence   
Rings, jewels, anything his rage did like.    152
Once did I get him bound and sent him home,   
Whilst to take order for the wrongs I went   
That here and there his fury had committed.   
Anon, I wot not by what strong escape,    156
He broke from those that had the guard of him,   
And with his mad attendant and himself,   
Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords   
Met us again, and, madly bent on us    160
Chas’d us away, till, raising of more aid   
We came again to bind them. Then they fled   
Into this abbey, whither we pursu’d them;   
And here the abbess shuts the gates on us,    164
And will not suffer us to fetch him out,   
Nor send him forth that we may bear him hence.   
Therefore, most gracious duke, with thy command   
Let him be brought forth, and borne hence for help.    168
  Duke.  Long since thy husband serv’d me in my wars,   
And I to thee engag’d a prince’s word,   
When thou didst make him master of thy bed,   
To do him all the grace and good I could.    172
Go, some of you, knock at the abbey gate   
And bid the lady abbess come to me.   
I will determine this before I stir.   
 
Enter a Servant.
    176
  Serv.  O mistress, mistress! shift and save yourself!   
My master and his man are both broke loose,   
Beaten the maids a-row and bound the doctor,   
Whose beard they have sing’d off with brands of fire;    180
And ever as it blaz’d they threw on him   
Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair.   
My master preaches patience to him, and the while   
His man with scissors nicks him like a fool;    184
And sure, unless you send some present help,   
Between them they will kill the conjurer.   
  Adr.  Peace, fool! thy master and his man are here,   
And that is false thou dost report to us.    188
  Serv.  Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true;   
I have not breath’d almost, since I did see it.   
He cries for you and vows, if he can take you,   
To scotch your face, and to disfigure you.  [Cry within.    192
Hark, nark! I hear him, mistress: fly, be gone!   
  Duke.  Come, stand by me; fear nothing. Guard with halberds!   
  Adr.  Ay me, it is my husband! Witness you,   
That he is borne about invisible:    196
Even now we hous’d him in the abbey here,   
And now he’s here, past thought of human reason.   
 
Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus and DROMIO of Ephesus.
   
  Ant. E.  Justice, most gracious duke! O! grant me justice,    200
Even for the service that long since I did thee,   
When I bestrid thee in the wars and took   
Deep scars to save thy life; even for the blood   
That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice.    204
  Æge.  Unless the fear of death doth make me dote,   
I see my son Antipholus and Dromio!   
  Ant. E.  Justice, sweet prince, against that woman there!   
She whom thou gav’st to me to be my wife,    208
That hath abused and dishonour’d me,   
Even in the strength and height of injury!   
Beyond imagination is the wrong   
That she this day hath shameless thrown on me.    212
  Duke.  Discover how, and thou shalt find me just.   
  Ant. E.  This day, great duke, she shut the doors upon me,   
While she with harlots feasted in my house.   
  Duke.  A grievous fault! Say, woman, didst thou so?    216
  Adr.  No, my good lord: myself, he, and my sister   
To-day did dine together. So befall my soul   
As this is false he burdens me withal!   
  Luc.  Ne’er may I look on day, nor sleep on night,    220
But she tells to your highness simple truth!   
  Ang.  O perjur’d woman! They are both forsworn:   
In this the madman justly chargeth them!   
  Ant. E.  My liege, I am advised what I say:    224
Neither disturb’d with the effect of wine,   
Nor heady-rash, provok’d with raging ire,   
Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad.   
This woman lock’d me out this day from dinner:    228
That goldsmith there, were he not pack’d with her,   
Could witness it, for he was with me then;   
Who parted with me to go fetch a chain,   
Promising to bring it to the Porpentine,    232
Where Balthazar and I did dine together.   
Our dinner done, and he not coming thither,   
I went to seek him: in the street I met him,   
And in his company that gentleman.    236
There did this perjur’d goldsmith swear me down   
That I this day of him receiv’d the chain,   
Which, God he knows, I saw not; for the which   
He did arrest me with an officer.    240
I did obey, and sent my peasant home   
For certain ducats: he with none return’d.   
Then fairly I bespoke the officer   
To go in person with me to my house.    244
By the way we met   
My wife, her sister, and a rabble more   
Of vile confederates: along with them   
They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-fac’d villain,    248
A mere anatomy, a mountebank,   
A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller,   
A needy, hollow-ey’d, sharp-looking wretch,   
A living-dead man. This pernicious slave,    252
Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer,   
And, gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse,   
And with no face, as ’twere, out-facing me,   
Cries out, I was possess’d. Then, altogether    256
They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence,   
And in a dark and dankish vault at home   
There left me and my man, both bound together;   
Till, gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder,    260
I gain’d my freedom, and immediately   
Ran hither to your Grace; whom I beseech   
To give me ample satisfaction   
For these deep shames and great indignities.    264
  Ang.  My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him,   
That he din’t not at home, but was lock’d out.   
  Duke.  But had he such a chain of thee, or no?   
  Ang.  He had, my lord; and when he ran in here,    268
These people saw the chain about his neck.   
  Sec. Mer.  Besides, I will be sworn these ears of mine   
Heard you confess you had the chain of him   
After you first forswore it on the mart;    272
And thereupon I drew my sword on you;   
And then you fled into this abbey here,   
From whence, I think, you are come by miracle.   
  Ant. E.  I never came within these abbey walls;    276
Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me;   
I never saw the chain, so help me heaven!   
And this is false you burden me withal.   
  Duke.  Why, what an intricate impeach is this!    280
I think you all have drunk of Circe’s cup.   
If here you hous’d him, here he would have been;   
If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly;   
You say he din’d at home; the goldsmith here    284
Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you?   
  Dro. E.  Sir, he din’d with her there, at the Porpentine.   
  Cour.  He did, and from my finger snatch’d that ring.   
  Ant. E.  ’Tis true, my liege; this ring I had of her.    288
  Duke.  Saw’st thou him enter at the abbey here?   
  Cour.  As sure, my liege, as I do see your Grace.   
  Duke.  Why, this is strange. Go call the abbess hither.  [Exit an Attendant.   
I think you are all mated or stark mad.    292
  Æge.  Most mighty duke, vouchsafe me speak a word:   
Haply I see a friend will save my life,   
And pay the sum that may deliver me.   
  Duke.  Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt.    296
  Æge.  Is not your name, sir, called Antipholus?   
And is not that your bondman Dromio?   
  Dro. E.  Within this hour I was his bondman, sir;   
But he, I thank him, gnaw’d in two my cords:    300
Now am I Dromio and his man, unbound.   
  Æge.  I am sure you both of you remember me.   
  Dro. E.  Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you;   
For lately we were bound, as you are now.    304
You are not Pinch’s patient, are you, sir?   
  Æge.  Why look you strange on me? you know me well.   
  Ant. E.  I never saw you in my life till now.   
  Æge.  O! grief hath chang’d me since you saw me last,    308
And careful hours, with Time’s deformed hand,   
Have written strange defeatures in my face:   
But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?   
  Ant. E.  Neither.    312
  Æge.  Dromio, nor thou?   
  Dro. E.  No, trust me, sir, not I.   
  Æge.  I am sure thou dost.   
  Dro. E.  Ay, sir; but I am sure I do not; and whatsoever a man denies, you are now bound to believe him.    316
  Æge.  Not know my voice! O, time’s extremity,   
Hast thou so crack’d and splitted my poor tongue   
In seven short years, that here my only son   
Knows not my feeble key of untun’d cares?    320
Though now this grained face of mine be hid   
In sap-consuming winter’s drizzled snow,   
And all the conduits of my blood froze up,   
Yet hath my night of life some memory,    324
My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left,   
My dull deaf ears a little use to hear:   
All these old witnesses, I cannot err,   
Tell me thou art my son Antipholus.    328
  Ant. E.  I never saw my father in my life.   
  Æge.  But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy,   
Thou know’st we parted: but perhaps, my son,   
Thou sham’st to acknowledge me in misery.    332
  Ant. E.  The duke and all that know me in the city   
Can witness with me that it is not so:   
I ne’er saw Syracusa in my life.   
  Duke.  I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years    336
Have I been patron to Antipholus,   
During which time he ne’er saw Syracusa.   
I see thy age and dangers make thee dote.   
 
Re-enter Abbess, with ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and DROMIO of Syracuse.
    340
  Abb.  Most mighty duke, behold a man much wrong’d.  [All gather to see him.   
  Adr.  I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me!   
  Duke.  One of these men is Genius to the other;   
And so of these: which is the natural man,    344
And which the spirit? Who deciphers them?   
  Dro. S.  I, sir, am Dromio: command him away.   
  Dro. E.  I, sir, am Dromio: pray let me stay.   
  Ant. S.  Ægeon art thou not? or else his ghost?    348
  Dro. S.  O! my old master; who hath bound him here?   
  Abb.  Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds,   
And gain a husband by his liberty.   
Speak, old Ægeon, if thou be’st the man    352
That hadst a wife once call’d Æmilia,   
That bore thee at a burden two fair sons.   
O! if thou be’st the same Ægeon, speak,   
And speak unto the same Æmilia!    356
  Æge.  If I dream not, thou art Æmilia:   
If thou art she, tell me where is that son   
That floated with thee on the fatal raft?   
  Abb.  By men of Epidamnum, he and I,    360
And the twin Dromio, all were taken up:   
But by and by rude fishermen of Corinth   
By force took Dromio and my son from them,   
And me they left with those of Epidamnum.    364
What then became of them, I cannot tell;   
I to this fortune that you see me in.   
  Duke.  Why, here begins his morning story right:   
These two Antipholus’, these two so like,    368
And these two Dromios, one in semblance,   
Besides her urging of her wrack at sea;   
These are the parents to these children,   
Which accidentally are met together.    372
Antipholus, thou cam’st from Corinth first?   
  Ant. S.  No, sir, not I; I came from Syracuse.   
  Duke.  Stay, stand apart; I know not which is which.   
  Ant. E.  I came from Corinth, my most gracious lord,—    376
  Dro. E.  And I with him.   
  Ant. E.  Brought to this town by that most famous warrior,   
Duke Menaphon, your most renowned uncle.   
  Adr.  Which of you two did dine with me to-day?    380
  Ant. S.  I, gentle mistress.   
  Adr.  And are not you my husband?   
  Ant. E.  No; I say nay to that.   
  Ant. S.  And so do I; yet did she call me so;    384
And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here,   
Did call me brother. [To LUCIANA.] What I told you then,   
I hope I shall have leisure to make good,   
If this be not a dream I see and hear.    388
  Ang.  That is the chain, sir, which you had of me.   
  Ant. S.  I think it be, sir; I deny it not.   
  Ant. E.  And you, sir, for this chain arrested me.   
  Ang.  I think I did, sir; I deny it not.    392
  Adr.  I sent you money, sir, to be your bail,   
By Dromio; but I think he brought it not.   
  Dro. E.  No, none by me.   
  Ant. S.  This purse of ducats I receiv’d from you,    396
And Dromio, my man, did bring them me.   
I see we still did meet each other’s man,   
And I was ta’en for him, and he for me,   
And thereupon these errors are arose.    400
  Ant. E.  These ducats pawn I for my father here.   
  Duke.  It shall not need: thy father hath his life.   
  Cour.  Sir, I must have that diamond from you.   
  Ant. E.  There, take it; and much thanks for my good cheer.    404
  Abb.  Renowned duke, vouchsafe to take the pains   
To go with us into the abbey here,   
And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes;   
And all that are assembled in this place,    408
That by this sympathized one day’s error   
Have suffer’d wrong, go keep us company,   
And we shall make full satisfaction.   
Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail    412
Of you, my sons; and, till this present hour   
My heavy burdens ne’er delivered.   
The duke, my husband, and my children both,   
And you the calendars of their nativity,    416
Go to a gossip’s feast, and joy with me:   
After so long grief such festivity!   
  Duke.  With all my heart I’ll gossip at this feast.  [Exeunt DUKE, Abbess, ÆGEON, Courtezan, Merchant, ANGELO, and Attendants.   
  Dro. S.  Master, shall I fetch your stuff from shipboard?    420
  Ant. E.  Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou embark’d?   
  Dro. S.  Your goods that lay at host, sir, in the Centaur.   
  Ant. S.  He speaks to me. I am your master, Dromio:   
Come, go with us; we’ll look to that anon:    424
Embrace thy brother there; rejoice with him.  [Exeunt ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus, ADRIANA and LUCIANA.   
  Dro. S.  There is a fat friend at your master’s house,   
That kitchen’d me for you to-day at dinner:   
She now shall be my sister, not my wife.    428
  Dro. E.  Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother:   
I see by you I am a sweet-fac’d youth.   
Will you walk in to see their gossiping?   
  Dro. S.  Not I, sir; you are my elder.    432
  Dro. E.  That’s a question: how shall we try it?   
  Dro. S.  We’ll draw cuts for the senior: till then lead thou first.   
  Dro. E.  Nay, then, thus:   
We came into the world like brother and brother;    436
And now let’s go hand in hand, not one before another.  [Exeunt.

Act I. Scene I.


Before LEONATO’S House.
   
 
Enter LEONATO, HERO, BEATRICE and others, with a Messenger.
   
  Leon.  I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina.   
  Mess.  He is very near by this: he was not three leagues off when I left him.      4
  Leon.  How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?   
  Mess.  But few of any sort, and none of name.   
  Leon.  A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers. I find here that Don Pedro hath bestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio.   
  Mess.  Much deserved on his part and equally remembered by Don Pedro. He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing in the figure of a lamb the feats of a lion: he hath indeed better bettered expectation than you must expect of me to tell you how.      8
  Leon.  He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very much glad of it.   
  Mess.  I have already delivered him letters, and there appears much joy in him; even so much that joy could not show itself modest enough without a badge of bitterness.   
  Leon.  Did he break out into tears?   
  Mess.  In great measure.     12
  Leon.  A kind overflow of kindness. There are no faces truer than those that are so washed: how much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping!   
  Beat.  I pray you is Signior Mountanto returned from the wars or no?   
  Mess.  I know none of that name, lady: there was none such in the army of any sort.   
  Leon.  What is he that you ask for, niece?     16
  Hero.  My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.   
  Mess.  O! he is returned, and as pleasant as ever he was.   
  Beat.  He set up his bills here in Messina and challenged Cupid at the flight; and my uncle’s fool, reading the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and challenged him at the bird-bolt. 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.   
  Leon.  Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much; but he’ll be meet with you, I doubt it not.     20
  Mess.  He hath done good service, lady, in these wars.   
  Beat.  You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it: he is a very valiant trencherman; he hath an excellent stomach.   
  Mess.  And a good soldier too, lady.   
  Beat.  And a good soldier to a lady; but what is he to a lord?     24
  Mess.  A lord to a lord, a man to a man, stuffed with all honourable virtues.   
  Beat.  It is so, indeed; he is no less than a stuffed man; but for the stuffing,—well, we are all mortal.   
  Leon.  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.   
  Beat.  Alas! he gets nothing by that. In our last conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man governed with one! so that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse; for it is all the wealth that he hath left to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his companion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother.     28
  Mess.  Is’t possible?   
  Beat.  Very easily possible: he wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the next block.   
  Mess.  I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.   
  Beat.  No; an 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?     32
  Mess.  He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio.   
  Beat.  O Lord! he will hang upon him like a disease: he is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio! if he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a thousand pound ere a’ be cured.   
  Mess.  I will hold friends with you, lady.   
  Beat.  Do, good friend.     36
  Leon.  You will never run mad, niece.   
  Beat.  No, not till a hot January.   
  Mess.  Don Pedro is approached.   
 
Enter DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, BALTHAZAR, and Others.
     40
  D. Pedro.  Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your trouble: the fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.   
  Leon.  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.   
  D. Pedro.  You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this is your daughter.   
  Leon.  Her mother hath many times told me so.     44
  Bene.  Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?   
  Leon.  Signior Benedick, no; for then you were a child.   
  D. Pedro.  You have it full, Benedick: we may guess by this what you are, being a man. Truly, the lady fathers herself. Be happy, lady, for you are like an honourable father.   
  Bene.  If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is.     48
  Beat.  I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you.   
  Bene.  What! my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?   
  Beat.  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.   
  Bene.  Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted; and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none.     52
  Beat.  A dear happiness to women: they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.   
  Bene.  God keep your ladyship still in that mind; so some gentleman or other shall ’scape a predestinate scratched face.   
  Beat.  Scratching could not make it worse, an ’twere such a face as yours were.   
  Bene.  Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.     56
  Beat.  A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.   
  Bene.  I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way, i’ God’s name; I have done.   
  Beat.  You always end with a jade’s trick: I know you of old.   
  D. Pedro.  This is the sum of all, Leonato: Signior Claudio, and Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath invited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at the least a month, and he heartily prays some occasion may detain us longer: I dare swear he is no hypocrite, but prays from his heart.     60
  Leon.  If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn. [To DON JOHN.] Let me bid you welcome, my lord: being reconciled to the prince your brother, I owe you all duty.   
  D. John.  I thank you: I am not of many words, but I thank you.   
  Leon.  Please it your Grace lead on?   
  D. Pedro.  Your hand, Leonato; we will go together.  [Exeunt all but BENEDICK and CLAUDIO.     64
  Claud.  Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato?   
  Bene.  I noted her not; but I looked on her.   
  Claud.  Is she not a modest young lady?   
  Bene.  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?     68
  Claud.  No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment.   
  Bene.  Why, i’ faith, methinks she’s too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and 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 but as she is, I do not like her.   
  Claud.  Thou thinkest I am in sport: I pray thee tell me truly how thou likest her.   
  Bene.  Would you buy her, that you inquire after her?     72
  Claud.  Can the world buy such a jewel?   
  Bene.  Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this with a sad brow, or do you play the flouting Jack, to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder, and Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take you, to go in the song?   
  Claud.  In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on.   
  Bene.  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?     76
  Claud.  I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn to the contrary, if Hero would be my wife.   
  Bene.  Is’t come to this, i’ faith? Hath not the world one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again? Go to, i’ faith; an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it, and sigh away Sundays. Look! Don Pedro is returned to seek you.   
 
Re-enter DON PEDRO.
   
  D. Pedro.  What secret hath held you here, that you followed not to Leonato’s?     80
  Bene.  I would your Grace would constrain me to tell.   
  D. Pedro.  I charge thee on thy allegiance.   
  Bene.  You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb man; I would have you think so; but on my allegiance, mark you this, on my allegiance: he is in love. With who? now that is your Grace’s part. Mark how short his answer is: with Hero, Leonato’s short daughter.   
  Claud.  If this were so, so were it uttered.     84
  Bene.  Like the old tale, my lord: ‘it is not so, not ’twas not so; but, indeed, God forbid it should be so.’   
  Claud.  If my passion change not shortly, God forbid it should be otherwise.   
  D. Pedro.  Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy.   
  Claud.  You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.     88
  D. Pedro.  By my troth, I speak my thought.   
  Claud.  And in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.   
  Bene.  And by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine.   
  Claud.  That I love her, I feel.     92
  D. Pedro.  That she is worthy, I know.   
  Bene.  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.   
  D. Pedro.  Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty.   
  Claud.  And never could maintain his part but in the force of his will.     96
  Bene.  That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks: but that I will have a recheat winded in my forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick, all women shall pardon me. Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none; and the fine is,—for the which I may go the finer,—I will live a bachelor.   
  D. Pedro.  I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love.   
  Bene.  With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord; not with love: prove that ever I lose more blood with love than I will get again with drinking, pick out mine eyes with a balladmaker’s pen, and hang me up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of blind Cupid.   
  D. Pedro.  Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument.    100
  Bene.  If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on the shoulder, and called Adam.   
  D. Pedro.  Well, as time shall try:   
’In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.’   
  Bene.  The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull’s horns and set them in my forehead; and let me be vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write, ‘Here is good horse to hire,’ let them signify under my sign ‘Here you may see Benedick the married man.’    104
  Claud.  If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad.   
  D. Pedro.  Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly.   
  Bene.  I look for an earthquake too then.   
  D. Pedro.  Well, you will temporize with the hours. In the meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to Leonato’s: commend me to him and tell him I will not fail him at supper; for indeed he hath made great preparation.    108
  Bene.  I have almost matter enough in me for such an embassage; and so I commit you—   
  Claud.  To the tuition of God: from my house, if I had it,—   
  D. Pedro.  The sixth of July: your loving friend, Benedick.   
  Bene.  Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your discourse is sometime guarded with fragments, and the guards are but slightly basted on neither: ere you flout old ends any further, examine your conscience: and so I leave you.  [Exit.    112
  Claud.  My liege, your highness now may do me good.   
  D. Pedro.  My love is thine to teach: teach it but how,   
And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn   
Any hard lesson that may do thee good.    116
  Claud.  Hath Leonato any son, my lord?   
  D. Pedro.  No child but Hero; she’s his only heir.   
Dost thou affect her, Claudio?   
  Claud.        O! my lord,    120
When you went onward on this ended action,   
I looked upon her with a soldier’s eye,   
That lik’d, but had a rougher task in hand   
Than to drive liking to the name of love;    124
But now I am return’d, 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,    128
Saying, I lik’d her ere I went to wars.   
  D. Pedro.  Thou wilt be like a lover presently,   
And tire the hearer with a book of words.   
If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it,    132
And I will break with her, and with her father,   
And thou shalt have her. Was’t not to this end   
That thou began’st to twist so fine a story?   
  Claud.  How sweetly do you minister to love,    136
That know love’s grief by his complexion!   
But lest my liking might too sudden seem,   
I would have salv’d it with a longer treatise.   
  D. Pedro.  What need the bridge much broader than the flood?    140
The fairest grant is the necessity.   
Look, what will serve is fit: ’tis once, thou lov’st,   
And I will fit thee with the remedy.   
I know we shall have revelling to-night:    144
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    148
And strong encounter of my amorous tale:   
Then, after to her father will I break;   
And the conclusion is, she shall be thine.   
In practice let us put it presently.  [Exeunt.    152

Act I. Scene II.


A Room in LEONATO’S House.
   
 
Enter LEONATO and ANTONIO, meeting.
   
  Leon.  How now, brother! Where is my cousin, your son? Hath he provided this music?   
  Ant.  He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can tell you strange news that you yet dreamt not of.      4
  Leon.  Are they good?   
  Ant.  As the event stamps them: but they have a good cover; they show well outward. The prince and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley in my orchard, were thus much overheard by a man of mine: the prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my niece your daughter, and meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance; and, if he found her accordant, he meant to take the present time by the top and instantly break with you of it.   
  Leon.  Hath the fellow any wit that told you this?   
  Ant.  A good sharp fellow: I will send for him; and question him yourself.      8
  Leon.  No, no; we will hold it as a dream till it appear itself: but I will acquaint my daughter withal, that she may be the better prepared for an answer, if peradventure this be true. Go you, and tell her of it. [Several persons cross the stage.] Cousins, you know what you have to do. O! I cry you mercy, friend; go you with me, and I will use your skill. Good cousin, have a care this busy time.  [Exeunt.   

Act I. Scene III.


Another Room in LEONATO’S House.
   
 
Enter DON JOHN and CONRADE.
   
  Con.  What the good-year, my lord! why are you thus out of measure sad?   
  D. John.  There is no measure in the occasion that breeds; therefore the sadness is without limit.      4
  Con.  You should hear reason.   
  D. John.  And when I have heard it, what blessing brings it?   
  Con.  If not a present remedy, at least a patient sufferance.   
  D. John.  I wonder that thou, being,—as thou say’st thou art,—born under Saturn, goest about to apply a moral medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide what I am: I must be sad when I have cause, and smile at no man’s jests; eat when I have stomach, and wait for no man’s leisure; sleep when I am drowsy, and tend on no man’s business; laugh when I am merry, and claw no man in his humour.      8
  Con.  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: it is needful that you frame the season for your own harvest.   
  D. John.  I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace; and it better fits my blood to be disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob love from any: in this, though I cannot be said to be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied but I am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted with a muzzle and enfranchised with a clog; therefore I have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking: in the meantime, let me be that I am, and seek not to alter me.   
  Con.  Can you make no use of your discontent?   
  D. John.  I make all use of it, for I use it only. Who comes here?     12
 
Enter BORACHIO
   
What news, Borachio?   
  Bora.  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.   
  D. John.  Will it serve for any model to build mischief on? What is he for a fool that betroths himself to unquietness?     16
  Bora.  Marry, it is your brother’s right hand.   
  D. John.  Who? the most exquisite Claudio?   
  Bora.  Even he.   
  D. John.  A proper squire! And who, and who? which way looks he?     20
  Bora.  Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of Leonato.   
  D. John.  A very forward March-chick! How came you to this?   
  Bora.  Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was smoking a musty room, comes me the prince and Claudio, hand in hand, in sad conference: I whipt me behind the arras, and there heard it agreed upon that the prince should woo Hero for himself, and having obtained her, give her to Count Claudio.   
  D. John.  Come, come; let us thither: this may prove food to my displeasure. That young start-up hath all the glory of my overthrow: if I can cross him any way, I bless myself every way. You are both sure, and will assist me?     24
  Con., Bora.  To the death, my lord.   
  D. John.  Let us to the great supper: their cheer is the greater that I am subdued. Would the cook were of my mind! Shall we go prove what’s to be done?   
  Bora.  We’ll wait upon your lordship.  [Exeunt.   

Act II. Scene I.


A Hall in LEONATO’S House.
   
 
Enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, HERO, BEATRICE, and Others.
   
  Leon.  Was not Count John here at supper?   
  And.  I saw him not.      4
  Beat.  How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heart-burned an hour after.   
  Hero.  He is of a very melancholy disposition.   
  Beat.  He were an excellent man that were made just in the mid-way between him and Benedick: the one is too like an image, and says nothing; and the other too like my lady’s eldest son, evermore tattling.   
  Leon.  Then half Signior Benedick’s tongue in Count John’s mouth, and half Count John’s melancholy in Signior Benedick’s face,—      8
  Beat.  With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world, if a’ could get her good will.   
  Leon.  By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.   
  Ant.  In faith, she’s too curst.   
  Beat.  Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen God’s sending that way; for it is said, ‘God sends a curst cow short horns;’ but to a cow too curst he sends none.     12
  Leon.  So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns?   
  Beat.  Just, if he send me no husband; for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening. Lord! I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face: I had rather lie in the woollen.   
  Leon.  You may light on a husband that hath no beard.   
  Beat.  What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel and make him my waiting-gentlewoman? He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man; 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: therefore I will even take sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and lead his apes into hell.     16
  Leon.  Well then, go you into hell?   
  Beat.  No; but to the gate; and there will the devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and say, ‘Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven; here’s no place for you maids:’ so deliver I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the heavens; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long.   
  Ant.  [To HERO.] Well, niece, I trust you will be ruled by your father.   
  Beat.  Yes, faith; it is my cousin’s duty to make curtsy, and say, ‘Father, as it please you:’—but yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and say, ‘Father, as it please me.’     20
  Leon.  Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.   
  Beat.  Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered with a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I’ll none: Adam’s sons are my brethren; and truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.   
  Leon.  Daughter, remember what I told you: if the prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer.   
  Beat.  The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in good time: if the prince be too important, tell him there is measure in everything, and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero: wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque-pace: the first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly-modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes Repentance, and, with his bad legs, falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave.     24
  Leon.  Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.   
  Beat.  I have a good eye, uncle: I can see a church by daylight.   
  Leon.  The revellers are entering, brother: make good room.   
 
Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, BALTHAZAR, DON JOHN, BORACHIO, MARGARET, URSULA, and Others, masked.
     28
  D. Pedro.  Lady, will you walk about with your friend?   
  Hero.  So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing, I am yours for the walk; and especially when I walk away.   
  D. Pedro.  With me in your company?   
  Hero.  I may say so, when I please.     32
  D. Pedro.  And when please you to say so?   
  Hero.  When I like your favour; for God defend the lute should be like the case!   
  D. Pedro.  My visor is Philemon’s roof; within the house is Jove.   
  Hero.  Why, then, your visor should be thatch’d.     36
  D. Pedro.  Speak low, if you speak love.  [Takes her aside.   
  Balth.  Well, I would you did like me.   
  Marg.  So would not I, for your own sake; for I have many ill qualities.   
  Balth.  Which is one?     40
  Marg.  I say my prayers aloud.   
  Balth.  I love you the better; the hearers may cry Amen.   
  Marg.  God match me with a good dancer!   
  Balth.  Amen.     44
  Marg.  And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is done! Answer, clerk.   
  Balth.  No more words: the clerk is answered.   
  Urs.  I know you well enough: you are Signior Antonio.   
  Ant.  At a word, I am not.     48
  Urs.  I know you by the waggling of your head.   
  Ant.  To tell you true, I counterfeit him.   
  Urs.  You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were the very man. Here’s his dry hand up and down: you are he, you are he.   
  Ant.  At a word, I am not.     52
  Urs.  Come, come; do you think I do not know you by your excellent wit? Can virtue hide itself? Go to, mum, you are he: graces will appear, and there’s an end.   
  Beat.  Will you not tell me who told you so?   
  Bene.  No, you shall pardon me.   
  Beat.  Nor will you not tell me who you are?     56
  Bene.  Not now.   
  Beat.  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.   
  Bene.  What’s he?   
  Beat.  I am sure you know him well enough.     60
  Bene.  Not I, believe me.   
  Beat.  Did he never make you laugh?   
  Bene.  I pray you, what is he?   
  Beat.  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 the commendation is not in his wit, but in his villany; for he both pleases men and angers them, and then they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in the fleet: I would he had boarded me!     64
  Bene.  When I know the gentleman, I’ll tell him what you say.   
  Beat.  Do, do: he’ll but break a comparison or two on me; which, peradventure not marked or not laughed at, strikes him into melancholy; and then there’s a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no supper that night. [Music within.] We must follow the leaders.   
  Bene.  In every good thing.   
  Beat.  Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning.  [Dance. Then exeunt all but DON JOHN, BORACHIO, and CLAUDIO.     68
  D. John.  Sure my brother is amorous on Hero, and hath withdrawn her father to break with him about it. The ladies follow her and but one visor remains.   
  Bora.  And that is Claudio: I know him by his bearing.   
  D. John.  Are you not Signior Benedick?   
  Claud.  You know me well; I am he.     72
  D. John.  Signior, you are very near my brother in his love: he is enamoured 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.   
  Claud.  How know you he loves her?   
  D. John.  I heard him swear his affection.   
  Bora.  So did I too; and he swore he would marry her to-night.     76
  D. John.  Come, let us to the banquet.  [Exeunt DON JOHN and BORACHIO.   
  Claud.  Thus answer I in name of Benedick,   
But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.   
’Tis certain so; the prince woos for himself.     80
Friendship is constant in all other things   
Save in the office and affairs of love:   
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;   
Let every eye negotiate for itself     84
And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch   
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.   
This is an accident of hourly proof,   
Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero!     88
 
Re-enter BENEDICK.
   
  Bene.  Count Claudio?   
  Claud.  Yea, the same.   
  Bene.  Come, will you go with me?     92
  Claud.  Whither?   
  Bene.  Even to the next willow, about your own business, count. What fashion will you wear the garland of? About your neck, like a usurer’s chain? or under your arm, like a lieutenant’s scarf? You must wear it one way, for the prince hath got your Hero.   
  Claud.  I wish him joy of her.   
  Bene.  Why, that’s spoken like an honest drovier: so they sell bullocks. But did you think the prince would have served you thus?     96
  Claud.  I pray you, leave me.   
  Bene.  Ho! now you strike like the blind man: ’twas the boy that stole your meat, and you’ll beat the post.   
  Claud.  If it will not be, I’ll leave you.  [Exit.   
  Bene.  Alas! poor hurt fowl. Now will he creep into sedges. But, that my lady Beatrice should know me, and not know me! The prince’s fool! Ha! it may be I go under that title because I am merry. Yea, 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’ll be revenged as I may.    100
 
Re-enter DON PEDRO.
   
  D. Pedro.  Now, signior, where’s the count? Did you see him?   
  Bene.  Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame. I found him here 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; and I offered him my company to a willow tree, either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped.   
  D. Pedro.  To be whipped! What’s his fault?    104
  Bene.  The flat transgression of a school-boy, who, being overjoy’d with finding a bird’s nest, shows it his companion, and he steals it.   
  D. Pedro.  Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The transgression is in the stealer.   
  Bene.  Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made, and the garland too; for the garland he might have worn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stolen his bird’s nest.   
  D. Pedro.  I will but teach them to sing, and restore them to the owner.    108
  Bene.  If their singing answer your saying, by my faith, you say honestly.   
  D. Pedro.  The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you: the gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you.   
  Bene.  O! she misused me past the endurance of a block: an oak but with one green leaf on it, would have answered her: my very visor began to assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the prince’s jester; that I was duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest with such impossible conveyance upon me, that I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs: if her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the north star. I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he transgressed: she would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of her; you shall find her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God some scholar would conjure her, for certainly, while she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose because they would go thither; so, indeed, all disquiet, horror and perturbation follow her.   
 
Re-enter CLAUDIO, BEATRICE, HERO, and LEONATO.
    112
  D. Pedro.  Look! here she comes.   
  Bene.  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 toothpicker now from the furthest inch of Asia; bring you the length of Prester John’s foot; fetch 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?   
  D. Pedro.  None, but to desire your good company.   
  Bene.  O God, sir, here’s a dish I love not: I cannot endure my Lady Tongue.  [Exit.    116
  D. Pedro.  Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick.   
  Beat.  Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave him use for it, a double heart for a single one: marry, once before he won it of me with false dice, therefore your Grace may well say I have lost it.   
  D. Pedro.  You have put him down, lady, you have put him down.   
  Beat.  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.    120
  D. Pedro.  Why, how now, count! wherefore are you sad?   
  Claud.  Not sad, my lord.   
  D. Pedro.  How then? Sick?   
  Claud.  Neither, my lord.    124
  Beat.  The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but civil count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion.   
  D. Pedro.  I’ faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true; though, I’ll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and fair Hero is won; I have broke with her father, and, his good will obtained; name the day of marriage, and God give thee joy!   
  Leon.  Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes: his Grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen to it!   
  Beat.  Speak, count, ’tis your cue.    128
  Claud.  Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange.   
  Beat.  Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak neither.   
  D. Pedro.  In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.   
  Beat.  Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart.    132
  Claud.  And so she doth, cousin.   
  Beat.  Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt. I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!   
  D. Pedro.  Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.   
  Beat.  I would rather have one of your father’s getting. Hath your Grace ne’er a brother like you? Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them.    136
  D. Pedro.  Will you have me, lady?   
  Beat.  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.   
  D. Pedro.  Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour.   
  Beat.  No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born. Cousins, God give you joy!    140
  Leon.  Niece, will you look to those things I told you of?   
  Beat.  I cry you mercy, uncle. By your Grace’s pardon.  [Exit.   
  D. Pedro.  By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.   
  Leon.  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.    144
  D. Pedro.  She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.   
  Leon.  O! by no means: she mocks all her wooers out of suit.   
  D. Pedro.  She were an excellent wife for Benedick.   
  Leon.  O Lord! my lord, if they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad.    148
  D. Pedro.  Count Claudio, when mean you to go to church?   
  Claud.  To-morrow, my lord. Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.   
  Leon.  Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just seven-night; and a time too brief too, to have all things answer my mind.   
  D. Pedro.  Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing; but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go dully by us. I will in the interim undertake one of Hercules’ labours, 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 but minister such assistance as I shall give you direction.    152
  Leon.  My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten nights’ watchings.   
  Claud.  And I, my lord.   
  D. Pedro.  And you too, gentle Hero?   
  Hero.  I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband.    156
  D. Pedro.  And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband that I know. Thus far can I praise him; he is of a noble strain, of approved valour, and confirmed honesty. I will teach you how to humour your cousin, that she shall fall in love with Benedick; and I, with your two helps, will so practise on Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer: his glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me, and I will tell you my drift.  [Exeunt.   

Act II. Scene II.


Another Room in LEONATO’S House.
   
 
Enter DON JOHN and BORACHIO.
   
  D. John.  It is so; the Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of Leonato.   
  Bora.  Yea, my lord; but I can cross it.      4
  D. John.  Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be medicinable to me: I am sick in displeasure to him, and whatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges evenly with mine. How canst thou cross this marriage?   
  Bora.  Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly that no dishonesty shall appear in me.   
  D. John.  Show me briefly how.   
  Bora.  I think I told your lordship, a year since, how much I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting-gentlewoman to Hero.      8
  D. John.  I remember.   
  Bora.  I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night, appoint her to look out at her lady’s chamber-window.   
  D. John.  What life is in that, to be the death of this marriage?   
  Bora.  The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to the prince your brother; spare not to tell him, that he hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned Claudio,—whose estimation do you mightily hold up,—to a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero.     12
  D. John.  What proof shall I make of that?   
  Bora.  Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato. Look you for any other issue?   
  D. John.  Only to despite them, I will endeavour any thing.   
  Bora.  Go, then; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro and the Count Claudio alone: tell them that you know that Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal both to the prince and Claudio, as—in love of your brother’s honour, who hath made this match, and his friend’s reputation, who is thus like to be cozened with the semblance of a maid,—that you have discovered thus. They will scarcely believe this without trial: offer them instances, which shall bear no less likelihood than to see me at her chamber-window, hear me call Margaret Hero; hear Margaret term me Claudio; and bring them to see this the very night before the intended wedding: for in the meantime I will so fashion the matter that Hero shall be absent; and there shall appear such seeming truth of Hero’s disloyalty, that jealousy shall be called assurance, and all the preparation overthrown.     16
  D. John.  Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put it in practice. Be cunning in the working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats.   
  Bora.  Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning shall not shame me.   
  D. John.  I will presently go learn their day of marriage.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene III.


LEONATO’S Garden.
   
 
Enter BENEDICK.
   
  Bene.  Boy!   
 
Enter a Boy.
      4
  Boy.  Signior?   
  Bene.  In my chamber-window lies a book; bring it hither to me in the orchard.   
  Boy.  I am here already, sir.   
  Bene.  I know that; but I would have thee hence, and here again. [Exit Boy.] I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love: and such a man is Claudio. I have known, when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe: I have known, when he would have walked ten mile afoot to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned orthographer; his words are 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 colour it please God. Ha! the prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour.  [Withdraws.       8
 
Enter DON PEDRO, LEONATO, and CLAUDIO, followed by BALTHAZAR and Musicians.
   
  D. Pedro.  Come, shall we hear this music?   
  Claud.  Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is,   
As hush’d on purpose to grace harmony!     12
  D. Pedro.  See you where Benedick hath hid himself?   
  Claud.  O! very well, my lord: the music ended,   
We’ll fit the kid-fox with a penny-worth.   
  D. Pedro.  Come, Balthazar, we’ll hear that song again.     16
  Balth.  O! good my lord, tax not so bad a voice   
To slander music any more than once.   
  D. Pedro.  It is the witness still of excellency,   
To put a strange face on his own perfection.     20
I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.   
  Balth.  Because you talk of wooing, I will sing;   
Since many a wooer doth commence his suit   
To her he thinks not worthy; yet he woos;     24
Yet will he swear he loves.   
  D. Pedro.        Nay, pray thee, come;   
Or if thou wilt hold longer argument,   
Do it in notes.     28
  Balth.        Note this before my notes;   
There’s not a note of mine that’s worth the noting.   
  D. Pedro.  Why these are very crotchets that he speaks;   
Notes, notes, forsooth, and nothing!  [Music.      32
  Bene.  Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it not strange that sheeps’ guts should hale souls out of men’s bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when all’s done.
BALTHAZAR sings.

           Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
     Men were deceivers ever;
   One foot in sea, and one on shore,
     To one thing constant never.
         Then sigh not so,
         But let them go,
     And be you blithe and bonny,
   Converting all your sounds of woe
     Into Hey nonny, nonny.
    
   Sing no more ditties, sing no mo
     Of dumps so dull and heavy;
   The fraud of men was ever so,
     Since summer first was leavy.
         Then sigh not so,
         But let them go,
     And be you blithe and bonny,
   Converting all your sounds of woe
     Into Hey nonny, nonny.
   
  D. Pedro.  By my troth, a good song.   
  Balth.  And an ill singer, my lord.   
  D. Pedro.  Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough for a shift.     36
  Bene.  [Aside.] An he had been a dog that should have howled thus, they would have hanged him; and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had as lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague could have come after it.   
  D. Pedro.  Yea, marry; dost thou hear, Balthazar? I pray thee, get us some excellent music, for to-morrow night we would have it at the Lady Hero’s chamber-window.   
  Balth.  The best I can, my lord.   
  D. Pedro.  Do so: farewell. [Exeunt BALTHAZAR and Musicians.] Come hither, Leonato: what was it you told me of to-day, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?     40
  Claud.  O! ay:—[Aside to D. PEDRO.] Stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits. I did never think that lady would have loved any man.   
  Leon.  No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours seemed ever to abhor.   
  Bene.  [Aside.] Is’t possible? Sits the wind in that corner?   
  Leon.  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.     44
  D. Pedro.  May be she doth but counterfeit.   
  Claud.  Faith, like enough.   
  Leon.  O God! counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it.   
  D. Pedro.  Why, what effects of passion shows she?     48
  Claud.  [Aside.] Bait the hook well: this fish will bite.   
  Leon.  What effects, my lord? She will sit you; [To CLAUDIO.] You heard my daughter tell you how.   
  Claud.  She did, indeed.   
  D. Pedro.  How, how, I pray you? You amaze me: I would have thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection.     52
  Leon.  I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially against Benedick.   
  Bene.  [Aside.] I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot, sure, hide itself in such reverence.   
  Claud.  [Aside.] He hath ta’en the infection: hold it up.   
  D. Pedro.  Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?     56
  Leon.  No; and swears she never will: that’s her torment.   
  Claud.  ’Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says: ‘Shall I,’ says she, ‘that have so oft encountered him with scorn, write to him that I love him?’   
  Leon.  This says she now when she is beginning to write to him; for she’ll be up twenty times a night, and there will she sit in her smock till she have writ a sheet of paper: my daughter tells us all.   
  Claud.  Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your daughter told us of.     60
  Leon.  O! when she had writ it, and was reading it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet?   
  Claud.  That.   
  Leon.  O! she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence; 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.’   
  Claud.  Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses; ‘O sweet Benedick! God give me patience!’     64
  Leon.  She doth indeed; my daughter says so; and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her, that my daughter is sometimes afeard she will do a desperate outrage to herself. It is very true.   
  D. Pedro.  It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will not discover it.   
  Claud.  To what end? he would but make a sport of it and torment the poor lady worse.   
  D. Pedro.  An he should, it were an alms to hang him. She’s an excellent sweet lady, and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous.     68
  Claud.  And she is exceeding wise.   
  D. Pedro.  In everything but in loving Benedick.   
  Leon.  O! my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian.   
  D. Pedro.  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 a’ will say.     72
  Leon.  Were it good, think you?   
  Claud.  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.   
  D. Pedro.  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.   
  Claud.  He is a very proper man.     76
  D. Pedro.  He hath indeed a good outward happiness.   
  Claud.  ’Fore God, and in my mind, very wise.   
  D. Pedro.  He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit.   
  Leon.  And I take him to be valiant.     80
  D. Pedro.  As Hector, I assure you: and in the managing of quarrels you may say he is wise; for either he avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes them with a most Christian-like fear.   
  Leon.  If he do fear God, a’ must necessarily keep peace: if he break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling.   
  D. Pedro.  And so will he do; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek Benedick, and tell him of her love?   
  Claud.  Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it out with good counsel.     84
  Leon.  Nay, that’s impossible: she may wear her heart out first.   
  D. Pedro.  Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter: let it cool the while. I love Benedick well, and I could wish he would modestly examine himself, to see how much he is unworthy to have so good a lady.   
  Leon.  My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready.   
  Claud.  [Aside.] If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation.     88
  D. Pedro.  [Aside.] Let there be the same net spread for her; and that must your daughter and her gentlewoman carry. The sport will be, when they hold one an opinion of another’s dotage, and no such matter: that’s the scene that I would see, which will be merely a dumbshow. Let us send her to call him in to dinner.  [Exeunt DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, and LEONATO.   
  Bene.  [Advancing from the arbour.] This can be no trick: the conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady: it seems, her affections have their full bent. Love me! why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured: they say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her; they say too that she will rather die than 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 humour? 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.   
 
Enter BEATRICE.
   
  Beat.  Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.     92
  Bene.  Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.   
  Beat.  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.   
  Bene.  You take pleasure then in the message?   
  Beat.  Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife’s point, and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior: fare you well.  [Exit.     96
  Bene.  Ha! ‘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 easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture.  [Exit.

Act III. Scene I.


LEONATO’S Garden.
   
 
Enter HERO, MARGARET, and URSULA.
   
  Hero.  Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour;   
There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice      4
Proposing with the prince and Claudio:   
Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursula   
Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse   
Is all of her; say that thou overheard’st us,      8
And bid her steal into the pleached bower,   
Where honey-suckles, ripen’d by the sun,   
Forbid the sun to enter; like favourites,   
Made proud by princes, that advance their pride     12
Against that power that bred it. There will she hide her,   
To listen our propose. This is thy office;   
Bear thee well in it and leave us alone.   
  Marg.  I’ll make her come, I warrant you, presently.  [Exit.     16
  Hero.  Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come,   
As we do trace this alley up and down,   
Our talk must only be of Benedick:   
When I do name him, let it be thy part     20
To praise him more than ever man did merit.   
My talk to thee must be how Benedick   
Is sick in love with Beatrice: of this matter   
Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made,     24
That only wounds by hearsay.   
 
Enter BEATRICE, behind.
   
        Now begin;   
For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs     28
Close by the ground, to hear our conference.   
  Urs.  The pleasant’st angling is to see the fish   
Cut with her golden oars the silver stream,   
And greedily devour the treacherous bait:     32
So angle we for Beatrice; who even now   
Is couched in the woodbine coverture.   
Fear you not my part of the dialogue.   
  Hero.  Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing     36
Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.  [They advance to the bower.   
No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful;   
I know her spirits are as coy and wild   
As haggerds of the rock.     40
  Urs.        But are you sure   
That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?   
  Hero.  So says the prince, and my new-trothed lord.   
  Urs.  And did they bid you tell her of it, madam?     44
  Hero.  They did entreat me to acquaint her of it;   
But I persuaded them, if they lov’d Benedick,   
To wish him wrestle with affection,   
And never to let Beatrice know of it.     48
  Urs.  Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman   
Deserve as full as fortunate a bed   
As ever Beatrice shall couch upon?   
  Hero.  O god of love! I know he doth deserve     52
As much as may be yielded to a man;   
But nature never fram’d a woman’s heart   
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice;   
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,     56
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,     60
She is so self-endear’d.   
  Urs.        Sure, I think so;   
And therefore certainly it were not good   
She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.     64
  Hero.  Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man,   
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur’d,   
But she would spell him backward: if fair-fac’d,   
She would swear the gentleman should be her sister;     68
If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antick,   
Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed;   
If low, an agate very vilely cut;   
If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;     72
If silent, why, a block moved with none.   
So turns she every man the wrong side out,   
And never gives to truth and virtue that   
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.     76
  Urs.  Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.   
  Hero.  No; not to be so odd and from all fashions   
As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable.   
But who dare tell her so? If I should speak,     80
She would mock me into air: O! she would laugh me   
Out of myself, press me to death with wit.   
Therefore let Benedick, like cover’d fire,   
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly:     84
It were a better death than die with mocks,   
Which is as bad as die with tickling.   
  Urs.  Yet tell her of it: hear what she will say.   
  Hero.  No; rather I will go to Benedick,     88
And counsel him to fight against his passion.   
And, truly, I’ll devise some honest slanders   
To stain my cousin with. One doth not know   
How much an ill word may empoison liking.     92
  Urs.  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 priz’d to have,—as to refuse     96
So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.   
  Hero.  He is the only man of Italy,   
Always excepted my dear Claudio.   
  Urs.  I pray you, be not angry with me, madam,    100
Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick,   
For shape, for bearing, argument and valour,   
Goes foremost in report through Italy.   
  Hero.  Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.    104
  Urs.  His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.   
When are you married, madam?   
  Hero.  Why, every day, to-morrow. Come, go in:   
I’ll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel    108
Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.   
  Urs.  She’s lim’d, I warrant you: we have caught her, madam.   
  Hero.  If it prove so, then loving goes by haps:   
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.  [Exeunt HERO and URSULA.    112
  Beat.  [Advancing.] What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?   
  Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much?   
Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!   
  No glory lives behind the back of such.    116
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,    120
For others say thou dost deserve, and I   
Believe it better than reportingly.  [Exit.   

Act III. Scene II.


A Room in LEONATO’S House.
   
 
Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, and LEONATO.
   
  D. Pedro.  I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon.   
  Claud.  I’ll bring you thither, my lord, if you’ll vouchsafe me.      4
  D. Pedro.  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. He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks.   
  Bene.  Gallants, I am not as I have been.   
  Leon.  So say I: methinks you are sadder.   
  Claud.  I hope he be in love.      8
  D. Pedro.  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.   
  Bene.  I have the tooth-ache.   
  D. Pedro.  Draw it.   
  Bene.  Hang it.     12
  Claud.  You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards.   
  D. Pedro.  What! sigh for the tooth-ache?   
  Leon.  Where is but a humour or a worm?   
  Bene.  Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.     16
  Claud.  Yet say I, he is in love.   
  D. Pedro.  There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises; as, to be a Dutchman to-day, a French-man to-morrow, or in the shape of two countries at once, as a German from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is.   
  Claud.  If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs: a’ brushes his hat a mornings; what should that bode?   
  D. Pedro.  Hath any man seen him at the barber’s?     20
  Claud.  No, but the barber’s man hath been seen with him; and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuffed tennis-balls.   
  Leon.  Indeed he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard.   
  D. Pedro.  Nay, a’ rubs himself with civet: can you smell him out by that?   
  Claud.  That’s as much as to say the sweet youth’s in love.     24
  D. Pedro.  The greatest note of it is his melancholy.   
  Claud.  And when was he wont to wash his face?   
  D. Pedro.  Yea, or to paint himself? for the which, I hear what they say of him.   
  Claud.  Nay, but his jesting spirit; which is now crept into a lute-string, and new-governed by stops.     28
  D. Pedro.  Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude, conclude he is in love.   
  Claud.  Nay, but I know who loves him.   
  D. Pedro.  That would I know too: I warrant, one that knows him not.   
  Claud.  Yes, and his ill conditions; and in despite of all, dies for him.     32
  D. Pedro.  She shall be buried with her face upwards.   
  Bene.  Yet is this no charm for the tooth-ache. Old signior, walk aside with me: I have studied eight or nine wise words to speak to you, which these hobby-horses must not hear.  [Exeunt BENEDICK and LEONATO.   
  D. Pedro.  For my life, to break with him about Beatrice.   
  Claud.  ’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.     36
 
Enter DON JOHN.
   
  D. John.  My lord and brother, God save you!   
  D. Pedro.  Good den, brother.   
  D. John.  If your leisure served, I would speak with you.     40
  D. Pedro.  In private?   
  D. John.  If it please you; yet Count Claudio may hear, for what I would speak of concerns him.   
  D. Pedro.  What’s the matter?   
  D. John.  [To CLAUDIO.] Means your lordship to be married to-morrow?     44
  D. Pedro.  You know he does.   
  D. John.  I know not that, when he knows what I know.   
  Claud.  If there be any impediment, I pray you discover it.   
  D. John.  You may think I love you not: let that appear hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now will manifest. For my brother, I think he holds you well, and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect your ensuing marriage; surely suit ill-spent, and labour ill bestowed!     48
  D. Pedro.  Why, what’s the matter?   
  D. John.  I came hither to tell you; and circumstances shortened,—for she hath been too long a talking of,—the lady is disloyal.   
  Claud.  Who, Hero?   
  D. John.  Even she: Leonato’s Hero, your Hero, every man’s Hero.     52
  Claud.  Disloyal?   
  D. John.  The word’s too good to paint out her wickedness; I could say, she were worse: think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not till further warrant: go but with me 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 honour to change your mind.   
  Claud.  May this be so?   
  D. Pedro.  I will not think it.     56
  D. John.  If you dare not trust that you see, confess not that you know. If you will follow me, I will show you enough; and when you have seen more and heard more, proceed accordingly.   
  Claud.  If I see any thing to-night why I should not marry her to-morrow, in the congregation, where I should wed, there will I shame her.   
  D. Pedro.  And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join with thee to disgrace her.   
  D. John.  I will disparage her no further till you are my witnesses: bear it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show itself.     60
  D. Pedro.  O day untowardly turned!   
  Claud.  O mischief strangely thwarting!   
  D. John.  O plague right well prevented! So will you say when you have seen the sequel.  [Exeunt.