[Enter Hero and two Gentlewomen, Margaret and Ursula.]
Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour.
There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice
Proposing with the Prince and Claudio.
Whisper her ear and tell her, I and Ursley
Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse
Is all of her. Say that thou overheard'st us;
And bid her steal into the pleached bower,
Where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun,
Forbid the sun to enter--like favourites,
Made proud by princes, that advance their pride
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.
I'll make her come, I warrant you, presently. [Exit.]
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
To praise him more than ever man did merit.
My talk to thee must be how Benedick
Is sick in love with Beatrice. Of this matter
Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made,
That only wounds by hearsay.
For look where Beatrice like a lapwing runs
Close by the ground, to hear our conference.
[Beatrice hides in the arbour].
The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish
Cut with her golden oars the silver stream
And greedily devour the treacherous bait.
So angle we for Beatrice, who even now
Is couched in the woodbine coverture.
Fear you not my part of the dialogue.
Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing
Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.
[They approach the arbour.]
No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful.
I know her spirits are as coy and wild
As haggards of the rock.
But are you sure
That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?
So says the Prince, and my new-trothed lord.
And did they bid you tell her of it, madam?
They did entreat me to acquaint her of it;
But I persuaded them, if they lov'd Benedick,
To wish him wrestle with affection
And never to let Beatrice know of it.
Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman
Deserve as full, as fortunate a bed
As ever Beatrice shall couch upon?
O god of love! I know he doth deserve
As much as may be yielded to a man:
But Nature never fram'd a woman's heart
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice.
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprizing what they look on; and her wit
Values itself so highly that to her
All matter else seems weak. She cannot love,
Nor take no shape nor project of affection,
She is so self-endeared.
Sure I think so;
And therefore certainly it were not good
She knew his love, lest she'll make sport at it.
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;
If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antic,
Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed;
If low, an agate very vilely cut;
If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;
If silent, why, a block moved with none.
So turns she every man the wrong side out
And never gives to truth and virtue that
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.
Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.
No, not to be so odd, and from all fashions,
As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable.
But who dare tell her so? If I should speak,
She would mock me into air; 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.
It were a better death than die with mocks,
Which is as bad as die with tickling.
Yet tell her of it. Hear what she will say.
No; rather I will go to Benedick
And counsel him to fight against his passion.
And truly, I'll devise some honest slanders
To stain my cousin with. One doth not know
How much an ill word may empoison liking.
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
So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.
He is the only man of Italy,
Always excepted my dear Claudio.
I pray you be not angry with me, madam,
Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick,
For shape, for bearing, argument, and valour,
Goes foremost in report through Italy.
Indeed he hath an excellent good name.
His excellence did earn it ere he had it.
When are you married, madam?
Why, every day to-morrow! Come, go in.
I'll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel
Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.
[They walk away.]
She's lim'd, I warrant you! We have caught her, madam.
If it prove so, then loving goes by haps;
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
[Exeunt Hero and Ursula.]
[Beatrice advances from the arbour.]
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.
And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee,
Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand.
If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee
To bind our loves up in a holy band;
For others say thou dost deserve, and I
Believe it better than reportingly. [Exit.]
A room in Leonato's house.
[Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and Leonato.]
I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then go I
I'll bring you thither, my lord, if you'll vouchsafe me.
Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new gloss of your
marriage as to show a child his new coat and forbid him to wear
it. I will only be bold with Benedick for his company; for,
from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all
mirth. He hath twice or thrice cut Cupid's bowstring, 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.
Gallants, I am not as I have been.
So say I. Methinks you are sadder.
I hope he be in love.
Hang him, truant! There's no true drop of blood in him to be
truly touch'd with love. If he be sad, he wants money.
I have the toothache.
You must hang it first and draw it afterwards.
What? sigh for the toothache?
Where is but a humour or a worm.
Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.
Yet say I he is in love.
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
Frenchman 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.
If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old
signs. 'A brushes his hat o' mornings. What should that bode?
Hath any man seen him at the barber's?
No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him, and the old
ornament of his cheek hath already stuff'd tennis balls.
Indeed he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard.
Nay, 'a rubs himself with civet. Can you smell him out by that?
That's as much as to say, the sweet youth's in love.
The greatest note of it is his melancholy.
And when was he wont to wash his face?
Yea, or to paint himself? for the which I hear what they say of
Nay, but his jesting spirit, which is new-crept into a
lutestring, and now govern'd by stops.
Indeed that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude, conclude, he is
Nay, but I know who loves him.
That would I know too. I warrant, one that knows him not.
Yes, and his ill conditions; and in despite of all, dies for him.
She shall be buried with her face upwards.
Yet is this no charm for the toothache. Old signior, walk aside
with me. I have studied eight or nine wise words to speak to you,
which these hobby-horses must not hear.
[Exeunt Benedick and Leonato.]
For my life, to break with him about Beatrice!
'Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this played their parts
with Beatrice, and then the two bears will not bite one another
when they meet.
[Enter John the Bastard.]
My lord and brother, God save you.
Good den, brother.
If your leisure serv'd, I would speak with you.
If it please you. Yet Count Claudio may hear, for what I would
speak of concerns him.
What's the matter?
[to Claudio] Means your lordship to be married tomorrow?
You know he does.
I know not that, when he knows what I know.
If there be any impediment, I pray you discover it.
You may think I love you not. 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 help to effect
your ensuing marriage--surely suit ill spent and labour ill
Why, what's the matter?
I came hither to tell you, and, circumstances short'ned (for she
has been too long a-talking of), the lady is disloyal.
Even she--Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every man's Hero.
The word is too good to paint out her wickedness. I could say she
were worse; think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it.
Wonder not till further warrant. Go but with me to-night, you
shall see her chamber window ent'red, 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.
May this be so?
I will not think it.
If you dare not trust that you see, confess not that you know. If
you will follow me, I will show you enough; and when you have
seen more and heard more, proceed accordingly.
If I see anything to-night why I should not marry her to-morrow,
in the congregation where I should wed, there will I shame her.
And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join with thee to
I will disparage her no farther till you are my witnesses. Bear
it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show itself.
O day untowardly turned!
O mischief strangely thwarting!
O plague right well prevented! So will you say when you have
seen the Sequel.
[Enter Dogberry and his compartner [Verges], with the Watch.]
Are you good men and true?
Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body
Nay, that were a punishment too good for them if they should have
any allegiance in them, being chosen for the Prince's watch.
Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry.
First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable?
Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can write and
Come hither, neighbour Seacoal. God hath bless'd you with a good
name. To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune, but to
write and read comes by nature.
Both which, Master Constable--
You have. I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favour,
sir, why, give God thanks and make no boast of it; and for your
writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of
such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and
fit man for the constable of the watch. Therefore bear you the
lanthorn. This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom
men; you are to bid any man stand, in the Prince's name.
How if 'a will not stand?
Why then, take no note of him, but let him go, and presently call
the rest of the watch together and thank God you are rid of a
If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the
True, and they are to meddle with none but the Prince's subjects.
You shall also make no noise in the streets; for the watch to
babble and to talk is most tolerable, and not to be endured.
We will rather sleep than talk. We know what belongs to a watch.
Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman, for I
cannot see how sleeping should offend. Only have a care that your
bills be not stol'n. Well, you are to call at all the
alehouses and bid those that are drunk get them to bed.
How if they will not?
Why then, let them alone till they are sober. If they make you
not then the better answer, You may say they are not the men you
took them for.
If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your
office, to be no true man; and for such kind of men, the less you
meddle or make with them, why, the more your honesty.
If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him?
Truly, by your office you may; but I think they that touch pitch
will be defil'd. The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a
thief, is to let him show himself what he is, and
steal out of your company.
You have been always called a merciful man, partner.
Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who
hath any honesty in him.
If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse
and bid her still it.
How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us?
Why then, depart in peace and let the child wake her with crying;
for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes will never
answer a calf when he bleats.
'Tis very true.
This is the end of the charge: you, constable, are to present the
Prince's own person. If you meet the Prince in the night, you may
Nay, by'r lady, that I think 'a cannot.
Five shillings to one on't with any man that knows the statutes,
he may stay him! Marry, not without the Prince be willing; for
indeed the watch ought to offend no man, and it is
an offence to stay a man against his will.
By'r lady, I think it be so.
Ha, ah, ha! Well, masters, good night. An there be any matter of
weight chances, call up me. Keep your fellows' counsels and your
own, and good night. Come, neighbour.
Well, masters, we hear our charge. Let us go sit here upon the
church bench till two, and then all to bed.
One word more, honest neighbours. I pray you watch about Signior
Leonato's door; for the wedding being there tomorrow, there is a
great coil to-night. Adieu. Be vigitant, I beseech you.
[Exeunt Dogberry and Verges.]
[Enter Borachio and Conrade.]
[aside] Peace! stir not!
Conrade, I say!
Here, man. I am at thy elbow.
Mass, and my elbow itch'd! I thought there would a scab follow.
I will owe thee an answer for that; and now forward with thy
Stand thee close then under this penthouse, for it drizzles rain,
and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee.
[aside] Some treason, masters. Yet stand close.
Therefore know I have earned of Don John a thousand ducats.
Is it possible that any villany should be so dear?
Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any villany should
be so rich; for when rich villains have need of poor ones, poor
ones may make what price they will.
I wonder at it.
That shows thou art unconfirm'd. Thou knowest that the fashion of
a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is nothing to a man.
Yes, it is apparel.
I mean the fashion.
Yes, the fashion is the fashion.
Tush! I may as well say the fool's the fool. But seest thou not
what a deformed thief this fashion is?
[aside] I know that Deformed. 'A bas been a vile thief this seven
year; 'a goes up and down like a gentleman. I remember his name.
Didst thou not hear somebody?
No; 'twas the vane on the house.
Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is? how
giddily 'a turns about all the hot-bloods between fourteen and
five-and-thirty? sometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh's
soldiers in the reechy painting, sometime like god Bel's priests
in the old church window, sometime like the shaven Hercules in
the smirch'd worm-eaten tapestry, where his codpiece seems as
massy as his club?
All this I see; and I see that the fashion wears out more apparel
than the man. But art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion
too, that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of
Not so neither. But know that I have to-night wooed Margaret, the
Lady Hero's gentlewoman, by the name of Hero. She leans me out at
her mistress' chamber window, bids me a thousand times good
night--I tell this tale vilely; I should first tell thee how the
Prince, Claudio and my master, planted and placed and possessed
by my master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable
And thought they Margaret was Hero?
Two of them did, the Prince and Claudio; but the devil my master
knew she was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, which first
possess'd them, partly by the dark night, which did
deceive them, but chiefly by my villany, which did confirm any
slander that Don John had made, away went Claudio enrag'd; swore
he would meet her, as he was appointed, next morning at the
temple, and there, before the whole congregation, shame her with
saw o'ernight and send her home again without a husband.
We charge you in the Prince's name stand!
Call up the right Master Constable. We have here recover'd the
most dangerous piece of lechery that ever was known in the
And one Deformed is one of them. I know him; 'a wears a lock.
You'll be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you.
Never speak, we charge you. Let us obey you to go with us.
We are like to prove a goodly commodity, being taken up of these
A commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, we'll obey you.
A Room in Leonato's house.
[Enter Hero, and Margaret and Ursula.]
Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice and desire her to rise.
I will, lady.
And bid her come hither.
Troth, I think your other rebato were better.
No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this.
By my troth, 's not so good, and I warrant your cousin will say
My cousin's a fool, and thou art another. I'll wear none but
I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair were a
thought browner; and your gown's a most rare fashion, i' faith.
I saw the Duchess of Milan's gown that they praise so.
O, that exceeds, they say.
By my troth, 's but a nightgown in respect of
yours--cloth-o'-gold and cuts, and lac'd with silver, set with
pearls down sleeves, side-sleeves, and skirts, round underborne
with a blush tinsel. But for a fine, quaint, graceful, and
excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on't.
God give me joy to wear it! for my heart is exceeding heavy.
'Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man.
Fie upon thee! art not ashamed?
Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is not marriage honourable
in a beggar? Is not your lord honourable without marriage? I
think you would have me say, 'saving your
reverence, a husband.' An bad thinking do not wrest true
speaking, I'll offend nobody. Is there any harm in 'the heavier
for a husband'? None, I think, an it be the right husband and
the right wife. Otherwise 'tis light, and not heavy. Ask my Lady
Here she comes.
Good morrow, coz.
Good morrow, sweet Hero.
Why, how now? Do you speak in the sick tune?
I am out of all other tune, methinks.
Clap's into 'Light o' love.' That goes without a burden. Do you
sing it, and I'll dance it.
Yea, 'Light o' love' with your heels! then, if your husband have
stables enough, you'll see he shall lack no barnes.
O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.
'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; 'tis time you were ready.
By my troth, I am exceeding ill. Hey-ho!
For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?
For the letter that begins them all, H.
Well, an you be not turn'd Turk, there's no more sailing by the
What means the fool, trow?
Nothing I; but God send every one their heart's desire!
These gloves the Count sent me, they are an excellent perfume.
I am stuff'd, cousin; I cannot smell.
A maid, and stuff'd! There's goodly catching of cold.
O, God help me! God help me! How long have you profess'd
Ever since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely?
It is not seen enough. You should wear it in your cap. By my
troth, I am sick.
Get you some of this distill'd carduus benedictus and lay it to
your heart. It is the only thing for a qualm.
There thou prick'st her with a thistle.
Benedictus? why benedictus? You have some moral in this
Moral? No, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I meant plain
holy thistle. You may think perchance that I think you are in
love. Nay, by'r lady, I am not such a fool to think what I list;
nor I list not to think what I can; nor indeed I cannot think, if
I would think my heart out of thinking, that you are in love, or
that you will be in love, or that you can be in
love. Yet Benedick was such another, and now is he become a man.
He swore he would never marry; and yet now in despite of his
heart he eats his meat without grudging; and how you may be
converted I know not, but methinks you look with your eyes as
other women do.
What pace is this that thy tongue keeps?
Not a false gallop.
Madam, withdraw. The Prince, the Count, Signior Benedick, Don
John, and all the gallants of the town are come to fetch you to
Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula.
The hall in Leonato's house.
[Enter Leonato and the Constable [Dogberry] and the
What would you with me, honest neighbour?
Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you that decerns
Brief, I pray you; for you see it is a busy time with me.
Marry, this it is, sir.
Yes, in truth it is, sir.
What is it, my good friends?
Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter--an old man,
sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire
they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin between his
Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man living that is an old
man and no honester than I.
Comparisons are odorous. Palabras, neighbour Verges.
Neighbours, you are tedious.
It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor Duke's
officers; but truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a
king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all of your
All thy tediousness on me, ah?
Yea, in 'twere a thousand pound more than 'tis; for I hear as
good exclamation on your worship as of any man in the city; and
though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it.
And so am I.
I would fain know what you have to say.
Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your worship's
presence, ha' ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in
A good old man, sir; he will be talking. As they say, 'When the
age is in, the wit is out.' God help us! it is a world to see!
Well said, i' faith, neighbour Verges. Well, God's a
good man. An two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An
honest soul, i' faith, sir, by my troth he is, as ever broke
bread; but God is to be worshipp'd; all men are not alike, alas,
Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you.
Gifts that God gives.
I must leave you.
One word, sir. Our watch, sir, have indeed comprehended two
aspicious persons, and we would have them this morning examined
before your worship.
Take their examination yourself and bring it me. I am now in
great haste, as it may appear unto you.
It shall be suffigance.
Drink some wine ere you go. Fare you well.
[Enter a Messenger.]
My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to her husband.
I'll wait upon them. I am ready.
[Exeunt Leonato and Messenger.]
Go, good partner, go get you to Francis Seacoal; bid him bring
his pen and inkhorn to the jail. We are now to examination these
And we must do it wisely.
We will spare for no wit, I warrant you. Here's that shall drive
some of them to a non-come. Only get the learned writer to set
down our excommunication, and meet me at the jail.