"Sing no more ditties,"
More!
"Sing no more,
Of dumps so dull and heavy,
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer. . .
first was leafy.
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe. . .
and bonny,
Converting all . . .
your sounds of woe,
Into Hey. . .
nonny, nonny !''
My lord.
I learn in this letter. . .
that Don Pedro of Aragon. . .
comes this night to Messina !
He is very near by this.
He was not three leagues off when l left him.
How many gentlemen have you lost in this action ?
But few of any sort, and none of name.
I find here that Don Pedro hath bestowed much honor. . .
on a young Florentine called Claudio.
He hath borne himself. . .
beyond the promise of his age,
doing in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion !
Is Signior Mountanto returned from the wars or no ?
I know not that name, lady.
My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.
O, he's returned; and as pleasant as ever he was.
I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these wars ?
But how many hath he killed ?
For indeed l promised to eat all of his killing.
He hath done good service. And a good soldier too, lady.
And a good soldier to a lady.
But what is he to a lord ?
A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed with all honorable virtues.
It is so, indeed:
he is no less than a stuffed man.
You must not, sir, mistake my niece.
There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her:
they never meet but there's a skirmish of wit between them.
Who is his companion now ?
He hath every month a new sworn brother.
He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio.
Oh, 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 pounds ere a' be cured.
I will keep friends with you, lady.
Do, good friend.
You will never run mad, niece.
No, not till a hot January.
Don Pedro is approaching !
Good Signior Leonato, are you come to meet your trouble ?
The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.
Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of Your Grace.
My lord.
I think this is your daughter.
Her mother hath many times told me so.
Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her ?
Signior Benedick, no !
If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders. . .
for all Messina, as like him as she is.
I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick. Nobody marks you.
What, my dear Lady Disdain !
Are you yet living ?
Is it possible Disdain should die. . .
while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick ?
Courtesy itself must convert to Disdain if you come in her presence.
Then is Courtesy a turncoat.
But it is certain l am loved of all ladies, only you excepted;
and l would l could find in my heart that l had not a hard heart; for truly, l love none.
A dear happiness to women: they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor.
I thank God and my cold blood, l am of your humour for that.
I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow. . .
than a man swear he loves me.
God keep your ladyship in that mind . . .
so some gentlemen or other shall 'scape a pre-destinate scratched face.
Scratching could not make it worse an 't such a face as yours were.
Well, you are a rare parrot teacher.
A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.
I would my horse had the speed of your tongue ! But. . .
keep you away, i' God 's name. I have done.
You always end with a jade's trick.
I know you of old.
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.
Let me bid you welcome, my lord:
being reconciled to the prince your brother,
I owe you all duty.
I thank you.
I am not of many words, but l thank you.
Please it Your Grace lead on ?
Your hand, Leonato; we will go together.
Benedick,
didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato ?
I noted her not, but l looked on her.
Is she not a modest young lady ?
Do you question me for my simple, true judgment ?
Or would you have me speak after my custom, as a tyrant to their sex ?
No; I pray thee, speak in sober judgment.
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 l can afford her,
That were she other than she is, she were unhandsome;
and being no other than as she is, l do not like her.
Thou thinkest l am in sport. I pray thee tell me truly how thou likest her.
Would you buy her that you inquire after her ?
Can the world buy such a jewel ?
Yea, and a case to put it into.
But speak you this with a sad brow ?
In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever l looked on.
I can see yet without spectacles and l see no such matter.
There's her cousin,
and she were not possessed with a Fury, exceeds her. . .
as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.
But l hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you ?
I would scarce trust myself,
though l had sworn the contrary,
if Hero would be my wife.
Is't come to this ? Shall l never see a bachelor of threescore again ?
Gentlemen,
what secret hath held you here that you followed not to Leonato's ?
He is "in love".
'With who ?' That is Your Grace's part.
With Hero, Leonato's short daughter.
Amen if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy.
You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.
By my troth, l speak my thought.
And in faith, my lord, l spoke mine.
And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord, l spoke mine.
- That l love her, l feel. - That she is worthy, l know.
That l neither feel how she should be loved nor know how she should be worthy,
is the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me.
I will die in it at the stake.
Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty.
That a woman conceived me, l thank her;
that she brought me up, l likewise give her most humble thanks.
But that l will hang my bugle in an invisible baldric,
all women shall pardon me.
I will live a bachelor.
I shall see thee, ere l die, look pale with love.
With anger, with sickness or with hunger, my lord. Not with love.
Well, as time shall try !
"In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke."
The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it,
pluck off the bull's horns and 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.''
Benedick, repair to Leonato's:
tell him l will not fail him at supper; for indeed he hath made great preparation.
Examine your conscience. And so l leave you.
Hath Leonato any son, my lord ?
No child but Hero, she's his only heir.
Dost thou affect her, Claudio ?
O, my lord, when you went onward on this ended action,
I looked upon her with a soldier's eye, that liked,
but had a rougher task in hand than to drive liking to the name of love.
But now. . .
I am returned and that war thoughts have left their places vacant,
in their rooms come thronging soft. . .
and delicate desires,
all prompting me how fair young Hero is.
Saying. . .
I liked her ere l went to wars.
Thou wilt be like a lover presently and tire the hearer with a book of words.
If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it,
and I will break with her and with her father and thou shalt have her.
I know we shall have revelling tonight.
I will assume thy part in some disguise and tell fair Hero l am Claudio,
and in her bosom l 'll unclasp my heart. . .
and take her hearing prisoner with the force and strong encounter of my amorous tale;
then after to her father will l break;
and the conclusion is,
she shall be thine !
In practise let us put it presently.
What the good year, my lord ?
Why are you thus out of measure sad ?
There is no measure in the occasion that breeds;
therefore the sadness is without limit.
You should hear reason.
And when I have heard it,
what blessing brings it ?
I cannot hide what l am.
I must be sad when l have cause and smile at no man's jests;
eat when l have stomach and wait for no man's leisure;
sleep when l am drowsy and tend on no man's business;
Iaugh when l am merry. . .
and claw no man in his humor.
Yea, but you must not make the full show of this. . .
till you may do so without controlment.
You have of late stood out against your brother,
and he hath ta'en you newly into his grace,
where it is impossible you should take true root. . .
but by the fair weather that you make yourself.
I had rather be a canker in a hedge. . .
than a rose in his grace.
In this, though l cannot be said to be a flattering honest man,
it must not be denied but l am a plain-dealing villain !
If l had my mouth,
I would bite;
if l had my liberty, l would do my liking.
In the meantime let me be that l am . . .
and seek not to alter me.
Borachio, what news ?
I can give you intelligence of an intended marriage.
Will it serve for any model to build mischief on ?
Marry, it is your brother's right hand.
The most exquisite Claudio ?
- Even he. - How came you to this ?
I heard it agreed upon. . .
that the prince should woo Hero for himself,
and having obtained her,
give her to Count Claudio.
Come, come, let us thither.
This may prove food to my displeasure.
That young start-up hath all the glory of my overthrow.
If l can cross him any way,
I bless myself every way.
You are both sure, and will assist me ?
To the death, my lord.
Shall we go prove what's to be done ?
We'll wait upon your lordship.
- Was not Count John here at supper ? - I saw him not.
How tartly that gentleman looks ! I never can see him but l am heart-burned an hour after.
He is of a very melancholy disposition.
He were an excellent man. . .
that were made just in the midway between him and Benedick.
The one is too like an image and says nothing,
and the other too like my lady's eldest son, evermore tattling.
Then half Signior Benedick's tongue. . .
in Count John's mouth,
and half Count John's melancholy in Signior Benedick's face.
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 he could get her goodwill.
By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband,
if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.
Lord, l could not endure a husband with a beard on his face. I had rather lie in the woollen.
You may light on a husband that hath no beard.
What should l 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.
In faith, she's too curst.
Well, then, go you into hell ?
No, but to the gate;
and there will the devil meet me like an old cuckold . . .
with horns on his head, and saying. . .
''Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven;
here's no place for you maids.''
So, 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.
Well, niece. l hope you will be ruled by your father.
Yes, faith; it is my cousin's duty to make curtsy and say,
''Father, as it please you,'' but yet for all that, cousin,
Iet him be a handsome fellow.
Or else make another curtsy and say, ''Father, as it please me.''
Daughter, remember what l told you:
if the prince do solicit you in that kind,
you know your answer.
Well, niece. l hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.
Not till God make men. . .
of some other metal than earth.
Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.
I have a good eye, Uncle; I can see a church by daylight.
The revellers are entering !
Lady, will you walk about with your friend ?
I know you well enough; you are Signior Antonio.
At a word, l am not.
I know you by the waggling of your head.
- At a word, l am not ! - Come, come,
do you think l 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.
...Well, l would you did like me.
So would not l, for l have many ill qualities.
- Which is one ? - I say my prayers aloud.
Will you not tell me who told you so ?
No, you shall pardon me.
- Nor will you not tell me who you are ? - Not now.
That l was disdainful,
and that l had my good wit out of the ''Hundred Merry Tales''
well, this was Signior Benedick that said so.
What's he ?
I 'm sure you know him well enough.
Not l, believe me.
- Did he never make you laugh ? - I pray you. . .
what is he ?
Why, he is the prince's jester.
A very dull fool.
His only gift is in devising impossible slanders.
None but libertines delight in him; 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.
When l know the gentleman, l 'll tell him what you say.
Do,
Do.
- We must follow the leaders. - In every good thing.
Are not you Signior Benedick ?
You know me well, I am he.
Signior, you are very near my brother in his love:
he is enamored on Hero.
I pray you dissuade him from her: she is no equal for his birth.
How know you he loves her ?
I heard him swear his affection.
So did l too; and he swore he would marry her tonight.
Come, let us to the banquet.
Thus answer l in the name of Benedick,
but hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.
'Tis certain so:
the prince woos for himself !
Friendship is constant in all other things. . .
save in the office and affairs of love.
This is an accident of hourly proof,
which l mistrusted not.
Farewell, therefore, Hero !
Count Claudio ?
- Yea, the same. - Come, will you go with me ?
- Whither ? - About your own business.
The prince hath got your Hero !
I wish him joy of her !
Did you think that the prince would have served you thus ?
I pray you, leave me !
Alas, poor hurt fowl.
But that my Lady Beatrice should know me, and not know me !
The prince's fool ! Ha ?
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, l 'll be revenged as l may.
- Now, signior, where's the count ? - Troth, my lord, l found him here. . .
as melancholy as a lodge in a warren.
I told him, and l think l told him true,
that Your Grace had got the good will of this young lady.
The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you.
The gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you.
O, she misused me past the endurance of a block !
She told me, not thinking l had been myself,
that l was the prince's jester,
that l was duller than a great thaw,
huddling jest upon jest with such impossible conveyance upon me. . .
that l 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 !
So, indeed, all disquiet,
horror, and perturbation follows her.
Look, here she comes.
Will Your Grace command me any service to the world 's end ?
I will go on the slightest errand . . .
now to the Antipodes. . .
that you can devise to send me on.
I will fetch you a hair off the Great Cham's beard,
do you any embassage to the Pigmies,
rather than hold three words' conference with this harpy.
You have no employment for me ?
None, but to desire your good company !
O, God, sir, here's a dish l love not.
I cannot endure my Lady Tongue !
Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick.
Indeed, my lord,
he lent it me a while,
and l gave him use for it,
a double heart for his single one.
Marry, once before he won it of me, with false dice,
therefore Your Grace may well say l have lost it.
You have put him down, lady, you have put him down.
So l would not he should do me, my lord,
Iest l should prove the mother of fools.
I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.
Why, how now, Count, wherefore are you sad ?
- Not sad, my lord. - How then ? Sick ?
- Neither, my lord. - The count is neither sad, nor sick,
nor merry, nor well,
but civil count,
civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion.
In faith, lady, l think your blazon to be true,
though l '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 goodwill obtained.
Name the day of marriage, and God give thee joy.
Count, take of me my daughter,
and with her my fortunes.
His Grace hath made the match,
and all grace say Amen to it.
Speak, Count, 'tis your cue.
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy.
I were but little happy if l could say how much.
Lady,
as you are mine,
I am yours.
Speak, cousin !
Or, if you cannot,
stop his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak, neither.
In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.
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.
And so she doth, cousin.
Good lord, for alliance !
Thus goes everyone to the world but l,
and l am sunburnt.
I may sit in a corner and cry "Heigh-ho for a husband."
Lady Beatrice, l will get you one.
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.
Will you have me, lady ?
No, my lord,
unless l might have another for working days.
Your Grace is too costly to wear every day.
But I beseech Your Grace, pardon me. I was born to speak all mirth and no matter.
Your silence most offends me,
and to be merry best becomes you;
for out o' question, you were born in a merry hour.
No, sure, my lord,
my mother cried.
But then there was a star danced,
and under that was l born.
Cousins,
God give you joy !
By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.
There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord.
She is never sad but when she sleeps, and not ever then;
for l have heard my daughter say she hath often dreamt of unhappiness. . .
and waked herself with laughing.
She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.
Oh, by no means.
She were an excellent wife for Benedick.
If they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad.
County Claudio, when mean you to go to church ?
- Tomorrow, my lord. - 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.
I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go dully by us.
I will in the interim undertake one of Hercules' labors,
which is to bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice. . .
into a mountain of affection the one with the other.
I would fain have it a match, and l doubt not but to fashion it,
if you will but minister such assistance as l shall give you direction.
My lord, l am for you, though it cost me ten nights' watchings.
- And l, my lord. - And you too, gentle Hero ?
I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband.
If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer;
his glory shall be ours,
for we are the only love-gods.
Go with me, and I will tell you my drift.
I do much wonder that one man,
seeing how much another man is a fool . . .
when he dedicates his behaviors to love,
will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others,
become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love.
And such a man is Claudio.
I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife,
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 armor,
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 orthography.
His words are a very fantastical banquet,
just so many strange dishes.
Well, may l 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 l '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 l am well. Another is wise, yet l am well.
Another virtuous, yet l 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. Hmm.
Wise, or l 'll none.
Virtuous, or l 'll never cheapen her.
Fair, or l 'll never look on her.
Mild, or come not near me.
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.
See you where Benedick hath hid himself ?
Very well, my lord.
Come, Balthasar, we will hear that song again.
Hmm, now divine air !
Now is his soul ravished !
Is it not strange that sheep's guts. . .
should hail souls out of men's bodies ?
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 more,
Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men
Was ever so,
Since summer
First was leafy,
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe
And bonny,
Converting all
Your sounds of woe
Into Hey
Nonny, nonny.
By my troth, a good song.
And an ill singer, my lord.
No, no, faith; thou singest well enough.
And he had been a dog that should have howled thus, they would have hanged him !
Come hither, Leonato.
What was it you told me of today,
that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick ?
I did never think that lady would have loved any man.
No, nor l neither.
But most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick,
whom she hath in all outward behaviors seemed ever to abhor.
Is it possible ?
Maybe she doth but counterfeit ?
Faith, like enough.
O God ! Counterfeit ?
There was never counterfeit of passion. . .
came so near the life of passion. . .
as she discovers it.
Why,
what effects of passion shows she ?
Bait the hook well. This fish will bite.
What effects, my lord ?
- You heard my daughter tell you how. - She did, indeed.
How, l pray you ?
You amaze me.
I should think this a trick,
but that the gray-bearded fellow speaks it.
Hath she made her affection known to Benedick ?
No, and swears she never will.
That's her torment.
She'll be up twenty times a night,
and there will she sit in her smock till she have writ a sheet of paper.
Then down upon her knees she falls,
weeps, sobs, beats her heart,
tears her hair, curses,
''Oh, sweet Benedick,
God give me patience.''
She doth indeed, my daughter says so.
My daughter is sometime afeared . . .
she will do a desperate outrage to herself.
It is very true.
It were good that Benedick knew of it.
To what end ? He would make but a sport of it and torment the poor lady worse.
I am sorry for her.
I pray you tell Benedick of it, and hear what he will say.
- Were it good, think you ? - Hero thinks surely she will die,
for she says she will die if he love her not,
and she will die ere she make her love known,
and she will die if he woo her.
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.
I love Benedick well, and l could wish he would . . .
modestly examine himself, to see how much he is unworthy. . .
so good a lady.
My lord, will you walk ? Dinner is ready.
If he do not dote on her upon this, l will never trust my expectation.
Let there be the same net spread for her, and that must your daughter and her gentlewoman carry.
Let us send Beatrice to call him in to dinner.
This can be no trick.
The conference was sadly borne.
They have the truth of this from Hero.
Love me ?
Why ? It must be requited.
I hear how l am censured.
They say l will bear myself proudly if l 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 l will be. . .
horribly in love with her.
I may chance have some odd quirks. . .
and remnants of wit broken on me. . .
because l 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 these quips and sentences and paper bullets of the brain. . .
awe a man from the career of his humor ?
No.
The world must be peopled.
When l said l would die a bachelor,
I did not think l should live. . .
till l were married.
Here comes Beatrice !
By this day, she's a fair lady !
I do spy some. . .
marks of love in her.
Against my will l am sent to bid you come in to dinner.
Fair Beatrice,
I thank you for your pains.
I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me.
If it had been painful l would not have come.
You take pleasure, then, in the message ?
Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's point.
You have no stomach, signior ? Fare you well.
''Against my will l am sent. . .
to bid you come in to dinner.''
There's a double meaning in that.
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 l persuaded them, if they loved 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 framed a woman's heart of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice.
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, misprising what they look on,
and her wit values itself so highly. . .
that to her all matter else seems weak.
- She cannot love. - Sure, l think so.
Yet tell her of it, hear what she will say.
No.
Rather l will go to Benedick and counsel him to fight against his passion.
Do not do your cousin such a wrong.
She cannot be so much without true judgement,
having so swift and excellent a wit as she is prized to have,
as to refuse so rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.
He is the only man of ltaly, always excepted my dear Claudio.
When are you married, madam ?
Why, every day. . .
tomorrow !
She's limed, l warrant you.
We have caught her, madam.
If it prove so, then loving goes by haps.
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
What fire is in mine ears ?
Can this be true ?
Stand l condemned for pride and scorn so much ?
Contempt, farewell;
and maiden pride, adieu.
No glory lives behind the back of such.
And, Benedick,
Iove 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 l believe it. . .
better than reportingly.
Are you good men and true ?
Fight, fight, yea !
Being chosen for the prince's Watch.
This is your charge:
You are to bid any man stand, in the prince's name.
How if he will not stand ?
Then, take no note of him but let him go.
If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the prince's subjects.
True ! And they are to meddle with none but the prince's subjects.
You shall also make no noise in the streets.
We will rather sleep than talk.
You speak like an ancient. . .
and a most quiet watchman,
for l cannot see how sleeping should offend.
If you meet a thief. . .
you may suspect him, by virtue of your office,
to be no true man;
and for such kind of men,
the less you meddle or make with them, why the more is. . .
for your honesty.
You have been always called a merciful man, partner.
Truly, l would not hang a dog by my will,
much more a man who hath any honesty in him.
'Tis very true.
Well, masters,
good night.
And if there be any matter of weight chances,
call up me.
Come, neighbour.
We hear our charge. Let us go sit here upon the 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 tonight.
Adieu.
Be vigitant, l beseech you.
It is so:
the Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of Leonato.
Yea, my lord, but l can cross it.
Any bar, any cross, any impediment. . .
will be medicinable to me.
I am sick in displeasure to him,
and whatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges evenly with mine.
How canst thou cross this marriage ?
Not honestly, my lord,
but so covertly that no dishonesty shall appear in me.
- Show me briefly how ! - I think l told your lordship a year since. . .
how much l am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting gentlewoman to Hero.
- I remember. - I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night. . .
appoint her to look out at her lady's chamber window.
What life is in that to be the death of this marriage ?
The poison of that lies in you to temper.
Gallants. . .
I am not as l have been.