Much ado about nothing Subtitles by wizyw (wizyw422@gmail.com)
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 I left him.
- How many gentlemen have you lost in this action? - But few of any sort and none of name.
A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers.
I find here that Don Pedro hath bestowed much honor
on a young Florentine called Claudio!
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.
I pray you, is Signior Mountanto returned from the war or no?
I know none of that name, lady. There was none such in the army of any sort.
What is he that you ask for, niece?
My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.
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 I promised to eat all of his killing.
Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much;
but he'll be meet with you, I doubt it not.
He hath done good service, lady, in these wars.
You had musty victual, and he hath help to eat them:
he is a very valiant trencherman; he hath an excellent stomach.
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 honourable virtues. - It is so indeed.
He is no less than a stuffed man.
But for the stuffing, well...
We are all mortal.
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.
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:
Who is his companion now?
He hath every month a new sworn brother.
- Is't possible? - Very easily possible:
he wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat;
it ever changes with the next block.
I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.
No; an he were, I would burn my study.
But, I pray you, who is his companion?
Is there no young squarer now will make a voyage with him to the devil?
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 1,000 pounds ere he be cured.
I will hold 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.
You embrace your charge too willingly.
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; for then were you a child.
You have it full, Benedick! Truly, the lady fathers herself.
Be happy, lady; for you are like an honourable father.
If Signior Leonato be her father,
She would not have her father's 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,
when 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 I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted.
I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none.
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.
God keep your ladyship still in that mind,
so some gentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate scratched face.
Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere such a face as yours were.
You are a rare parrot.
A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.
I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer.
But keep your way, in God's name. I have done.
You always end with a jade's trick.
I know you of old.
This is the sum of all, Signior Claudio, 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.
Don John, 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 I...
Thank you.
- Please it your grace lead on? - We will go together.
Benedick...
Didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato?
- I noted her not, but I looked on her. - Is she not a modest young lady?
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 a professed tyrant to their sex?
No. I pray thee speak in sober judgment.
Why?
I' faith, methinks she's too tall for a great praise,
too brown for a fair praise, and too lean for a large praise.
Only this commendation I can afford her,
Were she other than she is, she were unhandsome,
being no other but as she is, I do not like her.
Thou thinkest I 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?
Come, in what key shall a man take you, to go in the song?
In mine eyes she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on.
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.
I hope you have no intent to turn husband. Have you?
I would scarce trust myself,
though I had sworn the contrary,
if Hero would be my wife.
Is't come to this?
Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again?
I' faith; if thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke,
wear the print of it and sigh away Sundays, go to.
What secret hath held you here that you followed not?
I would your grace would constrain me to tell.
I charge thee on thy allegiance.
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? That is your grace's part.
Mark how short his answer is:
- With Hero, Leonato's long daughter! - If this were so, so were it uttered.
Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy.
You speak this to fetch me in.
- By my troth, I speak my thought. - And in faith, my lord, I speak mine.
By my two faiths and troths, my lord, I speak mine.
- That I love her, I feel. - That she is worthy, I know.
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 at the stake.
Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty.
And never could maintain his part but in the force of his will.
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.
I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love.
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 ballad-maker's pen
and hang me up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of blind Cupid.
Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument.
If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me;
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 a good horse to hire."
Let them signify under my sign, "Here you may see Benedick the married man."
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.
I have almost matter enough in me for such an embassage;
- and so I commit you... - "To the tuition of God: From my house, if I had it..."
"The sixth of July: Your loving friend, Benedick."
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.
My liege, your highness now may do me good.
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.
Hath Leonato any son, my lord?
No child but Hero. She's his only heir.
Dost thou affect her, Claudio?
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 I 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.
I will break with her and her father, and thou shalt have her.
Was't not to this end that thou began'st to twist so fine a story?
How sweetly you do minister to love, that know love's grief by his complexion!
But lest my liking might too sudden seem, I would have salved it with a longer treatise.
What need the bridge much broader than the flood?
The fairest grant is the necessity.
Look, what will serve is fit: 'tis once, thou lovest, and I will fit thee with the remedy.
I know we shall have reveling tonight.
I will assume thy part in some disguise,
and tell fair Hero that I am Claudio.
And in her bosom I'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 I break, and the conclusion is
she shall be thine.
In practice let us put it presently.
How now, wife! Where is Balthasar? Hath he provided the music?
He is very busy about it.
But, husband, I can tell you news that you yet dreamt not of.
- Are they good? - They show well outward.
I overheard the prince discover to Claudio that he loved our daughter,
and meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance:
The prince!
If he founds her accordant, he means to take the present time by the top
and instantly break with you of it.
We will hold it as a dream till it appear itself:
but I will acquaint our daughter withal,
that she may be the better prepared for an answer, if peradventure this be true.
Go you and tell her of it.
Balthasar, you know what you have to do.
I cry you mercy; go you with me, and I will use your skill.
Have a care this busy time.
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.
If when I have heard it, what blessing brings it?
If not a present remedy, at least a patient sufferance.
I wonder that thou 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 humor.
Yea... but you must not make 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 root by the fair weather that you make yourself.
It is needful that you frame the season for your own harvest.
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.
Can you make no use of your discontent?
I make all use of it, for I use it only. Who comes here?
What news, Borachio?
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.
Will it serve for any model to build mischief on?
What is he for a fool that betroths himself to unquietness?
Marry, it is your brother's right hand.
- Who? The most exquisite Claudio? - Even he.
A proper squire! And who, and who? which way looks he?
Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of Leonato.
- A very forward March-chick! 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 I can cross him any way,
I bless myself every way.
You are both sure, and will assist me?
To the death, my lord.
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? - 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 I am heart-burned an hour after.
He's 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 good will.
By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.
In faith, she's too curst.
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.
So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns.
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 woolen.
You may light on a husband that hath no beard.
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.
He that is more than a youth is not for me.
He that is less than a man, I am not for him.
therefore, I shall even take sixpence in earnest of the bear-keeper,
and lead his apes into hell.
- Well, then, go you into hell? - No, but to the gate.
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.
Daughter, I trust 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, let him be a handsome fellow,
else make another curtsy and say, "Father, as it please me."
Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.
Not till God make men of some other metal than earth.
Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered by a pierce 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 do hold it a sin to match in my kindred.
Daughter, remember what I told you:
if the prince do solicit in that kind, you know your answer.
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 every thing
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 all 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.
Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.
I have a good eye, Uncle. I can see a church by daylight.
The revelers are entering! Make good room.
Lady, will you walk about with your friend?
So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing,
I am yours for the walk; and especially when I walk away.
- With me in your company? - I may say so, when I please.
- And when please you to say so? - When I like your favour.
Speak low, if you speak love.
- Well, I would you did like me. - So would not I, for your own sake;
- for I have many ill-qualities. - Which is one?
I say my prayers aloud.
I love you the better: the hearers may cry, Amen.
- God match me with a good dancer! - Amen!
And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is done!
No more words: the clerk is answered.
I know you well enough. You are my husband.
At a word, I am not.
I know you by the waggling of your head.
To tell you true, I counterfeit him.
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.
- 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 I was disdainful,
and that I had my good wit out of the Hundred Merry Tales.
This was Signior Benedick that said so.
What's he?
- I am sure you know him well enough. - Not I, 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, 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.
When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him what you say.
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.
We must follow the leaders.
Sure my brother is amorous on Hero
and hath withdrawn her father to break with him about it.
- 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. You may do the part of an honest man in it.
- How know you he loves her? - I heard him swear his affection.
So did I, too. He swore he would marry her tonight.
Come, let us to the banquet.
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!
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 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!
- Count Claudio. - Yea, the same.
- Come, will you go with me? - Whither?
Even to the next willow, about your own business.
What fashion will you wear the garland of?
About your neck, like an 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.
- I wish him joy of her. - Why, that's spoken like an honest drovier:
so they sell bullocks.
Did you think the prince would have served you thus?
- I pray you, leave me. - Hey! now you strike like the blind man:
'twas the boy that stole your meat, and you'll beat the post.
If it will not be, I'll leave you.
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.
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.
Now, signior, where's the count? Did you see him?
My lord, I told him, and I think I told him true,
that your grace had got the will of his Hero.
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.
To be whipped! What's his fault?
The flat transgression of a schoolboy,
who, being overjoyed with finding a birds' nest, shows it his companion, and he steals it.
Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The transgression is in the stealer.
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 birds' nest.
I will but teach them to sing, and restore them to the owner.
If their singing answer your saying, by my faith, you say honestly.
The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you.
The gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you.
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 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 the spit,
yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too.
Come, talk not of her.
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.
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 tooth-picker now from the furthest inch of Asia,
bring you the length of Prester John's foot,
I will fetch you a hair off the great Cham's beard,
do you any embassage to the pygmies,
rather than endure three words' conference with this harpy!
You have no employment for me?
None, but to desire your good company.
Oh, God.
Sir, here's a dish I 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 awhile,
and I 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 I have lost it.
You have put him down, lady, you have put him down.
So I would not he should do me, my lord,
lest I should prove the mother of fools.
I have brought you Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.
- 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.
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!
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 I could say how much.
Lady, as you are mine, I am yours.
I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange.
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 I, and I am sunburnt.
I may sit in a corner and cry, "Heigh-ho for a husband!"
Lady Beatrice, I 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 only a maid could come by them.
Will you have me, lady?
No.
My lord...
Unless I might have another one 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 of 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 I born.
Cousins, God give you joy.
Niece, will you look to those things I told you of?
I cry you mercy, uncle.
By your grace's pardon.
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 sad then,
for I 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 mocks all her wooers out of suit.
She were an excellent wife for Benedick.
My lord, if they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad.
How now, Claudio!
- When mean you to go to church? - Tomorrow, my lord.
Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.
Not till Monday, my dear son,
and a time too brief, too, to have all things answer my mind.
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' 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 I doubt not but to fashion it, if you will but minister assistance
as I shall give you direction.
My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten nights' watchings.
- And I, my lord. - And you too, gentle Hero?
I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband.
And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband 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 him;
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, I will tell you my drift.
It is so; the Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of Leonato.
Yea, my lord; but I 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 I told your lordship a year since,
how much I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting gentlewoman to Hero.
I remember. What life is in that, to be the death of this marriage?
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.
What proof shall I make of that?
Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex Claudio, to undo Hero and kill Leonato.
Look you for any other issue?
Only to despite them, I will endeavour any thing.
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;
They will scarcely believe this without trial:
offer them instances; which shall bear no less likelihood than to see me court her privately,
hear me call Margaret Hero,
and bring them to see this the very night before the intended wedding,
and there shall appear such seeming truth of Hero's disloyalty
that jealousy shall be called assurance and all the preparation overthrown.
Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put it in practise.
Be cunning in the working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats.
Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning shall not shame me.
I will presently go learn their day of marriage.
Boy!
Signior?
In my chamber-window lies a book.
Bring it hither to me.
I am here already, sir.
I know that.
I would have thee hence, and here again.
A book?
A book.
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 would he rather hear the tabor and the pipe.
I have known when he would have walked ten mile afoot to see a good armor,
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 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 hath 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 re...
...of what colour it please God.
The prince and Monsieur Love.
I will hide me.
Come, shall we hear this music?
Yea, my good lord. How still the morning is, as hush'd on purpose to grace harmony!
- See you where Benedick hath hid himself? - Very well, my lord.
Come, Balthasar. We'll hear that song again.
O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.
I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.
Because you talk of wooing, I will sing.
Now is his soul ravished.
Is it not strange that sheeps' guts should hale souls out of men's bodies?
By my troth, a good song.
And an ill singer, my lord.
No, no; thou singest well enough for a shift.
An' he had been a dog that should have howled thus, they'd have hanged him.
Yea, marry, Balthasar, dost thou hear?
I pray thee, get us some excellent music for tomorrow night.
- The best I can, my lord. - Do so: farewell.
Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of today?
That your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?
O, ay: stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits.
I did never think that lady would have loved any man.
Nor I neither,
but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick
whom she hath in all outward behaviors seemed ever to abhor.
Is't possible?
- Sits the wind in that corner? - 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.
Maybe she doth but counterfeit?
- Faith, like enough. - Oh, 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? She will sit you...
- You heard my daughter tell you how. - How?
How, I pray you? You amaze me!
I should have thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection.
I should think this a gull, but that Leonato speaks it.
Knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.
- He hath taken the infection: hold it up. - Has she made her affection known to Benedick?
No, and swears she never will. That's her torment.
'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?"
Then she tears the letter into a thousand pieces...
Then down upon her knees she falls.
Weeps, sobs, beats her heart,
tears her hair, prays, curses, "Oh, sweet Benedick!"
"God give me patience!"
She does indeed. My daughter says so.
She rails at herself, that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knows would flout her;
and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her that my daughter is sometime afeared
she will do a desperate outrage to herself!
It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other,
if she will not discover it.
To what end? He would make but a sport of it and torment the poor lady worse.
An he should, it were an alms to hang him.
She's an excellent sweet lady;
and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous.
- And she is exceeding wise. - In every thing but in loving Benedick.
I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian.
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 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,
rather than she will bate one breath of her accustomed... crossness.
If she should make tender of her affection, 'tis very possible he'll scorn it,
for the man, as you know all, hath a contemptible spirit.
- He is a very proper man. - He hath indeed a good outward happiness.
Before God! and, in my mind, very wise.
- He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit. - And I take him to be valiant.
Well I am sorry for your niece.
Shall we go seek Benedick, and tell him of her love?
Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it out with good counsel.
Nay, that's impossible: she may wear her heart out first.
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.
My lord, will you walk? Dinner is ready.
If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation.
Let the same net be spread for Beatrice.
That must your daughter and her gentlewoman carry.
Let us send her to call him in to dinner.
This can be no trick.
The conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Hero.
They seemed to pity the lady.
It seems her affections have the 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 show any sign of affection.
I did never think to marry. I must not seem proud.
Happy are those 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, that 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 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 I said I would die a bachelor,
I did not think I would 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.
Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.
Fair Beatrice! I thank you for your pain.
I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me.
If it had been painful, I would not have come.
You take pleasure, then, in the message?
Yea! Just so much as you may take upon a knife's point,
and choke a sparrow withal.
You have no stomach, Signior: fare you well.
"Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner. "
Double meaning in that!
"I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me", well...
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 on her, I am a villain...
If I do not love her...
I am a fool.
I will go...
...get her picture.
Good Margaret, run thee to the parlor.
There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice Proposing with the prince and Claudio:
Whisper her ear and tell her, I and your mother walk hereabout,
and our whole discourse is all of her;
say that thou overheard'st us;
and bid her steal where she can hide her to listen to our purpose.
This is thy office; bear thee well in it and leave us alone.
I'll make her come, I warrant you, presently.
Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come, 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.
Now begin; for look where Beatrice, like a lapwing,
runs close by the ground, to hear our conference.
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 you and I for Beatrice.
Fear you not my part of the dialogue.
No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful;
I know her spirits are as coy and wild as haggerds 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 loved Benedick,
to wish him wrestle with affection,
and never to let Beatrice know of it.
Why did you so? Doth not he deserve as full as fortunate
a bed as ever Beatrice shall couch upon?
Oh, 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.
Nor take no shape nor project of affection, she is so self-endeared.
Sure, I think so; and therefore certainly it were not wise.
she knew his love, lest she make sport at it.
Why, you speak truth.
I never yet saw man, how wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured,
but she would spell him backward:
if fair-faced, she would swear the gentleman should be her sister;
if black, why, Nature, drawing of an antique, 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.
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.
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.
Do not do your cousin such a wrong.
She cannot be so much without true judgment, having so swift and excellent wit,
as she is prized to have, as to refuse so rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.
- Indeed, he hath an excellent good name. - His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.
- When are you married, madam? - Why, every day. Tomorrow!
Come, go in: I'll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel
which is the best to furnish me tomorrow.
She's limed, I warrant you. We've caught her, madam.
If it proves 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 I condemned 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!
97, 98, 99, 99 and a half, 100!
Are you good men and true?
Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul.
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 desertless man to be constable?
George Seacole; for they can write and read.
Come hither, neighbour Seacole.
Seacole. God hath blessed you with a good name.
to be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune,
but to write and read the language comes by nature.
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 for such vanity.
You are thought here to be the most fit and...
...senseless man for the constable of the watch,
therefore bear you the lantern.
There you go, congratulations, welcome aboard.
This is your charge: you are to comprehend all vagrom men,
you are to bid any man stand, in the prince's name.
How if he 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 knave.
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.
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.
You speak like an ancient and a most quiet watchman,
for I cannot see how sleeping should offend.
Only, have a care that your bills be not stolen.
Well, you are to call at all the ale-houses,
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.
Well, sir.
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.
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 defiled:
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.
'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 stay him.
Nay, by'r our 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.
Well, masters, good night.
And, there be any matter of weight chances, call up me.
Keep your fellows' counsels and your own; and good night.
- Good night! - Good night. Over.
Come, neighbor!
Well, constable, we hear our charge.
Let us sit here till two, and then to bed.
One word more, honest neighbors. Over.
Over!
I pray you, keep a watch about town,
for the wedding being tomorrow, there is a great coil tonight.
Adieu.
Be vigitant, I beseech you.
I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon.
I'll bring you thither, my lord, if you'll vouchsafe me.
Nay, that would be as great a soil in the gloss of your new marriage
as to show a child his new coat and forbid him to wear it.
No, 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 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!
There's no true drop of blood in him, to be truly touched with love:
if he be sad, he wants money.
I...
...have the toothache.
- Draw it! - Hang it! - You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards.
What! sigh for the toothache?
Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.
Yet say I, he is in love.
- Hath any man seen him at the barber's? - No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him.
Indeed, he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard.
And when was he wont to wash his face?
Yea, or to paint himself? for the which, I hear what they say of him.
Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him: conclude he is in love.
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.
For my life, to break with him about Beatrice!
'Tis even so. Hero and Ursula have by this played their parts with Beatrice;
and then the two bears will not bite one another when they meet.
Oh, no.
- My lord and brother, God save you. - Good evening, brother.
If your leisure served, I would speak with you.
- In private? - If it please you.
Yet Count Claudio may hear, for what I would speak of concerns him.
What's the matter?
- 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, but let that appear here after
and e'en better than 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 bestowed.
- Why, what's the matter? - I came hither to tell you,
and, circumstances shortened, for she has been too long a talking of,
the lady is disloyal.
Who, Hero?
Even she; Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every man's Hero.
Disloyal?
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 tonight, you shall see the proof
even the night before her wedding-day.
If you love her then, tomorrow 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 any thing tonight why I should not marry her
in the congregation tomorrow, where I should wed,
there will I shame her.
And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join with thee to disgrace her.
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.
- What, Conrade! - Peace! Stir not.
- Comrade, I say! - Here, man.
I am at thy elbow.
Mass, and my elbow itched. I thought there would a scab follow.
I will owe thee an answer for that.
- Now, forward with thy tale. - Stand thee close, then.
Under this pent-house, for it drizzles rain.
And I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee.
Some treason! Stand close!
Didst thou not hear somebody?
No, he marks us not.
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 unconfirmed.
Know that I have tonight wooed Margaret,
the lady Hero's gentlewoman,
by the name of Hero!
I tell this tale vilely.
I should first tell thee how the prince and Claudio,
planted and placed and possessed by my master Don John,
saw afar off this amiable encounter.
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 possessed 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 enraged.
Swore he would meet with her, as appointed, next morning,
and there, before the whole congregation,
shame her with what he saw o'er night
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 the most dangerous piece of lechery
ever known in the commonwealth.
Masters, masters!