Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice and desire her to rise.
- I will, lady. - And bit her come hither.
- Troth, I think your other rabato 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 so.
My cousin's a fool, and thou art another: I'll wear none but this.
I like the new tire 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 night-gown in respect of yours:
Cloth o' gold, and set with pearls, down sleeves, side sleeves,
and skirts with a bluish 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?
If bad thinking do not twist true speaking, I'll offend nobody:
is there any harm in 'the heavier for a husband'?
None, I think, and it be the right husband and the right wife;
otherwise 'tis light, and not heavy:
ask my Lady Beatrice else; 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.
'Tis almost twelve o'clock, cousin; tis time you were ready.
By my troth, I am exceeding ill: heigh-ho!
- For a hawk, a horse, or a husband? - What means the fool?
Nothing I; but God send every one their heart's desire!
These gloves the count sent me; they are an excellent perfume.
- I am stuffed, cousin; I cannot smell. - A maid, and stuffed! there's goodly catching of cold.
O, God help me!
God help me! how long have you professed apprehension?
Even 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.
Why, then get you some of this new medicine: Carduus Benedictus.
- It is the only thing for a qualm. - There thou prickest her with a thistle.
Benedictus?
Why Benedictus?
You have some moral in this Benedictus.
Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning with this Carduus Benedictus.
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, I am to fetch you the prince, the count, Don John, Signior Benedick...
and all the gallants of the town to come!
Help to dress me, good Meg.
Friar Francis, be brief; only to the plain form of marriage,
and you shall recount their particular duties afterwards.
- What would you with me, honest neighbor? - Marry, sir!
I would have some confidence with your worship that decerns you nearly.
With some haste, 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 brows.
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.
Neighbors, you are tedious.
Well, if it pleases your worship to say so,
but truly for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king,
I could find it in my heart to bestow it all on your worship.
All thy tediousness on me? I would fain know what you have to say.
Merry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your worship's presence,
ha' ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina.
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, sir;
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 worshipped; all men are not alike; alas, good neighbour!
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.
- My Lord. - Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well.
They stay for you to give your daughter to her husband.
I'll wait upon them: I am ready.
Go, good neighbour, go, get you to the jail; we are now to examination those men.
And we must do it wisely.
We will spare for no wit, I warrant you.
You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady.
No.
To be married to her, Friar. You come to marry her.
Lady, you come hither to be married to this count.
I do.
If either of you know any inward impediment why you should not be conjoined,
I charge you, on your souls, to utter it.
- Know you any, Hero? - None, my lord.
- Know you any, Count? - I dare make his answer. None.
O, what men dare do!
What men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do!
- How now! interjections? - Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your leave:
Will you with free and unconstrained soul
- give me this maid, your daughter? - As freely, son,
- as God did give her me. - And what have I to give you back
whose worth may counterpoise this rich and precious gift?
Nothing, unless you render her again.
Sweet Prince, you learn me noble thankfulness.
There, Leonato. Take her back again!
Give not this rotten orange to your friend.
She's but the sign and semblance of her honor.
Behold how like a maid she blushes here!
O, what authority and show of truth can cunning sin cover itself withal!
Comes not that blood as modest evidence to witness simple virtue?
Would you not swear, all you that see her,
that she were a maid by these exterior shows? But she is none!
She knows the heat of a luxurious bed!
Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.
- What do you mean, my lord? - Not to be married!
Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton.
Dear my lord, if you in your own proof
have vanquished the resistance of her youth,
- and made defeat of her virginity... - I know what you would say.
If I have known her, you will say she did embrace me as a husband,
and so extenuate the 'forehand sin: no, Leonato.
I never tempted her with word too large...
...but as a brother to his sister,
showed bashful sincerity and comely love.
And seemed I ever otherwise to you?
Out on thee! Seeming! I will write against it:
You seem to me as Dian in her orb,
as chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;
but you are more intemperate in your blood than Venus...
...or those pampered animals that rage in savage sensuality.
Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?
- Why speak not you? - What should I speak?
I stand dishonored that I have gone about to link my dear friend
to a common stale.
- Are these things spoken, or do I but dream? - Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.
- This looks not like a nuptial. - True! O God!
Leonato, stand I here?
Is this the prince? Is this the prince's brother?
Is this face Hero's? Are our eyes our own?
- All this is so: but what of this, my lord? - Let me but move one question to your daughter;
and, by that fatherly and kindly power that you have in her, bid her answer truly.
I charge thee do so, as thou art my child.
O, God defend me! how am I beset!
- What kind of catechising call you this? - To make you answer truly to your name.
Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name with any just reproach?
Marry, that can Hero; Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue.
What man was he talked with you yesternight
in private betwixt twelve and one? Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.
I talked with no man at that hour, my lord.
Why, then you are no maiden. Leonato, I am sorry you must hear.
Upon mine honor, myself, my brother and this grieved count did see her,
hear her at that hour last night,
talk with a ruffian in the open air, who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain,
confessed the vile encounters they have had a thousand times in secret.
Fie, fie! they are not to be named, my lord, not to be spoke of;
There is not chastity enough in language without offence to utter them.
Thus, pretty lady, I am sorry for thy much misgovernment.
O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been, if half thy outward graces
had been placed about thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart!
But fare thee well, most foul, most fair!
Farewell, thou pure impiety and impious purity!
For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love,
and on my eyelids shall conjecture hang, to turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,
and never shall it more be gracious.
Hath no man's dagger here a point for me?
Why, how now, Hero! wherefore sink you down?
Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light, smother her spirits up.
- How doth the lady? - Dead, I think. Uncle, help!
Hero! Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick!
Friar!
O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand.
Death is the fairest cover for her shame that may be wish'd for.
- Have comfort, lady. - Dost thou look up?
Yea, wherefore should she not?
Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly thing cry shame upon her?
Could she here deny the story that is printed in her blood?
Do not live, Hero! Do not open thine eyes!
For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,
thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames, myself would,
on the rearward of reproaches, strike at thy life.
Grieved I, I had but one.
O, one too much by thee! Why had I one?
Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?
Why had I not with charitable hand took up a beggar's issue at my gates,
who smirch'd thus and mired with infamy,
I might have said 'No part of it is mine; this shame derives itself from unknown loins'?
But mine and mine I loved and mine I praised
and mine that I was proud on, mine so much
that I myself was to myself not mine, valuing of her, -- why, she,
she is fallen into a pit of ink, that the wide sea hath drops too few to wash her clean again
and salt too little which may season give to her foul-tainted flesh!
Sir, sir, be patient.
For my part, I am so attired in wonder, I know not what to say.
- On my life, my cousin is belied! - Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?
No, truly not.
Although until last night I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.
Confirmed! Confirmed!
O, that is stronger made which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron!
Would the two princes lie and Claudio lie?
Who loved her so, that, speaking of her foulness, wash'd it with tears?
Hence from her, let her die!
Hear me a little.
For I have only been silent so long and given way unto this course of fortune.
By noting of the lady
I have mark'd a thousand blushing apparitions to start into her face,
a thousand innocent shames in angel whiteness beat away those blushes;
and in her eye there hath appear'd a fire, to burn the errors
that these princes hold against her maiden truth.
Call me a fool; trust not my reading,
my observation, my reverence, calling, nor divinity,
if this sweet lady lie not guiltless here Under some biting error.
Friar, it cannot be. Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left
is that she will not add to her damnation a sin of perjury;
she not denies it!
Lady, what man is he you are accused of?
They know that do accuse me. I know none.
If I know more of any man alive
than that which maiden modesty doth warrant, let all my sins lack mercy!
O my father, prove you that any man with me conversed at hours unmeet,
or that I yesternight maintain'd the change of words with any creature,
refuse me, hate me, torture me to death!
- There is some strange misprision in the princes. - Two of them have the very bent of honour;
And if their wisdoms be misled in this, the practise of it lives in John the bastard,
- whose spirits toil in frame of villanies. - I know not.
If they speak but truth of her,
these hands shall tear her.
If they wrong her honour, the proudest of them shall well hear of it.
Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, but they shall find, awaked in such a kind,
both strength of limb and policy of mind, ability in means...
...and choice of friends, to quit me of them throughly.
Pause awhile, and let my counsel sway you in this case.
Your daughter here the princes left for dead.
Let her awhile be secretly kept in, and publish it that she is dead indeed.
Maintain a mourning ostentation,
and on your family's old monument hang mournful epitaph
and do all rites that appertain unto a burial.
What shall become of this? What will this do?
She dying, as it must be so maintained, upon the instant that she was accused,
shall be lamented, pitied, and excused of every hearer.
For it so falls out that what we have we prize not to the worth whiles we enjoy it,
but being lack'd and lost, why, then we rack the value,
then we find the virtue that possession would not show us whiles it was ours.
So will it fare with Claudio.
When he shall hear she died upon his words,
the idea of her life shall sweetly creep into his study of imagination,
and every lovely organ of her life shall come appareled in more precious habit
more moving-delicate and full of life, than when she lived indeed.
Then shall he mourn, and wish he had not so accused her.
Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you.
And though you know my inwardness and love is very much unto the prince and Claudio,
yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this as secretly and justly
as your soul should with your body.
Being that I flow in grief,
the smallest twine may lead me.
Come, lady.
Die to live.
This wedding day perhaps is but prolonged.
Have patience and endure.
Lady Beatrice.
Have you wept all this while?
Yea.
- And I will weep awhile longer. - I will not desire that.
You have no reason. I do it freely.
Surely.
I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.
How much might the man deserve of me that would right her!
Is there any way to show such friendship?
A very even way but no such friend.
- May a man do it? - It is a man's office... but not yours.
I do love nothing in the world so well as you.
Is not that strange?
As strange as the thing I know not.
It were as possible for me to say I love nothing so well as you.
But believe me not.
And yet I lie not.
I confess nothing.
Nor I deny nothing.
I am sorry for my cousin.
By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.
- Do not swear by it, and eat it. - I will swear by it that you love me,
and I will make him eat it that says I love not you.
- Will you not eat your word? - With no sauce that can be devised to it.
I protest...
I love thee!
Why then, oh may God forgive me.
What offense, sweet Beatrice?
You have stayed me in a happy hour.
- I was about to protest I loved you. - And do it with all thy heart.
I love you with so much of my heart there is none left to protest.
Come, bid me do anything for thee.
Kill Claudio.
Not for the wide world.
You kill me to deny it. Farewell.
- Tarry, sweet Beatrice. - I am gone, though I am here:
There is no love in you. Nay, I pray you, let me go.
- Beatrice... - In faith, I will go.
We'll be friends first.
You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy?
- Is Claudio thine enemy? - Is he not approved
in the height a villain
that hath slandered, scorned, dishonored my kinswoman?
Oh, that I were a man!
What, bear her in hand until they come to take hands,
and then with public accusation,
uncovered slander, unmitigated rancor...
Oh, God, that I were a man!
I would eat his heart in the market place!
Hear me, Beatrice.
Talk with a man in the open air.
- A proper saying! - Nay, but, Beatrice...
Sweet Hero!
She is wronged, she is slandered.
- She is undone! - Beatri...
Princes and counties!
Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly count,
Count Comfect; a sweet gallant, surely!
O that I were a man for his sake! Or that I had any friend
would be a man for my sake!
But manhood is melted into courtesies,
valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue,
and trim ones too.
He is now as valiant as Hercules who only tells a lie and swears it.
I cannot be a man with wishing,
therefore I will die a woman with grieving.
Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.
Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.
Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero?
Yea, as sure as I do have a thought, or a soul.
Enough.
I am engaged. I will challenge him.
I will kiss your hand and so leave you.
By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account.
As you hear of me, so think of me.
Go, comfort your cousin.
I must say she is dead.
And so...
Farewell.
Make way! Coming through!
Excuse me, please!
Forsooth.
Is our whole dissembly appeared?
- Which be the malefactors? - Marry, that am I. And my partner.
Nay, that's certain; we have the exhibition to examine.
But which are the offenders that are to be examined?
Let them come before master constable.
Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your name, friend?
Borachio.
Write down "Borachio."
- Yours, sirrah? - I am a gentleman, sir.
- And my name is Conrade. - Write down, "master gentleman Conrade".
- Masters, do you serve God? - Yea, sir, we hope.
Write down, that they hope they serve God:
And write God first; for God defend but God should go before such villains!
Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves;
how answer you for yourselves?
A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you.
But I will go about with him. Come you hither, sirrah;
a word in your ear, sir...
I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves.
Sir, I say to you we are none.
Well, stand aside. 'Fore God, they are both in a tale.
Have you writ down they are none?
Master constable, you go not the way to examine:
You must call forth the watch that are their accusers.
Yea, marry, that's the eftest way. Let the watch come forth.
Masters, I charge you, in the prince's name, accuse these men.
This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince's brother, was a villain.
Write down Prince John a villain.
Why, this is flat perjury, to call a prince's brother villain.
- Master constable... - Pray, thee, fellow, peace.
I do not like thy look, I promise thee.
What heard you him say else?
That he had received a thousand ducats of Don John
for accusing the lady Hero wrongfully.
- Flat burglary as ever was committed. - By mass, that it is.
- What else, fellow? - And that Count Claudio did mean
upon his words to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly
and not marry her.
O villain! Thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this.
- What else? - This is all.
And this is more, masters, than you can deny.
Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away.
Hero was in this manner accused,
in this very manner refused,
and upon the grief of this, suddenly died.
Master Constable, let these men be brought to Leonato.
I will go before and show him their examination.
- Off, coxcomb! - God's my life, where's the sexton?
Let him write down the prince's officer coxcomb.
Away! You are an ass! You are an ass.
Dost thou not suspect my place?
Dost thou not suspect my years?
Oh, that he were here to write me down an ass!
But, masters, remember that I am an ass.
Though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass.
No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness.
I am a wise fellow, and, which is more, an officer,
and, which is more, a householder,
and, which is more, a pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Messina,
- And law... - And one that knows the law, go to;
- Rich! - And a rich fellow enough, go to;
- And losses! - And a fellow that hath had losses,
and one that hath two coats and every thing handsome about him.
Come, bring him away.
O that I had been writ down an ass!
If you go on thus, you will kill yourself.
And 'tis not wisdom thus to second grief against yourself.
I pray thee, cease thy counsel,
which falls into mine ears as profitless as water in a sieve:
give not me counsel;
nor let no comforter delight mine ear but such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine.
Bring me a father that so loved his child,
whose joy of her is overwhelmed like mine,
and bid him speak of patience.
Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine
and let it answer every strain for strain,
as thus for thus and such a grief for such,
if such a one will smile and stroke his beard,
patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk with candle-wasters;
bring him yet to me, and I of him will gather patience.
But there is no such man.
Give me no counsel: my griefs cry louder than advertisement.
Therein do men from children nothing differ.
I pray thee, peace! I will be flesh and blood.
For there was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently.
Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself.
Make those that do offend you suffer, too.
There thou speak'st reason. Nay, I will do so.
My soul doth tell me Hero is belied, and that shall Claudio know,
so shall the prince and all of them that thus dishonour her.
- Good day. - Good day to both of you.
- Hear you, my lords? - We have some haste, Leonato...
Some haste, my lord! Well, fare you well, my lord:
Are you so hasty now? Well, all is one.
Do not quarrel with us, good old man.
If he could right himself with quarreling, some of us would lie low.
- Who wrongs him? - Marry, thou dost wrong me, thou!
Thou dissembler, thou... Never lay thy hand upon thy sword. I fear thee not.
Marry, beshrew my hand if it should give such cause of fear.
- My hand meant nothing to my sword. - Tush, tush.
Never fleer and jest at me. I speak not like a dotard nor a fool.
Thou hast so wrong'd mine innocent child and me
that I am forced to lay my reverence by and, with grey hairs
and bruise of many days, do challenge thee to trial of a man.
I say thou hast belied mine innocent child;
Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart,
and she lies buried with her ancestors; O, in a tomb where never scandal slept,
Save this of hers, framed by thy villany!
- My villany? - Thine, Claudio; thine, I say.
- You say not right, old man. - My lord, I'll prove it on his body if he dare!
Away, I will not have to do with you!
Canst thou so daff me?
Thou hast killed my child!
If thou kill'st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.
- Peace, Leonato. - Let him answer me.
Come, follow me, boy; come, sir boy, come, follow me:
sir boy, I'll whip you from your foining fence...
- Wife... - Content yourself.
God knows I loved my child,
and she is dead, slandered to death by villains,
that dare as well answer a man indeed as I dare take a serpent by the tongue:
Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea,
and what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple...
Scambling, outfacing, fashion-monging boy,
that lies and cogs, and flouts, depraves and slanders.
And speaks off half a dozen dangerous words,
how he might hurt his enemies, if he dursts; and this is all.
Do not you meddle; let me deal in this.
Sir, madam, we will not wake your patience.
My heart is sorry for your daughter's death,
but, on my honour, she was charged with nothing but
what was true and very full of proof.
- My lord, my lord... - I will not hear you.
No?
Come, Innogen. Away.
I will be heard!
See, see; here comes the man we went to seek.
- Now, signior, what news? - Good day, my lord.
Welcome, signior: you are almost come to part almost a fray.
In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I came to seek you both.
We have been up and down to seek thee;
for we are high-proof melancholy and would fain have it beaten away.
- Wilt thou use thy wit? - It is in my scabbard: shall I draw it?
- Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side? - As I am an honest man, he looks pale.
Art thou sick, or angry?
Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, and you charge it against me.
I pray you choose another subject.
By this light, he changes more and more: I think he be angry indeed.
Shall I speak a word in your ear?
- God bless me from a challenge! - You are a villain.
I jest not. I will make it good how you dare,
with what you dare, and when you dare.
Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice.
You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you.
Let me hear from you.
Well, I will meet you, so I may have good cheer.
Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily.
I'll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the other day.
I said, thou hadst a fine wit: "True," said she, "a fine little one."
"Nay," said I, "a good wit". "Just," said she, "it hurts nobody."
"Nay," said I, "he hath the tongues:" "That I believe," said she,
"for he swore a thing to me on Monday night, which he forswore on Tuesday morning;
there's a double tongue; there's two tongues."
Yet at last she concluded with a sigh,
thou wast the properest man in Messina.
My lord, for your many courtesies, I thank you.
I must discontinue your company.
Your brother the bastard is fled from Messina.
You have among you killed a sweet and innocent lady.
For my Lord Lackbeard there, he and I shall meet.
Until we do peace be with him.
He is in earnest.
In most profound earnest; and, I'll warrant you, for the love of Beatrice.
- And hath challenged thee. - Most sincerely.
Soft you, did he not say, my brother was fled?
Come you, sir: you must be looked to.
Two of my brother's men bound!
Officers, what offense have these men done?
Marry, sir; they have committed false report, moreover, they have spoken untruths,
secondarily, they are slanders, sixthly and lastly, they belied a lady,
thirdly, they have verified unjust things,
and to conclude, they are lying knaves.
Firstly, I ask thee what they have done;
thirdly, I ask thee what's their offence;
sixthly and lastly, why they are committed; and, to conclude,
what you lay to their charge.
Masters, this learned constable is too cunning to be understood.
What's your offence?
Sweet prince, do you hear me, and let this count kill me.
I have deceived even your very eyes.
What your wisdoms could not discover,
these shallow fools have brought to light,
who, in the night, overheard me confessing to this man
how your brother, Don John incensed me to slander the lady Hero,
and how you saw me court Margaret in Hero's garments.
My villany they have upon record;
which I had rather seal with my death than repeat over to my shame.
The lady is dead upon mine and my master's false accusation;
and, briefly, I desire nothing but the reward of a villain.
Runs not this speech like iron through your blood?
- I have drunk poison whiles he utter'd it. - But did my brother set thee on to this?
Yea, and paid me richly for the practise of it.
- And fled he is upon this villany. - Sweet Hero!
Now thy image doth appear in the rare semblance that I loved it first.
Come, bring away the plaintiffs.
By this time our sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the matter.
And, masters, do not forget to specify,
when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass.
Which is the villain? Which of these is he?
If you would know your wronger, look on me.
Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast killed mine innocent child?
Yea, even I alone.
Nay, not so, villain. Thou beliest thyself.
Here stand a pair of honorable men.
A third is fled that had a hand in it. I thank you princes
for my daughter's death.
Record it with your high and worthy deeds.
'Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.
I know not how to pray your patience, yet I must speak.
Choose your revenge yourself.
Impose me to what penance your invention can lay upon my sin,
yet sinned I not but in mistaking.
By my soul, nor I.
And yet, to satisfy this good old man,
I would bend under any heavy weight that he'll enjoin me to.
I cannot bid you bid my daughter live. That were impossible.
But I pray you both,
possess the people in Messina here how innocent she died.
Do so tonight; tomorrow morning come you to my house,
and since you could not be my son-in-law,
be yet my nephew.
My wife hath a niece, almost the copy of our child that's dead.
Give her the right you should have given her cousin,
and so dies my revenge.
Oh, noble sir.
Your overkindness doth wring tears from me.
Tomorrow then I will expect your coming.
Tonight we take our leave.
This naughty man shall face to face be brought to Margaret,
who I believe was packed in all this wrong,
- hired to it by your brother. - No, by my soul, she was not,
nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me.
Moreover, sir, which indeed is not under white and black,
this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass.
I beseech you, let it be remembered in his punishment.
Pray you, examine him upon that point.
I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.
Your worship speaks like a thankful and reverend youth,
and I praise God for you.
- There's for thy pains. - God save the foundation!
Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoners, and I thank thee.
I leave an arrant knave with your worship,
which I beseech your worship to correct yourself, for the example of others.
God keep your worship.
I wish your worship well,
God restore you to health,
I humbly give you leave to depart,
and if a merry meeting may be wished,
God prohibit it!
Come, neighbours!
Until tomorrow morning, lords, farewell.
- We will not fail. - Tonight I'll mourn with Hero.
Bring you these fellows on. We'll talk with Margaret,
How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.
The God of love...
That...
sits above...
I pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret!
Deserve well at my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice.
Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty?
In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it.
For, in most comely truth, thou deservest it.
To have no man come over me! Why, shall I always keep below stairs?
Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's mouth; it catches.
And yours as blunt as the fencer's foils, which hit, but hurt not.
A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt a woman:
so, I pray thee, call Beatrice.
I give thee the bucklers.
Give us the swords; we have bucklers of our own.
Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs.
And therefore will come.
The God of love, that sits above...
Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders,
and a whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers
whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse,
why they were never so truly turned over and over
as my poor self in love.
Marry, I cannot show it in rhyme. I have tried!
I can find out no rhyme to "lady"...
but "baby".
An innocent rhyme.
To "scorn"...
"Horn"? A hard rhyme. Very ominous endings.
No, I was not born under a rhyming planet,
nor I cannot woo in festival terms.
Sweet Beatrice.
Wouldst thou come when I called?
Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me.
Oh, stay but till then.
"Then" is spoken. Fare you well.
And yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came;
which is, with knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio.
Only foul words, and thereupon I will kiss thee.
Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath,
and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed.
Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit.
But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge,
and either I must shortly hear from him
or I will subscribe him a coward.
But I pray thee now, tell me,
for which of my bad parts did thou first fall in love with me?
For them all together,
which maintains so politic a state of evil
that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them.
But I pray you,
for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?
Suffer love! A good epithet!
I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.
In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor heart.
If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours.
For I will never love that which my friend hates.
Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
And now tell me, how doth your cousin?
Very ill.
And how do you?
Very ill, too.
Serve God,
love me...
...and mend.
Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder's old coil at home:
It is proved my lady Hero hath been falsely accused...
...the prince and Claudio mightily abused,
and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone.
Will you come presently?
Will you come hear this news, signior?
I will live in thy heart...
die in thy lap...
and be buried in thy eyes...
and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle's.
"Done to death by slanderous tongues was the Hero that here lies:
Death, in guerdon of her wrongs, gives her fame which never dies.
So the life that died with shame lives in death with glorious fame.
Lie thou there upon the tomb, praising her when I am dumb."
Now, unto thy bones good night! Yearly will I do this rite.
Good morrow, Claudio.
You and I must go.
Leonato waits upon us both.
Good morrow to this fair assembly.
Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Claudio.
We here attend you. Are you yet determined
- today to marry with Innogen's niece? - I am.
Go, Innogen, and call her forth.
Friar!
- I must entreat your pains, I think. - To do what, signior?
To bind me.
Or undo me; one of them.
Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior,
Your niece regards me with an eye of favour.
That eye my daughter lent her: 'tis most true.
And I do with an eye of love requite it.
The sight whereof I think you had from me,
from Claudio and the prince: but what's your will?
Your answer, sir, is...
...enigmatical. But, for my will,
my will is your good will may stand with ours,
this day to be conjoin'd...
in the state of honourable marriage.
In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.
- My heart is with your liking. - And my help.
Which is the lady I must seize upon?
This same is she, and I do give you her.
Why, then she's mine.
- Sweet, let me see your face. - No. That you shall not
till you take her hand before this friar and swear to marry her.
Give me your hand before this holy friar.
I am your husband, if you like of me.
And when I lived, I was your other wife.
And when you loved, you were my other husband.
- Another Hero? - Nothing certainer.
One Hero died defiled, but I do live.
And surely as I live...
- I am a maid. - The former Hero!
Hero that is dead!
She died, my lord, but whiles her slander lived.
All this amazement can I qualify.
Meantime let wonder seem familiar.
Soft and fair, lady!
Which is Beatrice?
I answer to that name. What is your will?
- Do not you love me? - No.
No more than reason.
Why, then your uncle and the prince and Claudio have been deceived;
they swore you did.
- Do not you love me? - Troth, no.
No...
No more than reason.
Why, then my cousin Margaret and Ursula are much deceived;
- they swore you did. - They swore you were sick for me.
They swore you were well-nigh dead for me.
'Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?
Truly, no, but in friendly recompense.
Come, cousin. I am sure you love the gentleman!
I'll be sworn upon it that he loves her, for here's a paper written in his hand,
a halting sonnet of his own pure brain, fashioned to Beatrice.
And here's another, writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocket,
containing her affection unto Benedick.
A miracle!
Here's our own hands against our hearts.
Come, I will have thee.
But by this light, I take thee for pity.
I would not deny you, but by this good day,
I yield under great persuasion, and partly to save your life,
for I was told you were in a consumption.
Peace!
I will stop your mouth.
How dost thou, Benedick, the married man?
I'll tell thee what, Prince,
a college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor.
Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?
No.
If a man will be beaten with brains, a' shall wear nothing handsome about him.
In brief, since I do purpose to marry,
I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it.
For man is a giddy thing...
and this is my conclusion.
For thy part, Claudio...
I did think to have beaten thee.
But in that thou art like to be my kinsman,
live unbruised,
- and love my cousin. - I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice,
that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single life,
- to make thee a double-dealer! - Come, come.
We're friends.
We'll have a dance ere we are married,
that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives' heels.
We'll have dancing afterwards.
First, of my word.
Therefore play, music!
Prince...
Thou art sad.
Get thee a wife.
My lord, your brother John is ta'en in flight
and brought with armed men back to Messina.
Think not on him till tomorrow.
I'll devise brave punishments for him.
Strike up!
Ooh, Pipers!