¶Bene. In my chamber window lies a booke, bring it hither
¶Boy. I am here already
sir.
exit.
840Bene. I know that, but I would haue thee hence and here a-
¶gaine. I do much wonder, that one man
seeing how much an
¶other man is a foole, when he dedicates his behauiours to loue,
¶wil after he hath laught at
such
shallow follies in others, becom
¶the argument of his owne
scorne, by falling in loue, and
such a
845man is Claudio, I haue knowne when there was no mu
sique
¶with him but the drumme and the fife, and now had he rather
¶heare the taber and the pipe: I haue knowne when he would
¶haue walkt ten mile afoot, to
see a good armour, and now wil
850he lie ten nights awake caruing the fa
shion of a new dublet: he
¶was woont to
speake plaine, and to the purpo
se (like an hone
st
¶man and a
souldier) and now is he turnd ortography, his words
¶are a very fanta
sticall banquet, iu
st
so many
strange di
shes:
¶may I be
so conuerted and
see with the
se eies? I cannot tell, I
855thinke not: I wil not be
sworne but loue may tran
sforme me to
¶an oy
ster, but ile take my oath on it, till he haue made and oy-
¶ster of me, he
shall neuer make me
such a foole: one woman is
¶faire, yet I am well, an other is wi
se, yet I am well: an other
¶vertuous, yet I am wel: but till all graces be in one woman, one
¶womā shal not com in my grace: rich
she
shal be thats certain,
¶wi
se, or ile none, vertuous, or ile neuer cheapen her: faire, or ile
¶neuer looke on her, mild, or come not neare me, noble, or not I
¶for an angell, of good di
scour
se, an excellent mu
sitian, and her
865haire
shall be of what colour it plea
se God. hah! the prince and
¶mon
sieur Loue, I wil hide me in the arbor.
¶ Enter prince, Leonato, Claudio, Musicke.
¶Prince Come
shall we heare this mu
sique?
870Claud. Yea my good lord: how
stil the euening is,
¶As hu
sht on purpo
se to grace harmonie!
¶Prince See you where Benedicke hath hid him
selfe?
¶Claud. O very wel my lord: the mu
sique ended,
¶Weele fit the kid-foxe with a penny worth.
Enter Balthaser with musicke.
875Prince Come Baltha
ser, weele heare that
song againe.
¶Balth. O good my lord, taxe not
so bad a voice,
¶To
slaunder mu
sicke any more then once.
¶Prince It is the witne
sse
still of excellencie,
¶To put a
strange face on his owne perfection,
¶I pray thee
sing, and let me wooe no more.
¶Balth. Becau
se you talke of wooing I will
sing,
¶Since many a wooer doth commence his
sute,
885To her he thinkes not worthy, yet he wooes,
¶Yet will he
sweare he loues.
¶Prince Nay pray thee come,
¶Or if thou wilt hold longer argument,
890Balth. Note this before my notes,
¶Theres not a note of mine thats worth the noting.
¶Prince Why the
se are very crotchets that he
speakes,
¶Note notes for
sooth, and nothing.
¶Bene. Now diuine aire, now is his
soule raui
sht, is it not
895strange that
sheepes guts
should hale
soules out of mens bo-
¶dies? well a horne for my mony when alls done.
¶Sigh no more ladies,
sigh no more,
900Men were deceiuers euer,
¶One foote in
sea, and one on
shore,
¶To one thing con
stant neuer,
¶Then
sigh not
so, but let them go,
¶And be you blith and bonnie,
905Conuerting all your
soundes of woe,
¶Sing no more ditties,
sing no moe,
¶Of dumps
so dull and heauy,
¶The fraud of men was euer
so,
910Since
summer fir
st was leauy,
¶Prince By my troth a good
song.
¶Balth. And an ill
singer my lord.
¶Prince Ha, no no faith, thou
sing
st wel enough for a
shift.
¶Ben. And he had bin a dog that
should haue howld thus,
¶they would haue hangd him, and I pray God his bad voice
¶bode no mi
scheefe, I had as liue haue heard the night-rauen,
¶come what plague could haue come after it.
¶Prince Yea mary, doo
st thou heare Baltha
sar? I pray thee
¶get vs
some excellent mu
sique: for to morow night we would
¶haue it at the ladie Heroes chamber window.
¶Balth. The be
st I can my lord.
925Prince Do
so, farewell. Come hither Leonato, what was
¶it you told mee of to day, that your niece Beatrice was in loue
¶Cla. O I,
stalke on,
stalk on, the foule
sits. I did neuer think
¶that lady would haue loued any man.
930Leo. No nor I neither, but mo
st wonderful, that
she
should
¶so dote on
signior Benedicke, whome
she hath in all outward
¶behauiors
seemd euer to abhorre.
¶Bene. I
st po
ssible?
sits the wind in that corner?
¶Leo. By my troth my Lord, I cannot tell what to thinke of
935it, but that
she loues him with an inraged affection, it is pa
st the
¶Prince May be
she doth but counterfeit.
¶Claud. Faith like enough.
¶Leon. O God! counterfeit? there was neuer counterfeit of
940pa
ssion, came
so neare the life of pa
ssion as
she di
scouers it.
¶Prince Why what effects of pa
ssion
shewes
she?
¶Claud. Baite the hooke wel, this fi
sh will bite.
¶Leon. What effects my Lord?
she wil
sit you, you heard my
945daughter tell you how.
¶Prince How, how I pray you! you amaze me, I would haue
¶thought her
spirite had beene inuincible again
st all a
ssaults of
950Leo. I would haue
sworn it had, my lord, e
specially again
st
¶Bene. I
should think this a gull, but that the white bearded
¶fellow
speakes it: knauery cannot
sure hide him
self in
such re-
955Claud. He hath tane th'infection, hold it vp.
¶Prince Hath
shee made her affection knowne to Bene-
¶Leonato No, and
sweares
shee neuer will, thats her tor-
960Claudio Tis true indeed,
so your daughter
saies:
shall I,
saies
¶she, that haue
so oft encountred him with
scorne, write to him
¶Leo. This
saies
she now when
she is beginning to write to
¶him, for
sheel be vp twenty times a night, and there will
she
sit
965in her
smocke, til
she haue writ a
sheete of paper: my daughter
¶Clau. Now you talk of a
sheet of paper, I remember a prety
¶ie
st your daughter told of vs.
¶Leonato O when
she had writ it, and was reading it ouer,
she
970found Benedicke and Beatrice betweene the
sheete.
¶Leon. O
she tore the letter into a thou
sand halfpence, raild
¶at her
self, that
she
should be
so immode
st to write, to one that
¶she knew would flout her, I mea
sure him,
saies
she, by my own
975spirit, for I
should flout him, if he writ to me, yea thogh I loue
¶Clau. Then downe vpon her knees
she falls, weepes,
sobs,
¶beates her heart, teares her haire, prayes, cur
ses, O
sweet Bene-
¶dicke, God giue me patience.
980Leonato She doth indeed, my daughter
saies
so, and the ex-
¶ta
sie hath
so much ouerborne her, that my daughter is
some-
¶time afeard
shee will doe a de
sperate out-rage to her
selfe, it is
¶Prince It were good that Benedicke knew of it by
some o-
985ther, if
she will not di
scouer it.
¶Claudio To what end? he would make but a
sport of it, and
¶torment the poore Lady wor
se.
¶Prince And he
should, it were an almes to hang him,
shees
¶an excellent
sweete lady, and (out of all
su
spition,)
she is vertu-
¶Claudio And
she is exceeding wi
se.
¶Prince In euery thing but in louing Benedicke.
¶Leonato O my Lord, wi
sedome and blood combating in
¶so tender a body, we haue ten proofes to one, that bloud hath
995the victory, I am
sory for her, as I haue iu
st cau
se, beeing her
¶Prince I would
shee had be
stowed this dotage on mee, I
¶would haue daft all other re
spects, and made her halfe my
self:
¶I pray you tell Benedicke of it, and heare what a will
say.
¶Leonato Were it good thinke you?
¶Claudio Hero thinkes
surely
she will die, for
she
sayes
shee
¶will die, if he loue her not, and
shee will die ere
shee make her
¶loue knowne, and
she will die if he wooe her, rather than
shee
1005will bate one breath of her accu
stomed cro
sne
sse.
¶Prince She doth well, if
shee
shoulde make tender of her
¶loue, tis very po
ssible heele
scorne it, for the man (as you know
¶all) hath a contemptible
spirite.
1010Claudio He is a very proper man.
¶Prince He hath indeede a good outward happines.
¶Claudio Before God, and in my mind, very wi
se.
¶Prince Hee dooth indeede
shew
some
sparkes that are like
1015Claudio And I take him to be valiant.
¶Prince As Hector, I a
ssure you, and in the mannaging of
¶quarrels you may
say he is wi
se, for either hee auoydes them
¶with great di
scretion, or vndertakes them with a mo
st chri
sti-
1020Leonato If he do feare God, a mu
st nece
ssarily keep peace,
¶if hee breake the peace, hee ought to enter into a quarrel with
¶Prince And
so will hee doe, for the man doth feare God,
¶how
soeuer it
seemes not in him, by
some large ie
stes hee will
1025make: well I am
sory for your niece,
shall we go
seeke Bene-
¶dicke, and tell him of her loue?
¶Claudio Neuer tell him, my Lord, let her weare it out with
¶Leonato Nay thats impo
ssible,
shee may weare her heart
¶Prince Well, we will heare further of it by your daughter,
¶let it coole the while, I loue Benedicke wel, and I could wi
sh
¶he would mode
stly examine him
selfe, to
see how much he is
¶vnworthy
so good a lady.
1035Leonato My lord, will you walke? dinner is ready.
¶Claudio If he do not doate on her vppon this, I will neuer
¶Prince Let there be the
same nette
spread for her, and that
¶mu
st your daughter and her gentlewomen carry: the
sporte
1040will be, when they holde one an opinion of an others dotage,
¶and no
such matter, thats the
scene that I woulde
see, which
¶wil be meerely a dumbe
shew: let vs
send her to call him in to
¶Benedicke This can be no tricke, the conference was
sadly
1045borne, they haue the trueth of this from Hero, they
seeme to
¶pittie the Lady: it
seemes her affections haue their full bent:
¶loue me? why it mu
st be requited: I heare how I am cen
surde,
¶they
say I will beare my
selfe prowdly, if I perceiue the loue
¶come from her: they
say too, that
she will rather die than giue
1050anie
signe of affection: I did neuer thinke to marry, I mu
st
¶not
seeme prowd, happy are they that heare their detractions,
¶and can put them to mending: they
say the Lady is faire, tis a
¶trueth, I can beare them witne
sse: and vertuous, tis
so, I can-
¶not reprooue it, and wi
se, but for louing me, by my troth it is
¶no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of her follie, for
¶I will be horribly in loue with her, I may chaunce haue
some
¶odde quirkes and remnants of witte broken on me, becau
se I
¶haue railed
so long again
st marriage: but doth not the appe-
1060tite alter? a man loues the meate in his youth, that he cannot in-
¶dure in his age. Shall quippes and
sentences, and the
se paper
¶bullets of the brain awe a man from the carreere of his humor?
¶No, the world mu
st be peopled. When I
saide I woulde die a
¶batcheller, I did not think I
should liue til I were married, here
1065comes Beatrice: by this day,
shees a faire lady, I doe
spie
some
¶Beatr. Agan
st my will I am
sent to bid you come in to din-
¶Bene. Faire Beatrice, I thanke you for your paines.
¶Beat. I tooke no more paines for tho
se thankes, then you
¶take paines to thanke me, if it had bin painful I would not haue
1075Bene. You take plea
sure then in the me
ssage.
¶Beat. Yea iu
st
so much as you may take vppon a kniues
¶point, and choake a daw withall: you haue no
stomach
signior,
¶Bene. Ha, again
st my will I am
sent to bid you come in to
1080dinner: theres a double meaning in that: I took no more paines
¶for tho
se thanks
thē you took pains to thank me, thats as much
¶as to
say, any pains that I take for you is as ea
sy as thanks: if I do
¶not take pitty of her I am a villaine, if I do not loue her I am a
¶Iew, I will go get her picture,
