Boy!

Signior?

In my chamber window lies a book; bring it hither to me in the orchard.

I am here already, sir.

I know that; but I would have thee hence, and here again.

I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when

he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at such

shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling

in love: and such a man is Claudio. I have known, when there was no music

with him but the drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor

and the pipe: I have known when he would have walked ten mile afoot to see

a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion

of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an

honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned orthography; his words are

a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. 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 have 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 of what colour it please God. Ha! the Prince and Monsieur Love! I

will hide me in the arbour.

and Musicians.

Come, shall we hear this music?

Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is,

As hush’d on purpose to grace harmony!

See you where Benedick hath hid himself?

O! very well, my lord: the music ended,

We’ll fit the kid-fox with a penny-worth.

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.

It is the witness still of excellency,

To put a strange face on his own perfection.

I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.

Because you talk of wooing, I will sing;

Since many a wooer doth commence his suit

To her he thinks not worthy; yet he wooes;

Yet will he swear he loves.

Nay, pray thee come;

Or if thou wilt hold longer argument,

Do it in notes.

Note this before my notes;

There’s not a note of mine that’s worth the noting.

Why these are very crotchets that he speaks;

Notes, notes, forsooth, and nothing!

Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it not strange

that sheep’s guts should hale souls out of men’s bodies? Well,

a horn for my money, when all’s done.

BALTHASAR [sings.]

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,

Men were deceivers ever;

One foot in sea, and one on shore,

To one thing constant never.

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo

Of dumps so dull and heavy;

The fraud of men was ever so,

Since summer first was leavy.

And be you blithe and bonny,

Converting all your sounds of woe

By my troth, a good song.

And an ill singer, my lord.

Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough for a shift.

[Aside] And he had been a dog that should have howled

thus, they would have hanged him; and I pray God his bad voice bode no

mischief. I had as lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague could

have come after it.

DON PEDRO. Yea, marry; dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray thee, get us

some excellent music, for tomorrow night we would have it at the

Lady Hero’s chamber window.

Come hither, Leonato: what was it you told me of today, that your niece

Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?

O! ay:—[Aside to Don Pedro] Stalk on, stalk on;

the fowl sits. I did never think that lady would have loved any man.

No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so

dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours

seemed ever to abhor.

[Aside] 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.

O God! counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of passion came

so near the life of passion as she discovers it.

Why, what effects of passion shows she?

What effects, my lord? She will sit you; [To Claudio] You

heard my daughter tell you how.

She did, indeed.

How, how, I pray you? You amaze me: I would have thought her

spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection.

I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially against Benedick.

[Aside] I should think this a gull, but that the

white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot, sure, hide itself in such

reverence.

[Aside] He hath ta’en the infection: hold it

up.

Hath 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?’

This says she now when she is beginning to write to him; for she’ll

be up twenty times a night, and there will she sit in her smock till she

have writ a sheet of paper: my daughter tells us all.

Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your

daughter told us of.

O! when she had writ it, and was reading it over, she found

Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet?

That.

O! she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence; railed at

herself, that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew

would flout her: ‘I measure him,’ says she, ‘by my own

spirit; for I should flout him, if he writ to me; yea, though I love him,

I should.’

Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart,

tears her hair, prays, curses; ‘O sweet Benedick! God give me

patience!’

She doth indeed; my daughter says so; and the ecstasy hath so

much overborne her, that my daughter is sometimes afeard she will do a

desperate outrage to herself. It is very true.

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.

And 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 everything but in loving Benedick.

O! my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body,

we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. 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.

She doth well: if she should make tender of her love, ’tis

very possible he’ll scorn it; for the man,—as you know all,—hath a

contemptible spirit.

He is a very proper man.

He hath indeed a good outward happiness.

’Fore God, and in my mind, very wise.

He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit.

And I take him to be valiant.

As Hector, I assure you: and in the managing of quarrels you

may say he is wise; for either he avoids them with great discretion, or

undertakes them with a most Christian-like fear.

If he do fear God, a’ must necessarily keep peace: if he

break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling.

And so will he do; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it

seems not in him by some large jests he will make. 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 so good a lady.

My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready.

[Aside] If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never

trust my expectation.

[Aside] Let there be the same net spread for her; and

that must your daughter and her gentlewoman carry. The sport will be,

when they hold one an opinion of another’s dotage, and no such

matter: that’s the scene that I would see, which will be merely a

dumb show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner.

[Advancing from the arbour.] This can be no trick: the

conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Hero. They

seem to pity the lady: it seems her affections have their 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 give any sign of affection. I did never

think to marry: I must not seem proud: happy are they that hear their

detractions, and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair:

’tis a truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous: ’tis so,

I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving me: by my troth, it is no

addition to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for 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 that he

cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and these paper

bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humour? No; the

world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think

I should 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 pains.

I took no more pains for those thanks than you take 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 daw withal. You have no stomach, signior: fare you well.

Ha! ‘Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to

dinner,’ there’s a double meaning in that. ‘I took no

more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me,’ 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 of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a

Jew. I will go get her picture.