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 new gloss of your

marriage, as to show a child his new coat and forbid him to wear it. 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 twice or thrice

cut Cupid’s bowstring, and the little hangman dare not shoot at him.

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.

Hang him, truant! 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 tooth-ache.

Draw it.

Hang it.

You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards.

What! sigh for the tooth-ache?

Where is but a humour or a worm?

Well, everyone can master a grief but he that has it.

Yet say I, he is in love.

There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a fancy

that he hath to strange disguises; as to be a Dutchman today, a Frenchman

tomorrow; or in the shape of two countries at once, as a German from the

waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the hip upward, no doublet.

Unless he have a fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no

fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is.

If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old

signs: a’ brushes his hat a mornings; what should that bode?

Hath any man seen him at the barber’s?

No, but the barber’s man hath been seen with him; and the

old ornament of his cheek hath already stuffed tennis balls.

Indeed he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard.

Nay, a’ rubs himself with civet: can you smell him out by that?

That’s as much as to say the sweet youth’s in love.

The greatest note of it is his melancholy.

And when was he wont to wash his face?

Yea, or to paint himself? for the which, I hear what they say of him.

Nay, but his jesting spirit; which is now crept into a

lute-string, and now governed by stops.

Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude, 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 tooth-ache. 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 Margaret have by this played

their parts with Beatrice, and then the two bears will not bite one

another when they meet.

My lord and brother, God save you!

Good den, 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?

[To Claudio.] 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: let that appear hereafter, and aim

better at me by that I now will manifest. For my brother, I think he holds

you well, and in dearness of heart hath holp 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’s 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

her chamber window entered, 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 anything tonight why I should not marry her tomorrow,

in the congregation, 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.