Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire her to rise.

I will, lady.

And bid her come hither.

Well.

Troth, I think your other rebato 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 within 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

cuts, and laced with silver, set with pearls, down sleeves, side

sleeves, and skirts round, underborne 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? I think you would

have me say, saving your reverence, ‘a husband:’ an bad thinking do not

wrest 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.

Ye, light o’ love with your heels! then, if your husband

have stables enough, you’ll see he shall lack no barnes.

O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.

’Tis almost five 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?

For the letter that begins them all, H.

Well, and you be not turned Turk, there’s no more

sailing by the star.

What means the fool, trow?

Nothing I; but God send everyone 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?

Ever 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.

Get you some of this distilled Carduus benedictus, and lay it to

your heart: it is the only thing for a qualm.

There thou prick’st her with a thistle.

Benedictus! why benedictus? you have some moral in this

benedictus.

Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; 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, withdraw: the Prince, the Count, Signior Benedick, Don

John, and all the gallants of the town are come to fetch you to church.

Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula.