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 lov’d his child,

Whose joy of her is overwhelm’d 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,

In every lineament, branch, shape, and form:

If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard;

Bid sorrow wag, cry ‘hem’ when he should groan,

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; for, brother, men

Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief

Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,

Their counsel turns to passion, which before

Would give preceptial medicine to rage,

Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,

Charm ache with air and agony with words.

No, no; ’tis all men’s office to speak patience

To those that wring under the load of sorrow,

But no man’s virtue nor sufficiency

To be so moral when he shall endure

The like himself. Therefore 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,

However they have writ the style of gods

And made a push at chance and sufferance.

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.

Here comes the Prince and Claudio hastily.

Good den, good den.

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.

Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man.

If he could right himself with quarrelling,

Some of us would lie low.

Who wrongs him?

Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou dissembler, thou.

Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword;

I fear thee not.

Marry, beshrew my hand,

If it should give your age such cause of fear.

In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.

Tush, tush, man! never fleer and jest at me:

I speak not like a dotard nor a fool,

As, under privilege of age, to brag

What I have done being young, or what would do,

Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head,

Thou hast so wrong’d mine innocent child and me

That I am forc’d 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, fram’d by thy villainy!

My villainy?

Thine, Claudio; thine, I say.

You say not right, old man.

My lord, my lord,

Despite his nice fence and his active practice,

His May of youth and bloom of lustihood.

Away! I will not have to do with you.

Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill’d my child;

If thou kill’st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.

He shall kill two of us, and men indeed:

But that’s no matter; let him kill one first:

Win me and wear me; let him answer me.

Come, follow me, boy; come, sir boy, come, follow me.

Sir boy, I’ll whip you from your foining fence;

Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will.

Brother,—

Content yourself. God knows I lov’d my niece;

And she is dead, slander’d to death by villains,

That dare as well answer a man indeed

As I dare take a serpent by the tongue.

Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops!

Brother Anthony,—

Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea,

And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple,

Scambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys,

That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander,

Go antickly, show outward hideousness,

And speak off half a dozen dangerous words,

How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst;

And this is all!

But, brother Anthony,—

Come, ’tis no matter:

Do not you meddle, let me deal in this.

Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience.

My heart is sorry for your daughter’s death;

But, on my honour, she was charg’d with nothing

But what was true and very full of proof.

My lord, my lord—

I will not hear you.

No? Come, brother, away. I will be heard.—

And shall, or some of us will smart for it.

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.

We had like to have had our two noses snapped off with two old

men without teeth.

Leonato and his brother. What think’st thou? Had we

fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them.

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?

Never any did so, though very many have been beside their wit. I

will bid thee draw, as we do the minstrels; draw, to pleasure us.

As I am an honest man, he looks pale. Art thou sick, or angry?

What, courage, man! What though care killed a cat, thou hast

mettle enough in thee to kill care.

Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, and you charge it

against me. I pray you choose another subject.

Nay then, give him another staff: this last was broke cross.

By this light, he changes more and more: I think he be angry indeed.

If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle.

Shall I speak a word in your ear?

God bless me from a challenge!

[Aside to Claudio.] 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.

What, a feast, a feast?

I’ faith, I thank him; he hath bid me to a calf’s-head

and a capon, the which if I do not carve most curiously, say my knife’s

naught. Shall I not find a woodcock too?

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,’ says

she, ‘a fine little one.’ ‘No,’ said I,

‘a great wit.’ ‘Right,’ said she, ‘a

great gross one.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘a good wit.’

‘Just,’ said she, ‘it hurts nobody.’ ‘Nay,’

said I, ‘the gentleman is wise.’ ‘Certain,’

said she, ‘a wise gentleman.’ ‘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.’ Thus did she, an hour together, trans-shape thy

particular virtues; yet at last she concluded with a sigh, thou wast

the properest man in Italy.

For the which she wept heartily and said she cared not.

Yea, that she did; but yet, for all that, an if she did not

hate him deadly, she would love him dearly. The old man’s daughter

told us all.

All, all; and moreover, God saw him when he was hid in the garden.

But when shall we set the savage bull’s horns on the

sensible Benedick’s head?

Yea, and text underneath, ‘Here dwells Benedick the

married man!’

Fare you well, boy: you know my mind. I will leave you now to

your gossip-like humour; you break jests as braggarts do their blades,

which, God be thanked, hurt not. 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 Lack-beard there, he and I shall meet; and till then, 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.

What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose

and leaves off his wit!

He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an ape a doctor to such

a man.

But, soft you; let me be: pluck up, my heart, and be sad! Did

he not say my brother was fled?

Conrade and Borachio.

Come you, sir: if justice cannot tame you, she shall ne’er

weigh more reasons in her balance. Nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite

once, you must be looked to.

How now! two of my brother’s men bound! Borachio, one!

Hearken after their offence, my lord.

Officers, what offence have these men done?

Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they

have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly,

they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things; and to

conclude, they are lying knaves.

First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I ask thee what’s

their offence; sixth and lastly, why they are committed; and, to conclude,

what you lay to their charge?

Rightly reasoned, and in his own division; and, by my troth,

there’s one meaning well suited.

Who have you offended, masters, that you are thus bound to

your answer? This learned constable is too cunning to be understood.

What’s your offence?

Sweet Prince, let me go no farther to mine answer: 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 Don John

your brother incensed me to slander the Lady Hero; how you were brought

into the orchard and saw me court Margaret in Hero’s garments; how

you disgraced her, when you should marry her. My villainy 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 practice of it.

He is compos’d and fram’d of treachery:

And fled he is upon this villainy.

Sweet Hero! now thy image doth appear

In the rare semblance that I lov’d 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.

Here, here comes Master Signior Leonato, and the sexton too.

Which is the villain? Let me see his eyes,

That, when I note another man like him,

I may avoid him. Which of these is he?

If you would know your wronger, look on me.

Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast kill’d

Mine innocent child?

Yea, even I alone.

No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself:

Here stand a pair of honourable 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 sinn’d 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; and if your love

Can labour aught in sad invention,

Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb,

And sing it to her bones: sing it tonight.

Tomorrow morning come you to my house,

And since you could not be my son-in-law,

Be yet my nephew. My brother hath a daughter,

Almost the copy of my child that’s dead,

And she alone is heir to both of us:

Give her the right you should have given her cousin,

And so dies my revenge.

O noble sir,

Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me!

I do embrace your offer; and dispose

For henceforth of poor Claudio.

Tomorrow then I will expect your coming;

Tonight I take my leave. This naughty man

Shall face to face be brought to Margaret,

Who, I believe, was pack’d in all this wrong,

Hir’d to it by your brother.

No, by my soul she was not;

Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me;

But always hath been just and virtuous

In anything that I do know by her.

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. And also, the watch heard them talk of

one Deformed: they say he wears a key in his ear and a lock hanging by it,

and borrows money in God’s name, the which he hath used so long and

never paid, that now men grow hard-hearted, and will lend nothing for God’s

sake. Pray you, examine him upon that point.

I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.

Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverent

youth, and I praise God for you.

There’s for thy pains.

God save the foundation!

Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, 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, neighbour.

Until tomorrow morning, lords, farewell.

Farewell, my lords: we look for you tomorrow.

We will not fail.

Tonight I’ll mourn with Hero.

[To the Watch.] Bring you these fellows on. We’ll talk with

Margaret,

How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.