The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare (moboreader .TXT) 📕

How pitiful I deserve—

I mean in singing; but in loving Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and a whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse—why, they were never so truly turn’d over and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I cannot show it in rhyme. I have tried. I can find out no rhyme to ‘lady’ but ‘baby’

—an innocent rhyme; for ‘scorn,’ ‘horn’—a hard rhyme; for ‘school’, ‘fool’—a babbling rhyme: very ominous endings! No, I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor cannot woo in festival terms.

Enter Beatrice.

Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I call’d thee?

Beat. Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me.

Bene. O, stay but till then!

Beat. ‘Then’ is spoken. Fare you well now. And yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for, which is, with knowing what hath pass’d between you and Claudio.

Bene. Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee.

Beat. Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome. Therefore I will depart unkiss’d.

Bene. Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge; and either I must shortly hear from him or I will subscribe him a coward. And I pray thee now tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?

Beat. For them all together, which maintain’d so politic a state of evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?

Bene. Suffer love!—a good epithet. I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.

Beat. In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor heart! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours, for I will never love that which my friend hates.

Bene. Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

Beat. It appears not in this confession. There’s not one wise man among twenty, that will praise himself.

Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that liv’d in the time of good neighbours. If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps.

Beat. And how long is that, think you?

Bene. Question: why, an hour in clamour and a quarter in rheum.

Therefore is it most expedient for the wise, if Don Worm (his conscience) find no impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy. And now tell me, how doth your cousin?

Beat. Very ill.

Bene. And how do you?

Beat. Very ill too.

Bene. Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste.

Enter Ursula.

Urs. Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder’s old coil at home.

It is proved my Lady Hero hath been falsely accus’d, the Prince and Claudio mightily abus’d, and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone. Will you come presently?

Beat. Will you go hear this news, signior?

Bene. I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried thy eyes; and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle’s.

Exeunt.

Scene III.

A churchyard.

Enter Claudio, Don Pedro, and three or four with tapers, [followed by Musicians].

Claud. Is this the monument of Leonato?

Lord. It is, my lord.

Claud. [reads from a scroll]

Epitaph.

Done to death by slanderous tongues Was the Hero that here lies.

Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,

Gives her fame which never dies.

So the life that died with shame

Lives in death with glorious fame.

Hang thou there upon the tomb,

[Hangs up the scroll.]

Praising her when I am dumb.

Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.

Song.

Pardon, goddess of the night,

Those that slew thy virgin knight; For the which, with songs of woe, Round about her tomb they go.

Midnight, assist our moan,

Help us to sigh and groan

Heavily, heavily,

Graves, yawn and yield your dead, Till death be uttered

Heavily, heavily.

Claud. Now unto thy bones good night!

Yearly will I do this rite.

Pedro. Good morrow, masters. Put your torches out.

The wolves have prey’d, and look, the gentle day, Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey.

Thanks to you all, and leave us. Fare you well.

Claud. Good morrow, masters. Each his several way.

Pedro. Come, let us hence and put on other weeds, And then to Leonato’s we will go.

Claud. And Hymen now with luckier issue speeds Than this for whom we rend’red up this woe. Exeunt.

Scene IV

The hall in Leonato’s house.

Enter Leonato, Benedick, [Beatrice,] Margaret, Ursula, Antonio, Friar [Francis], Hero.

Friar. Did I not tell you she was innocent?

Leon. So are the Prince and Claudio, who accus’d her Upon the error that you heard debated.

But Margaret was in some fault for this, Although against her will, as it appears In the true course of all the question.

Ant. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well.

Bene. And so am I, being else by faith enforc’d To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.

Leon. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all, Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves, And when I send for you, come hither mask’d.

Exeunt Ladies.

The Prince and Claudio promis’d by this hour To visit me. You know your office, brother: You must be father to your brother’s daughter, And give her to young Claudio.

Ant. Which I will do with confirm’d countenance.

Bene. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.

Friar. To do what, signior?

Bene. To bind me, or undo me—one of them.

Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior, Your niece regards me with an eye of favour.

Leon. That eye my daughter lent her. ‘Tis most true.

Bene. And I do with an eye of love requite her.

Leon. The sight whereof I think you had from me, From Claudio, and the Prince; but what’s your will?

Bene. Your answer, sir, is enigmatical; But, for my will, my will is, your good will May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin’d In the state of honourable marriage;

In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.

Leon. My heart is with your liking.

Friar. And my help.

Enter Don Pedro and Claudio and two or three other.

Here comes the Prince and Claudio.

Pedro. Good morrow to this fair assembly.

Leon. Good morrow, Prince; good morrow, Claudio.

We here attend you. Are you yet determin’d To-day to marry with my brother’s daughter?

Claud. I’ll hold my mind, were she an Ethiope.

Leon. Call her forth, brother. Here’s the friar ready.

[Exit Antonio.]

Pedro. Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what’s the matter That you have such a February face,

So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness?

Claud. I think he thinks upon the savage bull.

Tush, fear not, man! We’ll tip thy horns with gold, And all Europa shall rejoice at thee, As once Europa did at lusty Jove

When he would play the noble beast in love.

Bene. Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low, And some such strange bull leap’d your father’s cow And got a calf in that same noble feat Much like to you, for you have just his bleat.

Enter [Leonato’s] brother [Antonio], Hero, Beatrice, Margaret, Ursula, [the ladies wearing masks].

Claud. For this I owe you. Here comes other reckonings.

Which is the lady I must seize upon?

Ant. This same is she, and I do give you her.

Claud. Why then, she’s mine. Sweet, let me see your face.

Leon. No, that you shall not till you take her hand Before this friar and swear to marry her.

Claud. Give me your hand before this holy friar.

I am your husband if you like of me.

Hero. And when I liv’d I was your other wife; [Unmasks.]

And when you lov’d you were my other husband.

Claud. Another Hero!

Hero. Nothing certainer.

One Hero died defil’d; but I do live, And surely as I live, I am a maid.

Pedro. The former Hero! Hero that is dead!

Leon. She died, my lord, but whiles her slander liv’d.

Friar. All this amazement can I qualify, When, after that the holy rites are ended, I’ll tell you largely of fair Hero’s death.

Meantime let wonder seem familiar,

And to the chapel let us presently.

Bene. Soft and fair, friar. Which is Beatrice?

Beat. [unmasks] I answer to that name. What is your will?

Bene. Do not you love me?

Beat. Why, no; no more than reason.

Bene. Why, then your uncle, and the Prince, and Claudio Have been deceived; for they swore you did.

Beat. Do not you love me?

Bene. Troth, no; no more than reason.

Beat. Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula Are much deceiv’d; for they did swear you did.

Bene. They swore that you were almost sick for me.

Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.

Bene. ‘Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?

Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense.

Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.

Claud. And I’ll be sworn upon’t that he loves her; For here’s a paper written in his hand, A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, Fashion’d to Beatrice.

Hero. And here’s another,

Writ in my cousin’s hand, stol’n from her pocket, Containing her affection unto Benedick.

Bene. A miracle! Here’s our own hands against our hearts.

Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity.

Beat. I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.

Bene. Peace! I will stop your mouth. [Kisses her.]

Beat. I’ll tell thee what, Prince: a college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No. If a man will be beaten with brains, ‘a shall wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.

For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee; but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruis’d, and love my cousin.

Claud. I had well hop’d thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgell’d thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double-dealer, which out of question thou wilt be if my cousin do not look exceeding narrowly to thee.

Bene. Come, come, we are friends. Let’s have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives’ heels.

Leon. We’ll have dancing afterward.

Bene. First, of my word! Therefore play, music. Prince, thou art sad. Get thee a wife, get thee a wife! There is no staff more reverent than one tipp’d with horn.

Enter Messenger.

Mess. My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight, And brought with