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Urs.

      Sure I think so,

      And therefore certainly it were not good

      She knew his love, lest she’ll make sport at it.

       Hero.

      Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man,

      How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur’d,

      But she would spell him backward. If fair-fac’d,

      She would swear the gentleman should be her sister;

      If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antic,

      Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed;

      If low, an agot very vildly cut;

      If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;

      If silent, why, a block moved with none.

      So turns she every man the wrong side out,

      And never gives to truth and virtue that

      Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.

       Urs.

      Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.

       Hero.

      No, not to be so odd, and from all fashions,

      As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable.

      But who dare tell her so? If I should speak,

      She would mock me into air; O, she would laugh me

      Out of myself, press me to death with wit.

      Therefore let Benedick, like cover’d fire,

      Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly.

      It were a better death than die with mocks,

      Which is as bad as die with tickling.

       Urs.

      Yet tell her of it, hear what she will say.

       Hero.

      No, rather I will go to Benedick,

      And counsel him to fight against his passion,

      And truly I’ll devise some honest slanders

      To stain my cousin with. One doth not know

      How much an ill word may empoison liking.

       Urs.

      O, do not do your cousin such a wrong.

      She cannot be so much without true judgment—

      Having so swift and excellent a wit

      As she is priz’d to have—as to refuse

      So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.

       Hero.

      He is the only man of Italy,

      Always excepted my dear Claudio.

       Urs.

      I pray you be not angry with me, madam,

      Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick,

      For shape, for bearing, argument, and valor,

      Goes foremost in report through Italy.

       Hero.

      Indeed he hath an excellent good name.

       Urs.

      His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.

      When are you married, madam?

       Hero.

      Why, every day to-morrow. Come go in,

      I’ll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel

      Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.

      Urs. [Aside.]

      She’s limed, I warrant you. We have caught her, madam.

      Hero [Aside.]

      If it prove so, then loving goes by haps:

      Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

       [Exeunt Hero and Ursula.]

      Beat. [Coming forward.]

      What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?

      Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much?

      Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adieu!

      No glory lives behind the back of such.

      And, Benedick, love on, I will requite thee,

      Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand.

      If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee

      To bind our loves up in a holy band;

      For others say thou dost deserve, and I

      Believe it better than reportingly.

       Exit.

       ¶

       Matthew Peters, p. — John Peter Simon, e.

[Scene II]

       Enter Prince [Don Pedro], Claudio, Benedick, and Leonato.

      D. Pedro. I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon.

      Claud. I’ll bring you thither, my lord, if you’ll vouchsafe me.

      D. Pedro. 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 bow- string, 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.

      Bene. Gallants, I am not as I have been.

      Leon. So say I, methinks you are sadder.

      Claud. I hope he be in love.

      D. Pedro. Hang him, truant, there’s no true drop of blood in him to be truly touch’d with love. If he be sad, he wants money.

      Bene. I have the toothache.

      D. Pedro. Draw it.

      Bene. Hang it!

      Claud. You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards.

      D. Pedro. What? sigh for the toothache?

      Leon. Where is but a humor or a worm.

      Bene. Well, every one [can] master a grief but he that has it.

      Claud. Yet say I, he is in love.

      D. Pedro. There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises—as to be a Dutchman to-day, a Frenchman to- morrow, 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

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