LITMIR.BIZ

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      Friar, it cannot be.

      Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left

      Is that she will not add to her damnation

      A sin of perjury; she not denies it.

      Why seek’st thou then to cover with excuse

      That which appears in proper nakedness?

       Friar.

      Lady, what man is he you are accus’d of?

       Hero.

      They know that do accuse me, I know none.

      If I know more of any man alive

      Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant,

      Let all my sins lack mercy! O my father,

      Prove you that any man with me convers’d

      At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight

      Maintain’d the change of words with any creature,

      Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death!

       Friar.

      There is some strange misprision in the princes.

       Bene.

      Two of them have the very bent of honor,

      And if their wisdoms be misled in this,

      The practice of it lives in John the Bastard,

      Whose spirits toil in frame of villainies.

       Leon.

      I know not. If they speak but truth of her,

      These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honor,

      The proudest of them shall well hear of it.

      Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,

      Nor age so eat up my invention,

      Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,

      Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,

      But they shall find, awak’d in such a kind,

      Both strength of limb, and policy of mind,

      Ability in means, and choice of friends,

      To quit me of them throughly.

       Friar.

      Pause awhile,

      And let my counsel sway you in this case.

      Your daughter here the [princes] left for dead,

      Let her awhile be secretly kept in,

      And publish it that she is dead indeed.

      Maintain a mourning ostentation,

      And on your family’s old monument

      Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites

      That appertain unto a burial.

       Leon.

      What shall become of this? what will this do?

       Friar.

      Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf

      Change slander to remorse; that is some good.

      But not for that dream I on this strange course,

      But on this travail look for greater birth:

      She dying, as it must be so maintain’d,

      Upon the instant that she was accus’d,

      Shall be lamented, pitied, and excus’d

      Of every hearer; for it so falls out

      That what we have we prize not to the worth

      Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack’d and lost,

      Why then we rack the value; then we find

      The virtue that possession would not show us

      Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio:

      When he shall hear she died upon his words,

      Th’ idea of her life shall sweetly creep

      Into his study of imagination,

      And every lovely organ of her life

      Shall come apparell’d in more precious habit,

      More moving, delicate, and full of life,

      Into the eye and prospect of his soul,

      Than when she liv’d indeed. Then shall he mourn,

      If ever love had interest in his liver,

      And wish he had not so accused her;

      No, though he thought his accusation true.

      Let this be so, and doubt not but success

      Will fashion the event in better shape

      Than I can lay it down in likelihood.

      But if all aim but this be levell’d false,

      The supposition of the lady’s death

      Will quench the wonder of her infamy.

      And if it sort not well, you may conceal her,

      As best befits her wounded reputation,

      In some reclusive and religious life,

      Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.

       Bene.

      Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you,

      And though you know my inwardness and love

      Is very much unto the Prince and Claudio,

      Yet, by mine honor, I will deal in this

      As secretly and justly as your soul

      Should with your body.

       Leon.

      Being that I flow in grief,

      The smallest twine may lead me.

       Friar.

      ’Tis well consented; presently away,

      For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.

      Come, lady, die to live; this wedding-day

      Perhaps is but prolong’d, have patience and endure.

       Exit [with all but Benedick and Beatrice].

      Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?

      Beat. Yea, and I will weep a while longer.

      Bene. I will not desire that.

      Beat. You have no reason, I do it freely.

      Bene. Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wrong’d.

      Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her!

      Bene. Is there any way to show such friendship?

      Beat. A very even way, but no such friend.

      Bene. May a man do it?

      Beat. It is a man’s office, but not yours.

      Bene. I do love nothing in the world so well as you—is not that strange?

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