Class JBE^^il^ Book > A L "H C? N° \ ^ 6 ^ COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 9^ SHAKESPEARE'S COMEDY OF MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING «£^ " and look, the scentle day, Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey ^v. 3. 25J. SHAKESPEARE'S COMEDY OF MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING Edited, with Notes, BY WILLIAM J. ROLFE, Litt. D., FORMERLY HEAD MASTER OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, CAMBRITJGB, MASS> WITH ENGRAVINGS. NEW YORK .:• CINCINNATI •:• CHICAGO AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY UB5?ARY of CONGRESS Two Cooies Received JUL 26 »906 Entry <^ (5 Sl^^sfeaflaBS ENGLISH CLASSICS. Edited by WM. J. ROLFE, Litt. D. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, 56 cents per volume. Shakespeare's Works; The Merchant of Venice. Richard III. Othello. Henry VIII. Julius Csesar. King Lear. A Midsummer-Night's Dream. The Taming of the Shrew^ Macbeth. .Ui;s Well that Ends Well. Hamlet. Coriolanus. Much Ado about Nothing. The Comedy of Errors. Romeo and Juliet. Cymbeline. As You Like It. Antony and Cleopatra. I'he Tempest. Measure for Measure. Twelfth Night. Merry Wives of Windsor. The Winter's Tale. Love's Labour 's Lost. King John. Two Gentlemen of Verona. Richard II. Timon of Athens. Henry IV. Part I. Troilus and Cressida. Henry IV. Part II. Pericles, Prince of Tyre. Henry V. The Two Noble Kinsmen. Henry VI. Part I, Venus and Adonis, Lucrece^ et Henry VI. Part II. Sonnets. Henry VI. Part III Titus Andronicus. Goldsmith's Select Poems. Browning's Select Poems. Gray's Select Poems. Browning's Select Dramas. Minor Poems of John Milton. Macaulay's Lays of Ancient RfiME. Wordsworth's Select Poems. Lambs' Tales from Shakespeare's Comedies. Lambs' Tales from Shakespeare's Tragedies. Edited by WM. J. ROLFE, Litt. D. Illustrated.. Cloth, 12ino, 50 cents per volume. Copyright, 1878 and 1898, by Harper & Brothers. Copyright, 1906, by William J. Rolfe. Much Ado about Nothing. W. P. V - CONTENTS. PAGE Introduction to Much Ado About Nothing 9 I. The History of the Play. 9 II. The Sources of the Plot 10 HI. Critical Comments on the Play 13 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 27 Act I , 29 " II 42 "in 63 " IV 81 " ^ 95 Notes.. , . ....,.,,....,... 115 a -f^ ^^lillliiSUli MESSINA, FROM THE SEA. INTRODUCTION TO MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. I. THE HISTORY OF THE PLAY. The first edition oi Much Ado About Nothing ^z.'s> a quarto, published in 1600 with the following title-page : Much adoe about j Nothing. | As it hath been sundrie times publikely \ acted by the right honourable, the Lord^ | Cham- berlaine his seruants. | Wi'itten by William Shakespeare. \ London | Printed by V. S. for Andrew Wise, and | William Aspley. I 1600. The earliest known reference to the play is in the Regis- ters of the Stationers' Company, among some miscellaneous memoranda at the beginning of Volume C* The memo- randum follows one dated May 27th, 1600, and is thus given by Arber : * See our ed. of As You Like It, p. 10. I o MUCH ADO ABOUT NO THING. 4. ^Ufliistl As yon like yt / a booke HENRY the FFIFT/ 3. hoo\iQ I, , .., .,., /IT /to DC StE16Q> Euery man tn his humou?- / a booke The commedie of'muche a Doo about nothing'' a booke/ The year is not given, but there can be little doubt that it was 1600. In the same volume, among the regular entries of the year 1600, we find the following: 23 ^ugustr Andrew Wyse Entred for their copies vnder the handes of the wardens Two William Aspley bookes. the one called Muche a Doo about nothinge. Th[e] other the second parte of the history of kinge HENRY the Illji^ with the hujnours of Sir JOHN FFA LLSTA FF : Wrytten by master SHAKESPERE xijd This, by the way, is the first occurrence of the poet's name in these Registers. The quarto of 1600 was, on the whole, well printed ; an'd no other edition of the play is known to have been issued previous to the publication of the Folio of 1623. The printers of the latter appear to have used a copy of the quarto belonging to the library of the theatre and corrected for the purposes of the stage ; but the changes are for the most part very slight and seldom for the better, as will be seen by our Notes below. As the play is not mentioned in Meres's list of 1598 (see our ed. of ^. K Z. p. 10), while it had been "sundrie times" acted before its publication in August, 1600, it was probably written in 1599. II. THE SOURCES OF THE PLOT. The earlier incidents of the serious portion of the plot may have been taken from the story of Ariodante and Ginevra in Ariosto's Orlando Fitfioso, canto v. ; where PoHnesso, in or- der to revenge himself on the princess Ginevra (who has rejected his suit and pledged her troth to Ariodante) induces INTROD UCTION. II her attendant Dalinda to personate the princess and to ap- pear at night at a balcony to which he ascends by a rope- ladder in sight of Ariodante, whom he has stationed there to witness the infidelity of Ginevra. A translation of this story by Peter Beverley was entered on the Stationers' Registers in 1565-6, and was doubtless printed soon afterwards; and in 1582-3 "A History of Ariodante and Geneuora" was "shewed before her Ma"^ on Shrovetuesdaie at night, enact- ed by Mr. Mulcasters children." According to Sir John Harrington, the same story had been "written in English verse " by George Turbervile, before the publication of his own translation of the Orlando in 1591. Spenser had also introduced the tale, with some variations, in the Faerie Queefie (ii. 4. 17 foL), and this part of the poem was pub- lished in 1590. It is more probable, however, that the source from which Shakespeare drew this part of his materials was the 22d Novel of Bandello, which had been translated into French by Belleforest in his Histoires Tragiqiies (see our ed. oiHam- ief, p. 13), and probably also rendered into English, though the version has not come down to our day. In Bandello's story, as in the play, the scene is laid at Messina; the father of the slandered maiden is Lionato ; and the friend of her lover is Don Piero, or Pedro. How closely the poet has followed the novel will be seen from the outline of the latter given by Staunton: "Don Piero of Arragon returns from a victorious campaign, and, with the gallant cavalier Timbreo di Cardona, is at Messina. Timbreo falls in love with Feni- cia, the daughter of Lionato di Lionati, a gentleman of Mes- sina, and, like Claudio in the play, courts her by proxy. He is successful in his suit, and the lovers are betrothed ; but the course of true love is impeded by one Girondo, a disap- pointed admirer of the lady, who determines to prevent the marriage. In pursuance of this object, he insinuates to Timbreo that Fenicia is false, and offers to show him a 12 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. stranger scaling her chamber window. The unhappy lover consents to watch ; and at the appointed hour Girondo and a servant in the plot pass him disguised, and the latter is seen to ascend a ladder and enter the house of Lionato. In an agony of rage and jealousy, Timbreo in the morning ac- cuses the lady of disloyalty, and rejects the alliance. Fenicia falls into a swoon; a dangerous illness supervenes; and the father, to stifle all rumours hurtful to her fame, removes her to a retired house of his brother, proclaims her death, and solemnly performs her funeral obsequies. Girondo is now struck with remorse at having ' slandered to death ' a creat- ure so innocent and beautiful. He confesses.his treachery to Timbreo, and both determine to restore the reputation of the lost one, and undergo any penance her family may impose. Lionato is merciful, and requires only from Timbreo that he shall wed a lady whom he recommends, and whose face shall be concealed till the marriage ceremony is over. The denouement is obvious. Timbreo espouses the mysteri- ous fair one, and finds in her his injured, loving, and beloved Fenicia." The comic portion of the play is Shakespeare's own, as indeed is everything else in it except this mere skeleton of tragic incident. Claudio and Hero, Don Pedro and Don John, are as really his own creations as Benedick and Bea- trice, Dogberry and Verges, who have no part in Bandello's novel or Ariosto's poem. As Knight remarks, " Ariosto made this story a tale of chivalry, Spenser a lesson of high and solemn morality, Bandello an interesting love-romance ; it was for Shakspere to surround the main incident with those accessories which he could nowhere borrow, and to make of it such a comedy as no other man has made — a comedy, not of manners or of sentiment, but of life viewed under its profoundest aspects, whether of the -grave or the ludicrous." INTRODUCTION. 13 III. CRITICAL COMMENTS ON THE PLAY. [^From SchlegePs '■'■Dramatic Literature.''^*'\ The manner in which the innocent Hero before the altar at the moment of the wedding, and in the presence of her family and many witnesses, is put to shame by a most de- grading charge, false indeed, yet clothed with every appear- ance of truth, is a grand piece of theatrical effect in the true and justifiable sense. The impression would have been too tragical had not Shakspeare carefully softened it, in order to prepare for a fortunate catastrophe. The discovery of the plot against Hero has been already partly made, though not by the persons interested ; and the poet has contrived, by means of the blundering simplicity of a couple of constables and watchmen, to convert the arrest and the examination of the guilty individuals into scenes full of the most delight- ful amusement. There is also a second piece of theatrical effect not inferior to the first, where Claudio, now convinced of his error, and in obedience to the penance laid on his fault, thinking to give his hand to a relation of his injured bride, whom he supposes dead, discovers, on her unmasking, Hero herself. The extraordinary success of this play in Shakspeare's own day, and even since in England, is, how- ever, to be ascribed more particularly to the parts of Bene- dick and Beatrice, two humorous beings, who incessantly attack each other with all the resources of raillery. Avow- edly rebels to love, they are both entangled in its net by a merry plot of their friends to make them believe that each is the object of the secret passion of the other. Some one or other, not overstocked with penetration, has objected to the same artifice being twice used in entrapping them ; the drollery, however, lies in the very symmetry of the deception. Their friends attribute the whole effect to their own device, * Lecticres on Dramatic Art and Literature, by A. W. Schlegel ; Black's translation, revised by Morrison (London, 1846), p. 386. H MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. but the exclusive direction of their raillery against each oth- er is in itself a proof of a growing inclination. Their witty vivacity does not even abandon them in the avowal of love \ and their behaviour only assumes a serious appearance for the purpose of defending the slandered Hero. This is ex- ceedingly well imagined; the lovers of jesting must fix a point beyond which they are not to indulge in their humour, if they would not be mistaken for buffoons by trade. \Froin Gervinus's " Shakespeare Commentaries.''''*'] Bandello's tale did not afford the poet even a hint of any moral view of the story; it is a bald narrative, containing nothing which could assist in the understanding of the Shakespearian piece. In As You Like It he had to conceal the vast moralizing of the source from which he drew his material ; here, on the other hand, he had to strike the latent spark within the material. The story of Claudio and Hero was transferred by Shakespeare from the shallow novel into life; he dived into the nature of the incidents; he investi- gated the probable character of the beings among whom it was imaginable ; he found the key-note by means of which he could bring the whole into harmony. The subject ex- panded in his hands ; the main action received an explana- tory prelude; the principal characters (Hero and Claudio) obtained an important counterpart in the connection between Benedick and Beatrice, which is entirely Shakespeare's prop- erty ; these characters gained an importance even beyond the principal ones ; the plot, as is ever the case with our poet, and as Coleridget has especially pointed out in this * Shakes-peare Commentaries, by Dr. G. G. Gervinus, translated by F. E. Bunnett; revised ed. (London, 1875), p. 406 fol. (by permission). A few slight verbal changes have been made by the editor. t Coleridge remarks : *' The interest in the plot is always on account of the characters, not vice versa, as in almost all other writers ; the plot is a mere canvas and no more. Hence arises the true justification of the INTR OD UC TION. 15 play, gave place to the characterization ; the question seems almost what manner of men made the much ado about noth- ing, rather than the ?iothing about which ado was made. The whole stress seems to lie, not in the plot, not in the outward interest of the catastrophe, but in the moral significance which the disturbance caused by Don John exercises upon the two engagements which are concluded and prepared, and again dissolved and left unconfirmed, or rather upon the beings who have entered into these engagements. . . . The poet has with extraordinary skill so arranged and introduced the tragic incident that the painful impression which is perhaps too sensible in the reading is lost in the acting. He omitted upon the stage the scene of Claudio's agitation on overhearing Hero, in order that he might thus avoid the gloom, and not weaken the comic scene in which a trap is laid for the listening Beatrice. The burlesque scenes of the constables are introduced with the impending tragic events, that they may afford a counterbalance to them and prevent them from having too lively an effect on the spectator. But, above all, we are already aware that the authors of the deception are in custody before Hero's dis- grace in the church takes place ; we know, therefore, that all the ado about her crime and death is for nothing. This tact of the poet in the construction of his comedy corresponds with that in the design of Claudio's character, and in the unusually happy contrast which he has presented to him in Benedick. Shakespeare has so blended the elements in same stratagem being used in regard to Benedick and Beatrice — the van- ity in each being alike. Take away from Much Ado About Nothing all that which is not indispensable to the plot, . . . take away Benedick, Beatrice, Dogberry, and the reaction of the former on the character of Hero, and what will remain ? In other writers the main agent of the plot is always the prominent character ; in Shakspeare it is so, or is not so, as the character is in itself calculated, or not calculated, to form the plot. Don John is the mainspring of the plot of this play ; but he is merely shown and then withdrawn." l6 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Claudio's nature, he has given such a good foundation of honour and self-reliance to his unstable mind and fickle youth, that we cannot, with all our disapprobation of his conduct, be doubtful as to his character. Changeable as he is, he continues stable in no choice of friends and loved ones, since he had never continuously tested them ; at the slightest convulsion of events he is overpowered by first im- pressions, and he is without the strength of will to search to the bottom of things. This would be an odious and despica- ble character, if the changeableness were not tempered by the sensitiveness of a tender feeling of honour. Our interest in Claudio is secured by this blending of the moral elements in his nature; but the foundation for a comic character does not appear to lie either in him or in the whole action in which he is implicated. If we separate it from the rest, we shall retain a painful and not a cheerful impression. The poet has thus added the connection between Benedick and Beatrice, in order to produce a merry counterbalance to the more serious and primary element of the play, and to make the former predominate. The same self-love and the same spoiling by prosperity fall to the lot of these two characters as to that of Claudio ; but, instead of his changeableness, we see in them only what, with a fine distinction, we should (with Benedick) call giddiness. We connect the idea of changeableness with a continual wavering after resolutions taken; that of giddiness with unstable opinions and inclina- tions before the same : changeableness manifests itself in actions, it is productive of pernicious consequences, and for this reason causes contempt and hatred; giddiness manifests itself only in contrary processes of the mind, which are by nature harmless, and this is the reason why it offers excel- lent material for comedy. Few characters, therefore, on the stage have such truly comic character as Benedick and Bea- trice, and they have not lost their popularity in England even to the present day. Shakespeare's contemporary, Leonard IN TROD UCTION. I? DIgges, speaks of them together with Falstaff and Malvolio as the favourites of the pubUc of that day ; as characters which filled pit, gallery, and boxes in a moment, while Ben Jonson's comedies frequently did not pay for fire and door- keeper. ... It would have been difficult for Benedick and Beatrice in the midst of their hostile raillery to come to a serious ex- planation ; the concluding scene itself proves this, after events have led to this explanation. This is brought about by the heartless scene which Claudio prepares for Hero in the church. The better nature of Beatrice bursts forth to light amid this base ill-treatment. Her true love for Hero, her deep conviction of her innocence, her anger at the de- liberate malice of her public dishonour, stir up her whole soul and make it a perfect contrast to what we have seen in her hitherto. . . . Sorrow for Hero and for the honour of her house makes Beatrice gentle, tender, and weakened into tears; this "happy hour" facilitates to both their serious confession. But at the same time this hour of misfortune tests these beings, accustomed as they are only to jest and raillery, by a heavy trial, in the sustaining of which we are convinced that these gifted natures are not devoid of that seriousness which regards no earnest situation with frivolity. We should more readily have imputed this gift to Claudio, but we find it existing far more in the humorous couple who had not taken life so lightly, and who had at last accustomed themselves to truth. Beatrice places before Benedick the cruel choice between her esteem and love and his connec- tion with his friend. His great confidence in her, and in her unshaken confidence in Hero, led him to make his diffi- cult decision, in which he acts with vigour and prudence, very differently from Claudio in his difficulties. Beatrice, the untamed colt, learns at the same time how the most masculine woman cannot dispense with assistance in certain cases ; she has moreover seen her Benedick in a position in 1 8 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. which he responds to her ideal of a man, in whom mirth and seriousness should be justly blended. . . . Benedick goes off the stage with a confession of his giddiness, but it is a giddi- ness overcome, and we have no reason to be anxious either for the constancy or for the peaceableness of this pair. The poet has bestowed upon them two names of happy augury. . . . ^From Mrs. Jameson's " Characteristics of Women.^''*'\ Shakspeare has exhibited in Beatrice a spirited and faithful portrait of the fine lady of his own time. The deportment, language, manners, and allusions are those of a particular class in a particular age ; but the individual and dramatic character which forms the groundwork is strongly discrim- inated, and being taken from general nature, belongs to ev- ery age. In Beatrice, high intellect and high animal spir- its meet, and excite each other like fire and air. In her wit (which is brilliant without being imaginative) there is a touch of insolence, not unfrequent in women when the wit predominates over reflection and imagination. In her tem- per, too, there is a slight infusion of the termagant ; and her satirical humour plays with sucti an unrespective levity over all subjects alike that it required a profound knowledge of women to bring such a character within the pale of our sym- pathy. But Beatrice, though wilful, is not wayward j she is volatile, not unfeeling. She has not only an exuberance of wit and gayety, but of heart and soul and energy of spirit ; and is no more like the fine ladies of modern comedy — whose wit consists in a temporary allusion, or a play upon words, and whose petulance is displayed in a toss of the head, a flirt of the fan, or a flourish of the pocket-handkerchief — than one of our modern dandies is like Sir Philip Sidney. In Beatrice, Shakspeare has contrived that the poetry of the character shall not only soften, but heighten its comic effect. We are not only inclined to forgive Beatrice all her * American ed. (Boston, 1857), p. 99 fol. INTRODUCTION. 1 9 scornful airs, all her biting jests, all her assumption of supe- riority ; but they amuse and delight us the more when we find her, with all the headlong simplicity of a child, falling at once into the snare laid for her affections ; when we see her who thought a man of God's making not good enough for her, who disdained to be o'ermastered by " a piece of valiant dust," stooping like the rest of her sex, vailing her proud spirit and taming her wild heart to the loving hand of him whom she had scorned, flouted, and misused " past the endurance of a block." And we are yet more completely won by her generous enthusiastic attachment to her cousin. When the father of Hero believes the tale of her guilt ; when Claudio, her lover, without remorse or a lingering doubt, consigns her to shame ; when the Friar remains silent, and the generous Benedick himself knows not what to say, Bea- trice, confident in her affections, and guided only by the impulses of her own feminine heart, sees through the incon- jv^sistency, the impossibility of the charge, and exclaims, without a moment's hesitation, " O, on my soul, my cousin is belied !" Schlegel, in his remarks on the play, has given us an amusing instance of that sense of reality with which we are impressed by Shakspeare's characters. He says of Bene- dick and Beatrice, as if he had known them personally, that the exclusive direction of their pointed raillery against each other " is a proof of a growing inclination." This is not unlikely; and the same inference would lead us to suppose that this mutual inclination had commenced before the opening of the play. The very first words uttered by Bea- trice are an inquiry after Benedick, though expressed with her usual arch impertinence : — " I pray you, is Signior Montanto returned from the wars, or no ?" "I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these wars? But how many hath he killed ? for indeed I promised to eat all of his killing." 20 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. And in the unprovoked hostility with which she falls upon him in his absence, in the pertinacity and bitterness of her satire, there is certainly great argument that he occupies much more of her thoughts than she would have been will- ing to confess, even to herself In the same manner Bene- dick betrays a lurking partiality for his fascinating enemy ; he shows that he has looked upon her with no careless eye when he says, " There 's her cousin [meaning Beatrice], an she were not possessed with a fury, excels her as much in beauty as the first of May does the last of December." Infinite skill, as well as humour, is shown in making this pair of airy beings the exact counterpart of each other ; but of the two portraits, that of Benedick is by far the most pleasing, because the independence and gay indifference of temper, the laughing defiance of love and marriage, the satirical freedom of expression, common to both, are more becoming to the masculine than to the feminine character. Any woman might love such a cavalier as Benedick, and be proud of his affection ; his valour, his wit, and his gayety sit so gracefully upon him ! and his light scoffs against the pow- er of love are but just sufficient to render more piquant the conquest of this " heretic in despite of beauty." But a man might well be pardoned who should shrink from, encounter- ing such a spirit as that of Beatrice, unless, indeed, he had "served an apprenticeship to the taming-school." The wit of Beatrice is less good-humoured than that of Benedick; or, from the difference of sex, appears so. It is observable that the power is throughout on her side, and the sympathy and interest on his : which, by reversing the usual order of things, seems to excite us against the graift, if I may use such an expression. In all their encounters she constantly gets the better of him, and the gentleman's wits go off halting, if he is not himself fairly hors de combat. Beatrice, woman-like, generally has the first word, and will have the last. . . . INTROD UC TION: 2 1 In the midst of all this tilting and sparring of their nimble and fiery wits, we find them infinitely anxious for the good opinion of each other, and secretly impatient of each other's scorn ; but Beatrice is the most truly indifferent of the two — the most assured of herself The comic effect produced by their mutual attachment, which, however natural and expect- ed, comes upon us with all the force of a surprise, cannot be surpassed : and how exquisitely characteristic the mutual avowal ! . . . The character of Hero is well contrasted with that of Beatrice, and their mutual attachment is very beautiful and natural. When they are both on the scene together, Hero has but little to say for herself: Beatrice asserts the rule of a master spirit, eclipses her by her mental superiority, abashes her by her raillery, dictates to her, answers for her, and would fain inspire her gentle-hearted cousin with some of her own assurance. " Yes, faith ; it is my cousin's duty to make curtsy and say ' Father, as it please you.' — But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy and say ' Father, as it please me.' " But Shakspeare knew well how to make one character sub- ordinate to another, without sacrificing the slightest portion of its effect ; and Hero, added to her grace and softness, and all the interest which attaches to her as the sentimental heroine of the play, possesses an intellectual beauty of her own. When she has Beatrice at an advantage, she repays her with interest, in the severe but most animated and ele- gant picture she draws of her cousin's imperious character and unbridled levity of tongue. The portrait is a little over- charged, because administered as a corrective, and intended to be overheard : "But nature never fram'd a woman's heart Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice : Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes," etc. Beatrice never appears to greater advantage than in her 22 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. soliloquy after leaving her concealment " in the pleached bower where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, forbid the sun to enter ;" she exclaims, after listening to this tirade against herself, — "What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much?" The sense of wounded vanity is lost in better feelings, and she is infinitely more struck by what is said m praise of Benedick, and the history of his supposed Jove for her, than by the dispraise of herself. The imi:pediate success of the trick is a most natural consequence of the self-assurance and magnanimity of her character; she is so accustomed to assert dominion over the spirits of others that she cannot suspect the possibility of a plot laid against herself. ... It is remarkable that, notwithstanding the point and vivac- ity of the dialogue, few of the speeches of Beatrice are capa- ble of a general application, or engrave themselves distinctly on the memory ; they contain more mirth than matter ; and though wit be the predominant feature in the dramatic por- trait, Beatrice more charms and dazzles us by what she is than by what she says. It is not merely her sparkling rep- artees and saucy jests, it is the soul of wit, and the spirit of gayety informing the whole character — looking out from her brilliant eyes, and laughing on the full lips that pout with scorn — which we have before us, moving and full of life. On the whole, we dismiss Benedick and Beatrice to their matrimonial bonds rather with a sense of amusement than a feeling of congratulation or sympathy; rather with an acknowledgment that they are well-matched and worthy of each other, than with any well-founded expectation of their domestic tranquillity. If, as Benedick asserts, they are both " too wise to woo peaceably," it may be added that both are too wise, too witty, and too wilful to live peaceably together. We have some misgivings about Beatrice — some apprehen- sions that poor Benedick will not escape the " predestinated INTRODUCTION. 23 scratched face," which he had foretold to him who should win and wear this quick-witted and pleasant-spirited lady ; yet when we recollect that to the wit and imperious temper of Beatrice is united a magnanimity of spirit which would naturally place her far above all selfishness, and all paltry struggles for power — when we perceive, in the midst of her sarcastic levity and volubility of tongue, so much of generous affection, and such a high sense of female virtue and honour, we are inclined to hope the best. We think it possible that though the gentleman may now and then swear, and the lady scold, the native good-humour of the one, the really fine understanding of the other, and the value they so evidently attach to each other's esteem, will insure them a tolerable portion of domestic felicity; and in this hope we leave them. Note by the Editor. — The poet Campbell, in his introduction to the play, remarks : " Mrs. Jameson, in her characters of Shakespeare, concludes with hoping that Beatrice will live happy with Benedick, but I have no such hope ; and my final anticipation in reading the play is the certainty that Beatrice will provoke her Benedick to give her much and just conjugal castigation. She is an odious woman. Her own cousin says of her — * Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, Misprising what they look on, and her wit Values itself so highly that to her All matter else seems weak: she cannot love. Nor take no shape nor project of affection, She is so self-endeared.' I once knew such a pair ; the lady was a perfect Beatrice ; she railed hypocritically at wedlock before her marriage, and with bitter sincerity after it. She and her Benedick now live apart, but with entire reci- procity of sentiments, each devoutly wishing that the other may soon pass into a better world. Beatrice is not to be compared, but contrasted, with Rosalind, who is equally witty ; but the sparkling sayings of Rosa- lind are like gems upon her head at court, and like dew-drops on her bright hair in the woodland forest." Verplanck, after quoting this passage, comments upon it as follows : "We extract this last criticism, partly in deference to Campbell's gen- eral exquisite taste and reverent appreciation of Shakespeare's genius, ^nd partly as an example of the manner in which accidental personal 24 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. associations influence taste and opinion. The critical poet seems to have unhappily suffered under the caprices or insolence of some accom- plished but fantastical female wit, whose resemblance he thinks he recognizes in Beatrice; and then vents the offences of the belle of Edin- burgh or London upon her prototype of Messina, or more probably of the court of Queen Elizabeth. Those who, without encountering any such unlucky cause of personal prejudice, have looked long enough upon the rapidly passing generations of wits and beauties in the gay world to have noted their characters as they first appeared, and subsequently developed themselves in after-life, will pronounce a very different judg- ment. Beatrice's faults are such as ordinarily spring from the conscious- ness of talent and beauty, accompanied with the high spirits of youth and health, and the play of a lively fancy. Her brilliant intellectual qualities are associated with strong and generous feelings, high confi- dence in female truth and virtue, warm attachment to her friends, and quick, undisguised indignation at wrong and injustice. There is the rich materia], which the experience and the sorrows of maturer life, the affec- tion and the duties of the wife and the mother, can gradually shape into the noblest forms of matronly excellence ; and such, we doubt not, was the result shown in ilhe married life of Beatrice." We may add what Mr. Furnivall says on the same subject : " Beatrice is the sauciest, most piquant, sparkling, madcap girl that Shakspere ever drew, and yet a loving, deep-natured, true woman too. . . . She gives her heart to Benedick. . . . The two understand one another. We all know what it means. The brightest, sunniest married life, comfort in sorrow, doubling of joy. . . . The poet Campbell's story of his pair was an utter mistake : he never knew a Beatrice." See also the extract from Gervinus, p. i8 above. \From Weiss' s " Wit^ Humor ^ and Shakspeare.''^*'] At first it seems as if Shakspeare intended by the intro- duction of Dogberry and his ineffective watch merely to interpolate a bit of comic business, by parodying the im- portant phrases and impotent exploits of the suburban con- stable. But Dogberry's mission extended farther than that, and is intimately woven with delightful unconsciousness on his part into the fortunes of Hero. Dogberry is not only immortal for that, but his name will never die so long as village communities in either hemi- * Wit, Humor, and Shakspeare, by John Weiss (Boston, 1876), p. 75 fol. INTRODUCTION. 25 sphere elect their guardians of the peace and clothe them in verbose terrors. If the town is unfortunately short of rascals, the officer will fear one in each bush, or extemporize one out of some unbelligerent starveling to show that the majestic instructions of his townsmen have not been wasted on him. This elaborate inefficiency is frequently selected by busy communities, because so few persons are there clumsy enough to be unemployed. Such a vagrom is easily comprehended. Dogberry has caught up the turns and idioms of sagacious speech, and seems to be blowing them up as life-belts j so he goes bobbing helplessly around in the froth of his talk. . . . He is the most original of Mal- aprops, says to the prince's order that it shall be suffigance, and tells the watch that salvation were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them. He has furnished mankind with that adroit phrase of con- versational escape from compromise, " comparisons are odor- ous." . . . His brain seems to be web -footed, and tumbles over itself in trying to reach swimming-water ; as when he says, " Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves, and it will go near to be thought so short- ly." This is the precipitancy of a child's reasoning. . . . Dogberry admires and cossets his own authority, but is too timid to enforce it save with poor old Verges, whose mental feebleness is an exact shadow of Dogberry's ; and the latter manages to step upon himself in amusing uncon- sciousness. " An old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire they were." A good old man, sir, but he will gabble. All men are not alike, alas I So he goes on, dismissing himself, and slamming to the door with- out observing it. But when the watch blunders by reason of idiocy into ar- resting Borachio, who was the agent in the plot against Hero, the innocent Conrade is found in his company, listening to his disclosures. He too is carried off and confronted with 26 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Dogberry before the whole " dissembly " of constables. Then and there Conrade calls him in set terms an ass. Dogberry flickers up into a kind of lukewarmness, and does his little to resent it. "Dost thou not suspect my years?" " Thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved." . . . He was never called ass before ; for Conrade was probably the first free-spoken prisoner entirely innocent of malaprop- isms that he had ever faced. He cannot compose his shal* low fluster ; for it is as deep as he is, and it even comes splashing into the pathos of the moment when the wrong done to Hero is discovered, who is not yet known to be still living. He wants the man punished who called him ass, not the man who was the slanderer of Hero. Standing round him are noble natures touched with sorrow and remorse ; but for him Conrade is " the plaintiff, the offender," who did call him ass. Dead, shamed, ruined Plero, distracted lover, and tender father retreat into a background upon which he scrawls himself an ass. . . . Here the comedy of Dogberry's character acquires a touch of humour; for so are we obliged to tolerate in our profoundest moments the trivialities of those who do not know or cannot contain our serious mood. There is underlying humour in the fact that all this igno- rance and inconsequence, this burlesquing of the detective's business, effects what the age and wisdom of Leonato and the instinct of the Ibver Claudio could not: namely, the dis- covery of Hero's innocence and of the plot to besmirch her chastity in the eyes of her lover. The wise men are taken in, and the accident of folly undeceives them. Then it be- comes no longer an accident, but the regimen of the world adopts and puts it to a use. Here comedy becomes humor- ous, because it is shown how the fortunes of the good and prudent are involved with all the vulgarities of the world, and justice itself, which is nothing if not critical, cannot make up its case without non-sequiturs. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. DRAMATIS PERSONM Don Pedro, prince of Arragon. Don John, his bastard brother. Claudio, a young lord of Florence. Benedick, a young lord of Padua. Leonato, governor of Messina. Antonio, his brother, Balthazar, attendant on Don Pedro. CONRADE, I - ,, . _ T 1 BoRACHio, 1 followers of Don John. Friar Francis. Dogberry, a constable. Verges, a headborougk. A Sextoa. A Boy, Hero, daughter to Leonato. Beatrice, niece to Leonato. [ gentlewomen attending on Here Ursula, Messengers, Watch, Attendants, &c Scene: Messina. ACT I. Scene I. Before Leonatd's House. Enter Leonato, Hero, and Beatrice, with a Messenger. Leonato. I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina. Messe7iger. He is very near by this ; he was not three leagues off when I left him. Leonato. How many gentlemen have you lost in this action ? Messenger. But few of any sort, and none of narne. Leonato. A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers. I find here that Don Pedro hath be- stowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio. Messenger. Much deserved on his part and equally re- 3<^ MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. membered by Don Pedro ; he hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing in the figure of a lamb the feats of a lion : he hath indeed better bettered expectation than you must expect of me to tell you how. is Leonato. He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very much glad of it. Messenger. I have already delivered him letters, and there appears much joy in him ; even so much that joy could not show itself modest enough without a badge of bitterness. Leonato. Did he break out into tears .'' 21 Messenger. In great measure. Leonato. A kind overflow of kindness ; there are no faces truer than those that are so washed. How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping ! Beatrice. I pray you, is Signior Montanto returned from the wars or no ? Messenger. I know none of that name, lady; there was none such in the army of any sort. Leonato. What is he that you ask for, niece ? 30 Hero. My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua. Messenger. O, he 's returned ; and as pleasant as ever he was. Beatrice. He set up his bills here in Messina and chal- lenged Cupid at the flight ; and my uncle's fool, reading the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and challenged him at the bird-bolt. I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these wars.** But how many hath he killed.'' for indeed I promised to eat all of his killing. Leonato. Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much \ but he '11 be meet with you, I doubt it not. 41 Messenger. He hath done good service, lady, in these wars. Beatrice. You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it : he is a very valiant trencher-man ; he hath an excellent Stomach. Messenger. And a good soldier too, lady. ACT I. SCENE T. 3» Beatrice. And a good soldier to a lady ; but what is he to a lord ? Messenger. A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed with all honourable virtues. 50 Beatrice. It is so, indeed ; he is no less than a stuffed man : but for the stuffing, — well, we are all mortal. Leonato. You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her ; they never meet but there 's a skirmish of wit between them. Beatrice. Alas ! he gets nothing by that. In our last conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man governed with one : so that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse ; for it is all the wealth that he hath left, to be known a reasonable creature. — Who is his com- panion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother. Messenger. Is 't possible ? 63 Beatrice. Very easily possible : he wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat ; it ever changes with the next block. Messenger. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books. Beatrice. No ; an he were, I would burn my study. But, I pray you, who is his companion ? Is there no young squarer now that will make a voyage with him to the devil .'' Messenger. He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio. 71 Beatrice. O Lord, he will hang upon him like a disease ; he is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio! if he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a thousand pound ere he be cured. Messenger. I will hold friends with you, lady. Beatrice. Do, good friend. Leonato. You will never run mad, niece. Beatrice. No, not till a hot January. 8q Messenger. Don Pedro is approached. 32 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Claudio, Benedick, and Balthazar. Don Pedro. Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your trouble j the fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it. Leonato. Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of your grace : for trouble being gone, comfort should re- main ; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave. Don Pedro. You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this is your daughter. 90 Leonato. Her mother hath many times told me so. Benedick. Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her ? Leonato. Signior Benedick, no ; for then were you a child. Don Pedro. You have it full. Benedick ; we may guess by this what you are, being a man. Truly, the lady fathers herself. — Be happy, lady \ for you are like an honourable father. Benedick. If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is, loo Beatrice. I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick ; nobody marks you. Benedick. What, my dear Lady Disdain ! are you yet liv- ing? , Beatrice. Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence. Betiedick. Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted : and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart ; for, truly, I love none. nt Beatrice. A dear happiness to women ; they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God ACT L SCENE L ^3 and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that ; 1 had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me. Benedick. God keep your ladyship still in that mind ! so some gentleman or other shall scape a predestinate scratched face. Beatrice. Scratching could not make it worse, an 't were such a face as yours were. 121 Benedick. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher. Beatrice. A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours. Benedick. I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way, o' God's name ; I have done. Beatrice. You always end with a jade's trick; I know you of old. 129 Don Pedro. That is the sum of all, Leonato. — Signior Claudio and Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath invited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at the least a month ; and he heartily prays some occasion may detain us longer. I dare swear he is no hypocrite, but prays from his heart. Leonato. If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn. —[To Don yohi{\ Let me bid you welcome, my lord : being reconciled to the prince your brother, I owe you all duty. Don yohfi. I thank you ; I am not of many words, but I thank you, 140 Leonato. Please it your grace lead on ? Don Pedro. Your hand, Leonato ; we will go together. \Exeiint all except Benedick and Claudio, Claudio. Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato ? Benedick. I noted her not ; but I looked on her. Claudio. Is she not a modest young lady? Benedick. Do you question me, as an honest man should 34 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. do, for my simple true judgment; or would you have me speak after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex ? ISO Claudio. No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment. Benedick. Why, i' faith, methinks she 's too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too little for a great praise : only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome ; and being no other but as she is, I do not like her. Claudio. Thou thinkest I am in sport ; I pray thee tell me truly how thou likest her. Benedick. Would you buy her, that you inquire after her ? Claudio. Can the world buy such a jewel ? i&a Benedick. Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this with a sad brow ? or do you play the flouting Jack, to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder and Vulcan a rare car- penter? Come, in what key shall a man take you, to go in the song? Claudio. In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on. Benedick. I can see yet without spectacles, and I see no such matter \ there 's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December. But I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you ? 172 Claudio. \ would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my wife. Benedick. Is 't come to this, i' faith? Hath not the world one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion ? Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again ? Go to, i' faith ; an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away Sundays. Look, Don Pedro is returned to seek you. ACT I. SCENE I. 35 Re-enter Don Pedro. Don Pedro. What secret hath held you here, that you fol- lowed not to Leonato's ? iSi Benedick. I would your grace would constrain me to tell. Don Pedro. I charge thee on thy allegiance. Benedick. You hear, Count Claudio : I can be secret as a dumb man, I would have you think so ; but, on my alle- giance, mark you this, on my allegiance. — He is in love. With who ? now that is your grace's part. Mark how short his answer is : — With Hero, Leonato's short daughter. Claudio. If this were so, so were it uttered. Benedick. Like the old tale, my lord : ' it is not so, nor 't was not so, but, indeed, God forbid it should be so.' 191 Claudio. If my passion change not shortly, God forbid it should be otherwise. Don Pedro. Amen, if you love her ; for the lady is very well worthy. Claudio. You speak this to fetch me in, my lord. Don Pedro. By my troth, I speak my thought. Claudio. And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine. Benedick. And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine. 200 Claudio. That I love her, I feel. Don Pedro. That she is worthy, I know. Benedick. That I neither feel how she should be loved nor know how she should be worthy, is the opinion that fire can- not melt out of me ; I will die in it at the stake. Don Pedro. Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty. Claudio. And never could maintain his part but in the force of his will. 209 Benedick. That a woman conceived me, I thank her ; that she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks: but that I will have a recheat winded in my forehead, or 36 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick, all women shall par- don me. Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none ; and the fine is, for the which I may go the finer, I will live a bachelor. Don Pedro. I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love. 218 Be7iedick. With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord, not with love ; prove that ever I lose more blood with love than I will get again with drinking, pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen and hang me up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of blind Cupid. Don Pedro. Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument. Benedick. If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me ; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on the shoul- der, and called Adam. Don Pedro. Well, as time shall try ; ' In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.' 230 Benedick. The savage bull may, but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set them in my forehead ; and let me be vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write ' Here is good horse to hire,' let them signify under my sign ' Here you may see Benedick the mar- ried man.' Claudio. If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad. Don Pedro. Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly. 240 Benedick. I look for an earthquake too, then. Don Pedro. Well, you will temporize with the hours. lu the meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to Leonato's : commend me to him, and tell him I will not fail him at sup- per ; for indeed he hath made great preparation. Benedick. I have almost matter enough in me for such an embassage ; and so I commit you — ACT I. SCENE 1. 37 Claudio. To the tuition of God : from my house, if I had It, 249 Don Pedro. The sixth of July ; your loving friend, Benedick. Benedick. Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your discourse is sometime guarded with fragments, and the guards are but slightly basted on neither : ere you flout old ends any further, examine your conscience ; and so I leave you. \Exit. Claudio. My liege, your highness now may do me good. Don Pedro. My love is thine to teach ; teach it but how, And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn Any hard lesson that may do thee good. Claudio. Hath Leonato any son, my lord? 260 Don Pedro. No child but Hero ; she 's his only heir. Dost thou affect her, Claudio ? Claudio. O, my lord. When you went onward on this ended action, I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye. That lik'd, but had a rougher task in hand Than to drive liking to the name of love ; But now I am return'd and that war-thoughts Have left their places vacant, in their rooms Come thronging soft and delicate desires. All prompting me how fair young Hero is, tio Saying, I lik'd her ere I went to wars, — • Don Pedro. Thou wilt be like a lover presently And tire the hearer with a book of words. If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it, And I will break with her and with her father. And thou shalt have her. Was 't not to this end That thou began'st to twist so fine a story ? Claudio. How sweetly you do minister to love, That know love's grief by his complexion ! But lest my liking might too sudden seem, a8« I would have salv'd it with a longer treatise. -8 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Don Pedro. What need the bridge much broader than the flood ? The fairest grant is the necessity. Look, what will serve is fit ; 't is once, thou.lovest, And I will fit thee with the remedy. I know we shall have revelling to-night ; I will assume thy part in some disguise And tell fair Hero I am Claudio, And in her bosom I '11 unclasp my heart And take her hearing prisoner with the force 290 And strong encounter of my amorous tale ; Then after to her father will I break ; And the conclusion is, she shall be thine. In practice let us put it presently. [Exeunt. Scene II. A Room i?i Leonato'^s House, Enter Leonato and Antonio, meetiftg. Leonato. How now, brother ! Where is my cousin, your son? hath he provided this music? Antonio. He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can tell you strange news that you yet dreamt not of. Leonato. Are they good ? 'Antonio. As the^ event stamps them; but they have a good cover, they show well outward. The prince and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley in mine orchard, were thus much overheard by a man of mine : the prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my niece your daughter and meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance ; and if he found her accordant, he meant to take the present time by the top and instantly break with you of it. 13 Leonato. Hath the fellow any wit that told you this ? Antonio. A good sharp fellow ; I will send for him, and question him yourself Leonato. No, no ; we will hold it as a dream till it appeal ACT I. SCENE III. 39 Itself: but I will acquaint my daughter withal, that she may be the better prepared for an answer, if peradventure this be true. Go you and tell her of it. — \Enter attendants?^ Cousins, you know what you have to do. — O, I cry you mercy, friend ; go you with me, and I will use your skill. — Good cousin, have a care this busy time. \Exewit. Scene III. The Same. Enter Don John and Conrade. Conrade. What the good-year, my lord I why are you thus out of measure sad ? Don jfohn: There is no measure in the occasion that breeds it ; therefore the sadness is without limit. Conrade. You should hear reason. Don John. And when I have heard it, what blessing brings it? Conrade. If not a present remedy, at least a patient suf- ferance. 9 Don John. I wonder that thou, being, as thou sayest thou art, born under Saturn, goest about to apply a moral medi- cine to a mortifying mischief I cannot hide what I am ; I must be sad when I have cause and smile at no man's jests, eat when I have stomach and wait for no man's leisure, sleep when I am drowsy and tend on no man's business, laugh when I am merry and claw no man in his humour. i6 Co7irade. Yea, but you must not make the full show of this till you may do it without controlment. You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath ta'en you newly into his grace, w^here it is impossible you .should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself; it is needful that you frame the season for your own harvest. Don John. I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace, and it better fits my blood to be disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob love from any ; in 40 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, this, though I cannot be said to be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied but I am a plain-deahng villain. I am trusted with a muzzle and enfranchised with a clog ; therefore I have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had ray mouth, I would bite ; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking; in the mean time let me be that I am and seek not to alter me. 32 Conrade. Can you make no use of your discontent .'' Don yohn. I make all use of it, for I use it only. — Who comes here 1 — Enter Borachio. What news, Borachio ? Borachio. I came yonder from a great supper : the prince your brother is royally entertained by Leonato j and I can give you intelligence of an intended marriage. 39 Don yoh?i. Will it serve for any model to build mischief on ? What is he for a fool that betroths himself to unquiet- ness? Borachio. Marry, it is your brother's right hand. Don yohn. Who? the most exquisite Claudio? Borachio. Even he. Don John. A proper squire ! And who, and who ? which way looks he ? Borachio. Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of Le- onato. 49 Don John. A very forward March-chick ! How came you to this? Borachio. Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was smok- ing a musty room, comes me the prince and Claudio, hand in hand, in sad conference ; I whipt me behind the arras, and there heard it agreed upon that the prince should woo Hero for himself, and having obtained her, give her to Count Claudio. Don jfohn. Come, come, let us thither; this may prove ACT /. SCENE III, 41 food to my displeasure. That young start-up hath all the glory of my overthrow ; if I can cross him any way, I bless myself every way. You are both sure, and will assist me .? Cofirade. To the death, my lord, 62 Do7i y^ohft. Let us to the great supper ; their cheer is the greater that I am subdued. Would the cook were of my mind ! Shall we go prove what 's to be done ? Borachio. We '11 wait upon your lordship. [Exeunt. the little hangman" (iii. 2. 10). ACT II. Scene I. A Hall in Leonato's House. Enter Leonato, Antonio, Hero, Beatrice, and others. - Leonato. Was not Count John here at supper? Antonio. I saw him not. Beatrice. How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heart-burned an hour after. flero. He is of a very melancholy disposition. ACT 11. SCENE I. 43 Beatrice. He were an excellent man that were made just in the midway between him and Benedick ; the one is too like an image and says nothing, and the other too like my lady's eldest son, evermore tattling. 9 Leonato. Then half Signior Benedick's tongue in Count John's mouth, and half Count John's melancholy in Signior Benedick's face, — Beatrice. With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world, — if he could get her good will. Leonato. By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue. Antonio. In faith, she 's too curst; Beatrice. Too curst is more than curst : I shall lessen God's sending that way ; for it is said, ' God sends a curst cow short horns ;' but to a cow too curst he sends none. 21 Leonato. So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns. Beatrice. Just, if he send me no husband; for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening. Lord ! I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face ; I had rather lie in the woollen. Leonato. You may light on a husband that hath no beard. Beatrice. What should I do with him ? dress him in my apparel and make him my waiting-gentlewoman ? He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man ; and he that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man I am not for him : therefore I will even take sixpence in earnest of the bear-herd, and lead his apes into hell. 35 Leonato. Well, then, go you into hell ? Beatrice. No, but to the gate ; and there will the devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and say *Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven; here 's no place for you maids :' so deliver I up my apes, and away 44 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, to Saint Peter for the heavens ; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long. Antonio. [To Hero"] Well, niece, I trust you will be ruled by your father. 44 Beatrice. Yes, faith ; it is my cousin's duty to make curt- sy and say 'Father, as it please you.' — But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy and say ' Father, as it please me.' Leonato. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband. 50 Beatrice. Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmas- tered with a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl ? No, uncle, I '11 none : Adam's sons are my brethren j and, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred. Leonato. Daughter, remember what I told you ; if the prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer. Beati'ice. The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you. be not wooed in good time ; if the prince be too important, tell him there is measure in every thing, and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero ; wooing, wedding, and re- penting, is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque-pace: the first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical ; the wedding, mannerly -modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry ; and then comes repentance, and with his bad legs falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave. Leonato. Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly. Beatrice. I have a good eye, uncle ; I can see a church by daylight. 71 Leonato, The revellers are entering, brother ; make good room. \All put 071 their masks. ACT II. SCENE I. 45 Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, Balthazar, Don John, Borachio, Margaret, Ursula, and others, masked. Don Pedro. Lady, will you walk about with your friend ? Hero. So you walk softly and look sweetly and say noth- ing, I am yours for the walk ; and especially when I walk away. Don Pedro. With me in your company ? Hero. I may say so, when I please. Don Pedro. And when please you to say so ? 80 Hero. When I like your favour; for God defend the lute should be like the case ! Don Pedro. My visor is Philemon's roof; within the house is Jove. Hero. Why, then, your visor should be thatch'd. Don Pedro. Speak low, if you speak love. \_Drawing her aside. Balthazar. Well, I would you did like me. Margaret. So would not I, for your own sake ; for I have many ill qualities. Balthazar. Which is one ? Margaret. I say my prayers aloud. 90 Balthazar. I love you the better; the hearers may cry Amen. Margaret. God match me with a good dancer I Balthazar. Amen. Margaret. And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is done ! Answer, clerk. Balthazar. No more words ; the clerk is answered. Ursula. I know you well enough; you are Signior An- tonio. Antonio. At a word, I am not. 100 Ursula. I know you by the waggling of your head. Anto7iio. To tell you true, I counterfeit him. Ursula. You could never do hnn so ill-well, unless you 46 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. were the very man. Here 's his dry hand up and downi you are he, you are he. Antonio. At a word, I am not. Ursula. Come, come, do you think I do not know you by your excellent wit? can virtue hide itself.'' Go to, mum, you are he ; graces will appear, and there 's an end. Beatrice. Will you not tell me who told you so? no Benedick. No, you shall pardon me. Beatrice. Nor will you not tell me who you are ? Benedick. Not now. Beatrice. That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit out of the 'Hundred Merry Tales;' — well, this was Signior Benedick that said so. Benedick. What 's he ? Beatrice. I am sure you know him well enough. Benedick. Not I, believe me. Beatrice. Did he never make you laugh ? 120 Benedick. I pray you, what is he ? Beatrice. Why, he is the prince's jester: a very dull fool; only his gift is in devising impossible slanders : none but libertines delight in him ; and the commendation is not in his wit, but in his villany ; for he both pleases men and an- gers them, and then they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in the fleet ; I would he had boarded me. Benedick. When I know the gentleman, I 'II tell him what you say. 129 Beatrice. Do, do : he '11 but break a comparison or two on me ; which, peradventure not marked or not laughed at, strikes him into melancholy ; and then there 's a par- tridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no supper that night. iMusic] We must follow the leaders. Benedick. In every good thing. Beatrice. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning. \Da7ice. Then exeunt all except Don jfoh?i^ Borachio, and Claudia. ACT II. SCENE I. 47 Doft yohn. Sure my brother is amorous on Hero and hath withdrawn her father to break with him about it. The ladies follow her and but one visor remains. 140 Borachio. And that is Claudio ; I know him by his bear- ing. Don yohn. Are not you Signior Benedick ? Claudio. You know me well ; I am he. Don John. Signior, you are very near my brother in his love : he is enamoured on Hero ; I pray you, dissuade him from her : she is no equal for his birth. You may do the part of an honest man in it. Claudio. How know you he loves her? Don John. I heard him swear his affection. 150 Borachio. So did I too ; and he swore he would marry her to-night. Don John. Come, let us to the banquet. [Exeunt Don John and Borachio. Claudio. Thus answer I in name of Benedick, But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio. 'T is certain so ; the prince wooes for himself. Friendship is constant in all other things Save in the office and affairs of love : Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues ; Let every eye negotiate for itself 160 And trust no agent ; for beauty is a witch Against whose charms faith melteth into blood. This is an accident of hourly proof, Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero ! Re-enter Benedick. Benedick. Count Claudio.'' Claudio. Yea, the same. Benedick. Come, will 370U go with me? Claudio. Whither? 16 Benedick. Even to the next willow, about your own busi- 48 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. nesSj county. What fashion will you wear the garland of? about your neck, like an usurer's chain ? or under your arm, like a lieutenant's scarf? You must wear it one way, for the prince hath got your Hero. Claudia. I wish him joy of her. Benedick. Why, that 's spoken like an honest drovierj so they sell bullocks. But did you think the prince would have served you thus ? Claudia. I pray you, leave me. " Benedick. Ho ! now you strike like the blind man \ \ was the boy that stole your meat, and you '11 beat the post. iSo Claudia. If it will not be, I '11 leave you. \Exit. Benedick. Alas, poor hurt fowl ! now will he creep into sedges. But that my Lady Beatrice should know me, and not know me ! The prince's fool ! Ha ? It may be I go under that title because I am merry. Yea, but so I am apt to do myself wrong ; I am not so reputed : it is the base, though bitter disposition of Beatrice that puts the world into her person, and so gives me out. Well, I '11 be revenged as I may. 189 Re-enter Don Pedro. Don Pedro. Now, signior, where 's the count? did you see him? Benedick. Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a warren : I told him, and I think I told him true, that your grace had got the good will of this young lady ; and I offered him my company to a willow-tree, either to make him a gar- land, as being forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped. Don Pedro. To be whipped ! What 's his fault ? 199 Benedick. The flat transgression of a school-boy, who, be- ing overjoyed with finding a bird's nest, shows it his com- panion, and he steals it. ACT II. SCENE I. 49 Don Pedro. Wilt thou make a trust a transgression ? The transgression is in the stealer. Benedick. Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made, and the garland too ; for the garland he might have worn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stolen his bird's nest. Don Pedro. I will but teach them to sing, and restore them to the owner. 210 Benedick. If their singing answer your saying, by my faith, you say honestly. Don Pedro. The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you; the gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you. Benedick. O, she misused me past the endurance of a block ! an oak but with one green leaf on it would have an- swered her; my very visor began to assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the prince's jester, that I was duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest with such impossible convey- ance upon me that I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and ev- ery word stabs : if her breath were as terrible as her termi- nations, there were no living near her ; she would infect to the north star. I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he trans- gressed ; she would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of her; you shall find her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God some scholar would conjure her ; for certainly, while she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a sanctuary ; and people sin upon purpose, be- cause they would go thither : so, indeed, all disquiet, hor- ror, and perturbation follows her. 235 Don Pedro Look, here she comes. CO MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Enter Claudio, Beatrice, Hero, and Leonato. Benedick. Will your grace command me any service to the world's end ? I will go on the slightest errand now to the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on ; I will fetch you a toothpicker now from the furthest inch of Asia, bring you the length of Prester John's foot, fetch you a hair off the great Cham's beard, do you any embassage to the Pigmies, rather than hold three words' conference with this harpy. You have no employment for me ? 244 Don Pedro. None, but to desire your good company. Benedick. O God, sir, here 's a dish I love not ; I cannot endure my Lady Tongue. \Exit. Don Pedro. Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick. Beatrice. Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile ; and I gave him use for it, a double heart for his single one : marry, once before he won it of me with false dice, there- fore your grace may well say I have lost it. Don Pedro. You have put him down, lady, you have put him down. 255 Beatrice. So I would not he should do me, my lord. I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek. Don Ped?'o. Why, how now, count ! wherefore are you sad ? Claudio. Not sad, my lord. Don Pedro. How then ? sick ? Claudio. Neither, my lord. Beatrice. The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well ; but civil count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion. Don Pedro. V faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true ; though, I '11 be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is false. — Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and fair Hero is won ; I have broke with her father, and his good will obtained : name the day of marriage, and God give thee joy ! 269 ACT 11. SCENE I. 51 Leonato. Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes; bis grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen to it ! Beatrice. Speak, count, 't is your cue. Claiidio. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy ; I were but little happy, if I could say how much. — Lady, as you are mine, I am yours; I give away myself for you, and dote upon the exchange. Beatrice. Speak, cousin ; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak neither. Don Pedro. In faith, lady, you have a merry heart. 280 Beatrice. Yea, my lord ; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart. Claudio. And so she doth, cousin. Beatrice. Good Lord, for alliance ! — Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt ; I may sit in a cor- ner and cry heigh-ho for a husband ! Do7i Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. 288 Beatrice. I would rather have one of your father's getting. Hath your grace ne'er a brother like you ? Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them. Don Pedro. Will you have me, lady ? Beatrice. No, my lord, unless I might have another for working-days ; your grace is too costly to wear every day. But, I beseech your grace, pardon me ; I was born to speak ail mirth and no matter. Don Ped7'0. Your silence most offends me, and to be mer- ry best becomes you ; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour. 299 Beatrice. No, sure, my lord, my mother cried ; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born. — Cous- ins, God give you joy ! Leonato. Niece, will you look to those things I told you of? Beatrice. I cry you mercy, uncle. — By your grace's pardon. \Exit. 52 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Don Pedro. By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady. Leonato. There 's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps, and not ever sad then ; for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked herself with laughing. 310 Don Pedro. She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband. Leonato. O, by no means ; she mocks all her wooers out of suit. Don Pedro. She were an excellent wife for Benedick. Leonato. O Lord ! my lord, if they were but a week mar- ried, they would talk themselves mad. Don Pedro. County Claudio, when mean you to go to church ? Claudio. To-morrow, my lord ; time goes on crutches till love have all his rites. 320 Leonato. Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just seven-night ; and a time too brief, too, to have all things answer my mind. Don Pedro. Come, you shake the head at so long a breath- ing; but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go dully by us. I will in the interim undertake one of Hercules' labours; which is, to bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection the one with the other. I would fain have it a match, and I doubt not but to fashion it, if you three will but minister such assistance as I shall give you direction. 331 Leojiato. My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten nights' watchings. Claudio. And I, my lord. Do?t Pedro. And you too, gentle Hero? Hero. I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband. Don Pedro. And Benedick is not the unhopefullest hus- band that I know. Thus far can I praise him : he is of a ACT //. SCENS II, 53 noble strain, of approved valour and confirmed honesty™ I will teach you how to humour your cousin, that she shall fall in love with Benedick ; and I, with your two helps, will so practise on Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this,, Cupid is no longer an archer; his glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me, and I will tell you my drift. [ExeunL Scene II. The Same. Enter Don John and Borachio. Don jfohn. It is so ; the Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of Leonato. Borachio. Yea, my lord ; but I can cross it. Don John. Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be medicinable to me ; I am sick in displeasure to him, and whatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges evenly with mine. How canst thou cross this marriage? Borachio, Not honestly, my lord ; but so covertly that no dishonesty shall appear in me. Don yohn. Show" me briefly how. w Borachio. I think I told your lordship, a year since, how much I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting-gentle- woman to Hero. Don yohn. I remember. Borachio. I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night, appoint her to look out at her lady's chamber-window. Don John. What life is in that, to be the death of this marriage ? i8 Borachio. The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to the prince your brother; spare not to tell him that he hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned Claudic — whose estimation do you mightily hold up — to a contam inated stale, such a one as Hero. 54 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Don jfohn. What proof shall I make of that? Borachio. Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato. Look you for any other issue? Don jfohti. Only to despite them, I will endeavour any thing. 2c Borachio. Go, then ; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro and Count Claudio alone : tell them that you know that Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal both to the prince and Claudio, as — in love of your brother's honour, who hath made this match, and his friend's reputation, who is thus like to be cozened with the semblance of a maid — that you have discovered thus. They will scarcely believe this without trial : offer them instances ; which shall bear no less likeli- hood than to see me at her chamber-window, hear me call Margaret Hero, hear Margaret term me Claudio ; and bring them to see this the very night before the intended wedding, — for in the meantime I will so fashion the matter that Hero shall be absent, — and there shall appear such seeming truth of Hero's disloyalty that jealousy shall be called assurance and all the preparation overthrown. 44 Don John. Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put it in practice. Be cunning in the working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats. Borachio. Be you constant in the accusation, and my cun- ning shall not shame me. . 4? Don John, I will presently go learn their day of marriage. \Exeuni.. Scene III. Leonato''s Orchard, Enter Benedick. Benedick. Boy I Enter Boy. Boy, Signior? ACT II. SCENE III, 55 Benedick. In my chamber -window lies a book; bring it hither to me in the orchard. Boy. I am here already, sir. 5 Benedick. I know that; but I would have thee hence, and here again. [Exit BoyJ\ I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love ; and such a man is Claudio. I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife ; and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe : I have known when he would have walked ten mile afoot to see a good armour j and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier ; and now is he turned orthography : his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not , I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster ; but I '11 take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that 's certain ; wise, or I '11 none ; virtuous, or I '11 never cheapen her ; fair, or I '11 never look on her ; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha! the prince and Monsieur Love ! I will hide me in the arbour. [ Withdraws. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato, followed by Balthazar and Musicians. Don Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music ? %\ r5 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Claudia. Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is, As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony ! Don Fedro. See you where Benedick hath hid himself? Claudio. O, very well, my lord ; the music ended, We '11 fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth. Don Pedro. Come, Balthazar, we '11 hear that song again. Balthazar. O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice 40 To slander music any more than once. Don Pedro. It is the witness still of excellency To put a strange face on his own perfection. I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more. Balthazar. Because you talk of wooing, I will sing; Since many a wooer doth commence his suit To her he thinks not worthy; yet he wooes, Yet will he swear he loves. Don Pedro. Now, pray thee, come ; Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument, Do it in notes. Balthazar. Note this before my notes : 5° There 's not a note of mine that 's worth the noting. Don Pedro. Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks : Note, notes, forsooth, and nothing. \Music, Benedick. Now, divine air ! now is his soul ravished ! Is it not strange that sheeps' guts should hale souls out of men's bodies ? Well, a horn for my money, when all 's done. The Song. Balthazar. Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more^ Men were deceivers ever, One foot in sea and one on shore. To one thiiig constant never; 60 Then sigh not so, but let them go. And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nomiy. ACT II. SCENE II L ^7 Sing no more ditties^ sing no moe^ Of dumps so dull and heavy ; The fraud of men was ever so. Since summer first was leavy : Then sigh not so, etc, Don Pedro. By my troth, a good song. 70 Balthazar. And an ill singer, my lord. Don Fedro. Ha, no, no, faith ; thou singest well enough for a shift. Benedick. An he had been a dog that should have howled thus, they would have hanged him ; and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief! I had as lief have heard the night- raven, come what plague could have come after it. Don Pedro. Yea, marry, dost thou hear, Balthazar? I pray thee, get us some excellent music ; for to-morrow night we would have it at the Lady Hero's chamber-window. 80 Balthazar. The best I can, my lord. Don Pedro. Do so ; farewell. \^Exit Balthazar?^ Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of to-day, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick? Claudio. O, ay : stalk on, stalk on ; the fowl sits. — I did never think that lady would have loved any man. Leonato. No, nor I neither ; but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours seemed ever to abhor. 89 Be7tedick. Is 't possible? Sits the wind in that corner? Leonato. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it but that she loves him with an enraged affection : it is past the infinite of thought. Don Pedro. May be she doth but counterfeit. Claudio. Faith, like enough. Leonato. O God, counterfeit ! There was never counter- feit of passion came so near the life of passion as she dis covers it. Do7i Pedro. Why, what effects of passion shows she? 58 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Claudio. Bait the hook well ; this fish will bite. k» Leonato. What effects, my lord? She will sit you, you heard my daughter tell you how. Claudio. She did, indeed. Don Pedro. How, how, I pray you? You amaze me; 1 would have thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection. Leonato. I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially against Benedick. Benedick. I should think this a gull, but that the white- bearded fellow speaks it; knavery cannot, sure, hide him- self in such reverence. m Claudio. He hath ta'en the infection ; hold it up. Don Pedro. Hath she made her affection known to Bene- dick ? Leonato. No, and swears she never will; that 's her tor- ment. Claudio. 'T is true, indeed ; so your daughter says : ' Shall I,' says she, * that have so oft encountered him with scorn, write to him that I love him ?' ng Leonato. This says she now when she is beginning to write to him ; for she '11 be up twenty times a night, and there will she sit in her smock till she have writ a sheet of paper: my daughter tells us all. Claudio. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your daughter told us of. Leonato. O, when she had writ it and was reading it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet ? Claudio. That. 128 Leonato. O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence ; railed at herself, that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her : ' I measure him,' says she, *by my own spirit : for I should flout him, if he writ to me , yea, though I love him, I should.' Claudio. Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, ACT II. SCENE III, 59 sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, cries, ' O sweet Benedick ! God give me patience !' Lconato. She doth indeed ; my daughter says so : and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her that my daughter is sometime afeard she will do a desperate outrage to herself; it is very true. 14a Don Fedro. It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will not discover it. Claudio. To what end? He would but make a sport of it and torment the poor lady worse. Don Pedro. An he should, it were an alms to hang him. She 's an excellent sweet lady; and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous. Claudio. And she is exceeding wise. Don Pedro. In every thing but in loving Benedick. 149 Leonato. O, my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so lender a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian. Don Pedro. I would she had bestowed this dotage on me ; I would have daffed all other respects and made her half myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear what he will say. Leonato. Were it good, think you ? Claudio. Hero thinks surely she will die ; for she says she will die if he love her not, and she will die ere she make her love known, and she will die, if he woo her, rather than she will bate one breath of her accustomed crossness. 162 Don Pedro. She doth well : if she should make tender of her love, 't is very possible he 'U scorn it; for the man, as you know all, hath a contemptible spirit. Claudio. He is a very proper man. Dofi Pedro. He hath indeed a good outward happi- ness. Claudio. Fore God, and, in my mind, very wise. 6o MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Don Pedro. He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit. 171 Leonato. And I take him to be valiant. Don Fedro. As Hector, I assure you : and in the man- aging of quarrels you may say he is wise; for either he avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes them with a most Christian-like fear. Leonato. If he do fear God, he must necessarily keep peace ; if he break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling. Don Pedro. And so will he do ; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek Benedick, and tell him of her love ? 183 Claiidio. Never tell him, my lord ; let her wear it out with good counsel. Leonato. Nay, that 's impossible ; she may wear her heart out first. Don Pedro. Well, we will hear further of it by your daugh- ter \ let it cool the while. I love Benedick well ; and I could wish he would modestly examine himself, to see how much he is unworthy so good a lady. igi Leonato. My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready. Claudia. If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation. Don Pedro. Let there be the same net spread for her; and that must your daughter and her gentlewoman carry. The sport will be, when they hold one an opinion of another's dotage, and no such matter ; that 's the scene that I would see, which will be merely a dumb-show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner. 20c \Exeunt Don Pedro, Claiidio, and Leonato. Benedick. [Coming forward^ This can be no trick; the conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady ; it seems her affec- ACT II. SCENE III. 61 tions have their full bent. Love me ! why, it must be re- quited. I hear how I am censured : they say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her ; they say too that she will rather die than give any sign of affec- tion. I did never think to marry : I must not seem proud \ happy are they that hear their detractions and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair ; 't is a truth, I can bear them witness : and virtuous ; 't is so, I cannot reprove it : and wise, but for loving me ; by my troth, it is no addi- tion to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage ; but doth not the appetite alter? a man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot en- dure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his hu- mour? No, the world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married. — Here comes Beatrice. By this day, she 's a fair lady; I do spy some marks of love in her. 223 Enter Beatrice. Beatrice. Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner. Benedick. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. Beatrice. I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me ; if it had been painful, I would not have come. Benedick. You take pleasure then in the message? 230 Beat7Hce. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's point and choke a daw withal. — You have no stomach, sign- ior ; fare you well. \Exit. Benedick. Ha ! ' Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner;' there 's a double meaning in that. *I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to 62 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. thank me / that 's as much as to say, Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of lier, I am a villain ; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go ^et her picture. \Exit "haggards of the rock" (iii. i. 36). ACT III. Scene I. Leonatd's Orchard. Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula. Hero. Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour) There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice Proposing with the prince and Claudio : Whisper her ear and tell her, I and Ursula 64 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Walk in the orchard and our whole discourse Is all of her ; say that thou overheard'st us ; And bid her steal into the pleached bower, Where honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun, Forbid the sun to enter, like favourites, Made proud by princes, that advance their pride lo Against that power that bred it : there will she hide her, To listen our propose. This is thy office \ Bear thee well in it, and leave us alone. Margaret. I '11 make her come, I warrant you, presently. \Exit. Hero. Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come, As we do trace this alley up and down, Our talk must only be of Benedick. When I do name him, let it be thy part To praise him more than ever man did merit; My talk to thee must be how Benedick aa Is sick in love with Beatrice. Of this matter Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made. That only wounds by hearsay. Enter Beatrice, behind. Now begin ; For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs Close by the ground, to hear our conference. Ursula. The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, And greedily devour the treacherous bait \ So angle we for Beatrice, who even now Is couched in the woodbine coverture. 30 Fear you not my part of the dialogue. Hero. Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it. ^^Approaching the bower. No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful ; ACT III. SCENE /. 65 I know her spirits are as coy and wild As haggards of the rock. Ursula. But are you sure That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely ? Hero. So says the prince and my new-trothed lord. Ursula. And did they bid you tell her of it, madam? Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it j 4a But I persuaded them, if they lov'd Benedick, To wish him wrestle with affection, And never to let Beatrice know of it. Ursula. Why did you so ? Doth not the gentleman Deserve as full as fortunate a bed As ever Beatrice shall couch upon ? Hero. O god of love ! I know he doth deserve As much as may be yielded to a man ; But Nature never fram'd a woman's heart Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice ; 5<, Disdain and'scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, Misprising what they look on, and her wit Values itself so highly that to her All matter else seems weak : she cannot love, Nor take no shape nor project of affection. She is so self-endeared. Ursula. Sure, I think so ; And therefore certainly it were not good She knew his love, lest she make sport at it. Hero. Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man. How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur'd, ec 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 agate very vilely cut ; If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds; If silent, why, a block moved with none. 66 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. So turns she every man the wrong side out, And never gives to truth and virtue that Which simpleness and merit purchaseth. 7-* Ursula. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable, He7'o. 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 inwardl}^ ; It were a better death than die with mocks, Which is as bad as die with tickling. 80 Ursula. 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 '11 devise some honest slanders To stain my cousin with; one doth not know ' How much an ill word may empoison liking. Ursula. 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 90 So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick. Hero. He is the only man of Italy, Always excepted my dear Claudio. Ursula. I pray you, be not angry with me, madam, Speaking my fancy; Signior Benedick, For shape, for bearing, argument, and valour, Goes foremost in report through Italy. Hero. Indeed, he hath an excellent good name. Ursula. His excellence did earn it, ere he had it. When are you married, madam ? 100 Hero. Why, every day, to-morrow. Come, go in; I '11 show thee some attires, and have thy counsel Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow. ACT III. SCENE II. 67 Ursuia. She 's lim'd, I warrant you; we have caught her, madam. Hero. If it proves so, then loving goes by haps ; Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps. [Exeunt He7'0 and Ursula. Beatrice. \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 i No glory lives behind the back of such. no 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. Scene II. A Room in Leonatd's House. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and Leonato. Don Pedro. I do but stay till your marriage be consum- mate, and then go I toward Arragon. Claudia. I '11 bring you thither, my lord, if you '11 vouch- safe me. Don 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. 12 Benedick. Gallants, I am not as I have been. Leonato. So say I ; methinks you are sadder. Claudia. I hope he be in love. 68 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Don Pedro. Hang him, truant ! there 's no true drop of blood in him, to be truly touched with love; if he be sad, he wants money. Benedick. I have the toothache. Don Ped?v. Draw it. zi Benedick. Hang it 1 Claudio. You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards. Do7i Pedro. What ! sigh for the toothache ? Leonato. Where is but a humour or a worm ? Be?zedick. Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it. Claudio. Yet say I, he is in love. 27 Don 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 down- ward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a fancy to this foolery, as it ap- pears he hath, he is no fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is. Claudio. If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs : he brushes his hat o' mornings; what should that bode ? Don Pedro. Hath any man seen him at the barber's? 39 Claudio. No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him, and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuffed tennis-balls. ' "^ Leonato. Indeed, he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard. Don Pedro. Nay, he rubs himself with civet ; can you smell him out by that ? Claudio. That 's as much as to say, the sweet youth 's in love. Don Pedro. The greatest note of it is his melancholy. ,Claudio. And when was he wont to wash his face? so ACT III. SCENE II. 09 Z)on Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself? for the which, I hear what they say of him. Claudia. Nay, but his jesting spirit, which is now crept into a lute-string and now governed by stops. Don Pedro. Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him ; con- clude, conclude he is in love. Claiidio. Nay, but I know who loves him. Don Pedro. That would I know too; I warrant, one that knows him not. Claudio. Yes, and his ill conditions; and, in despite of all, dies for him. 61 Don Ped7'o. She shall be buried with her face upwards. Benedick. Yet is this no charm for the toothache. — Old signior, walk aside with me; I have studied eight or nine wise words .to speak to you, which these hobby-horses must not hear. \_Exeunt Benedick and Leonato. Don Pedro. For my life, to break with him about Beatrice. Claudio. 'T is even so. Hero and Margaret have by this played their parts with Beatrice; and then the two bears will not bite one another when they meet. 70 Enter Don John. Don yohn. My lord and brother, God save you ! Don Pedro. Good den, brother. Don John. If your leisure served, I would speak with you. Don Pedro. In private? Don John. If it please you : yet Count Claudio may hear; for what I would speak of concerns him. Don Pedro. What 's the matter? Don John. [To Claudio'] Means your lordship to be mar- ried to-morrow? Don Pedro. You know he does. 80 DoJi yohn. I know not that, when he knows what I know. Claudio. If there be any impediment, I pray you discover it. Don yohn. You may think I love you not; let that ap< 70 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. pear hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now will manifest. For my brother, I think he holds you well, and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect your ensuing mar- riage, — surely suit ill spent and labour illbestowed. Don Pedro. Why, what 's the matter? Don John. I came hither to tell you ; and, eircumstances shortened, for she has been too long a talking of, the lady is disloyal. 91 Claudio. Who ? Hero ? Don John. Even she; Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every man's Hero. Claudio. Disloyal? Don John. The word is too good to paint out her wicked- ness; I could say she were worse: think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not till further war- rant; go but with me to-night, you shall see her chamber- window entered, even the night before her wedding-day: if you love her then, to-morrow wed her; but it would better fit your honour to change your mind. 102 Claudio. May this be so ? Don Pedro. I will not think it. Don yohn. If you dare not trust that you see, confess not that you know: if you will follow me, I will show you enough ; and when you have seen more and heard more, proceed accordingly. Claudio. If I see any thing to-night why I should not marry her to-morrow, in the congregation, where I should wed, there will I shame her. m Do7i Pedro. And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join with thee to disgrace her. Don yohn. I will disparage her no farther till you are my witnesses ; bear it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show itself. Don Pedro. O day untowardly turned ! Claudio. O mischief strangely thwarting ! 118 ACT III. SCENE III. 7 1 Don yohn. O plague right well prevented I so will you say when you have seen the sequel. \Exeunt. Scene III. A Street. Enter Dogberry and Verges with the Watch. Dogberry. Are you good men and true? Verges. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul. Dogberry. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the prince's watch. Verges. Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry. Dogberry. First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable ? 1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacole ; for they can write and read. u Dogberry. Come hither, neighbour Seacole. God hath blessed you with a good name; to be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune, but to write and read comes by nature. 2 Watch. Both which, master constable, — Dogberry. You have ; I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it ; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch ; therefore bear you the lantern. This is your charge : you shall comprehend all vagrom men ; you are to bid any man stand, in the prince's name. 2 Watch. How if a' will not stand ? 24 Dogberry. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and presently call the rest of the watch together and thank God you are rid of a knave. Verges. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the prince's subjects. 7? MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Dogberry. True, and they are to meddle with none but the prince's subjects. — You shall also make no noise in the streets ; for for the watch to babble and to talk is most tolerable and not to be endured. 33 Watch. We will rather sleep than talk; we know what belongs to a watch. Dogberry. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet Aatchman ; for I cannot see how sleeping should offend : only, have a care that your bills be not stolen. Well, you are to call at all the ale-houses, and bid them that are drunk get them to bed. 40 Watch. How if they will not ? Dogberry. Why, then, let them alone till they are sober; if they make you not then the better answer, you may say they are not the men you took them for. Watch. Well, sir, Dogberry. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your ofi&ce, to be no true man ; and, for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty. Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him ? si Dogberry. Truly, by your office, you may; but I think they that touch pitch will be defiled : the most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show him- self what he is and steal out of your company. Verges. You have been always called a merciful man, partner. Dogbej-ry. Truly, 1 would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him. Verges. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse and bid her still it. 6j Watch. How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us? Dogberry. Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child ACT III. SCENE III. ^, Arake her with crying ; for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes will never answer a calf when he bleats. Verges. 'T is very true. Dogberry. This is the end of the charge : you, consta- ble, are to present the prince's own person ; if you meet the prince in the night, you may stay him. ^o Verges. Nay, by 'r lady, that I think a' cannot. Dogberry. Five shillings to one on 't, with any man that knows the statues, he may stay him : marry, not without the prince be willing ; for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man, and it is an offence to stay a man against his will. Verges. By 'r lady, I think it be so, Dogberry. Ha, ha, ha ! Well, masters, good night. An there be any matter of weight chances, call up me : keep your fellows' counsels and your own; and good night. Come, neighbour. so Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge ; let us go sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed. Dogberry. One word more, honest neighbours, I pray you, watch about Signior Leonato's door ; for, the wedding being there to-morrow, there is a great coil to-night. Adieu; be vigitant, I beseech you. \_Exetmt Dogberry a7id Verges. Enter Borachio and Conrade. Borachio. What, Conrade ! Watch. [Aside] Peace ! stir not. Borachio. Conrade, I say ! Conrade. Here, man ; I am at thy elbow. 96 Borachio. Mass, and my elbow itched ; I thought there would a 3cab follow. Conrade. I will owe thee an answer for that ; and now forward with thy tale. Borachio. Stand thee close, then, under this pent-house, for it drizzles rain ; and I will, like a true drunkard, uttei all to thee. 74 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Watch. [Aside] Some treason, masters ; yet stand close. Borachio. Therefore know I have earned of Don John a thousand ducats. loa Conrade. Is it possible that any villany should be so dear? Borachio. Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any villany should be so rich ; for when rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will. Conrade. I wonder at it. Borachio. That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou know est that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is noth- ing to a man. Conrade. Yes, it is apparel. Borachio. I mean, the fashion. ii» Conrade. Yes, the fashion is the fashion. Borachio. Tush ! I may as well say the fool 's the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is? Watch. [Aside] I know that Deformed ; a' has been a vile thief this seven year : a' goes up and down like a gen- tleman. I remember his name. Borachio. Didst thou not hear somebody ? Conrade. No ; 't was the vane on the house. nS Borachio. Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is? how giddily a' turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty ? sometime fashioning them like Pharaoh's soldiers in the reechy painting, some- time like god Bel's priests in the old church-window, some- time like the shaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry. Conrade. All this I see ; and I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man. But art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion ? 129 Borachio. Not so, neither : but know that I have to-night wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero's gentlewoman, by the name of Hero; she leans me out at her mistress's chamber-window, ACT III. SCENE III. 75 bids me a thousand times good night, — I tell this tale vile- ly:— I should first tell thee how the prince, Claudio, and my master, planted and placed and possessed by my master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable en- counter. Conrade. And thought they Margaret was Hero ? 138 Borachio. Two of them did, the. prince and Claudio ; but the devil my master knew she was Margaret : and partly by his oaths, which first possessed them, partly by the dark night, which did deceive them, but chiefly by my villany, which did confirm any slander that Don John had made, away went Claudio enraged ; swore he would meet her, as he was appointed, next morning at the temple, and there, before the whole congregation, shame her with what he saw o'er-night and send her home again without a husband. 1 Watch. We charge you, in the'prince's name, stand ! 2 Watch. Call up the right master constable. We have here recovered the most dangerous piece of lechery that ever was known in the commonwealth. 151 1 Watch. And one Deformed is one of them: I know him ; a' wears a lock. Conrade. Masters, masters, — 2 Watch. You '11 be made bring Deformed forth, I war- rant you. Conrade. Masters, — I Watch. Never speak ; we charge you, let us obey you to go with us. Borachio. We are like to prove a goodly commodity, be- ing taken up of these men's bills. i6i Conrade. A commodity in question, I warrant you. — Come, we '11 obey you. \Exeunt, ^6 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Scene IV. Herd's Apartment, Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula. Hero. Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire her to rise. Ursula. I will, lady. Hero. And bid her come hither. Ursula. Well. ^ \Exit. Margaret. Troth, I think your other rabato were better. Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I '11 wear this, Margaret. By my troth, 's not so good; and I warrant your cousin will say so. Hero. My cousin 's a fool, and thou art another; I '11 wear none but this. n Margaret. 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.. Hero. O, that exceeds, they say. Margaret. 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, under- borne with a bluish tinsel ; but for a fine, quaint, graceful, and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on 't. 21 Hero. God give me joy to wear it ! for my heart is ex- ceeding heavy. Margaret. 'T will be heavier soon by the weight of a man. Hero. Fie upon thee ! art not ashamed ? Margaret. 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 '11 offend nobody ; is there any harm in 'the heavier for a husband?' None, I think. ACT III. SCENE IV. 77 an It be the right husband and the right wife ; otherwise 't is light, and not heavy : ask my Lady Beatrice else ; here she comes. 34 Enter Beatrice. Hero. Good morrow, coz. Beatrice. Good morrow, sweet Hero. Hero. Why, how now ? do you speak in the sick tune ? Beatrice. I am out of all other tune, methinks. ■ Margaret. Clap 's into ' Light o' love ;' that goes without a burden : do you sing it, and I '11 dance it. 40 Beatrice. Yea, light o' love, with your heels ! then, if your husband have stables enough, you '11 see he shall lack no barns. Margaret. O illegitimate construction ! I scorn that with my heels. Beatrice. 'T is almost five o'clock, cousin ; 't is time you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill ; heigh-ho ! Margaret. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband ? Beatrice. For the letter that begins them all, H. Margaret. Well, an you be not turned Turk, there 's no more sailing by the star. 51 Beatrice. What means the fool, trow ? Margaret. Nothing I ; but God send every one their heart's desire ! Hero. These gloves the count sent mej they are an ex- cellent perfume. Beatrice. I am stuffed, cousin ; I cannot smell. Mdrgaret. A maid, and stuffed ! there 's goodly catching of cold. Beatrice. O, God help me ! God help me ! how long have you professed apprehension } 61 Margaret. Ever since you left it. Doth not my wit be- come me rarely ? Beatrice. It is not seen enough, you should wear it in youi cap. By my troth, I am sick. 78 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Margaret. Get you some of this distilled Carduus Bene- dictus, and lay it to your heart ; it is the only thing for a qualm. Hero. There thou prickest her with a thistle. Beatrice. Benedictus ! why Benedictus ? you have some moral in this Benedictus. 71 Margaret. Moral ! no, by my troth, I have no moral mean- ing j I meant, plain holy-thistle. You may think perchance that I think you are in love ; na}^, 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 vou 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. Beatrice. What pace is this that thy tongue keeps ? 83 Margaret. Not a false gallop. Enter Ursula. Ursula. Madam, withdraw ; the prince, the count, Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the town, are come to fetch you to church. Hero. Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ur- sula. \Exeunt. f Scene V. Another Room in Leonatd's House, Enter Leonato, with Dogberry and Verges. Leonato. What would you with me, honest neighbour? Dogberry. Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with yov' that decerns you nearly. Leonato. Brief, I pray you ; for you see it is a busy time with me. ACT III. SCENE y. 79 Dogberry. Marry, this it is, sir. Verges. Yes, in truth it is, sir. Leonato. What is it, my good friends ? Dogberry. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter : an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire they were ; but, in faith, honest as the skin between his brows. 12 Verges. Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man liv- ing that is an old man and no honester than I. Dogberry. Comparisons are odorous ; palabras, neighbour Verges, Leonato. Neighbours, you are tedious. Dogberry. It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor duke's officers ; but truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find it in my heart to bestow it all of your worship. 21 Leonato. All thy tediousness on me, ah ? Dogberry. Yea, an 't were a thousand pound more than 't is ; for I hear as good exclamation on your worship as of any man in the city ; and though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it. Verges. And so am I. Leonato. I would fain know what you have to say. Verges. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your worship's presence, ha' ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina. 31 Dogberry. A good old man, sir; he will be talking: as they say, when the age is in, the wit is out. God help us ! it is a world to see. — Well said, i' faith, neighbour Verges : well, God 's a good man ; an two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. — An honest soul, i' faith, sir ; by my troth he is, as ever broke bread; but God is to be worshipped; all men are not alike ; alas, good neighbour ! Leonato. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you. Dogberry. Gifts that God gives. 4a 8o MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Leonato. I must leave you. Dogberry. One word, sir : our watch, sir, have indeed com- prehended two aspicious persons, and we would have them this morning examined before your worship. Leonato. Take their examination yourself and bring it me; I am now in great haste, as it may appear unto you. Dogberry. It shall be suffigance. Leonato. Drink some wine ere you go. Fare you well. Enter a Messenger. Messenger. My lord, they stay for you to give your daugh- ter to her husband. s^ Leonato. I '11 wait upon them ; I am ready. \_Exeunt Leo?iato and Messenger. Dogberry. Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis Sea- cole; bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol: we are now to examine those men. Verges. And we must do it wisely. Dogberry. We will spare for no wit, I warrant you : here 's that shall drive some of them to a non-come : only get the learned writer to set down our excommunication, and meet me at the gaoL \Exeunt. . . ^^jzzy — - — ^ "~ THE CATHEDRAL OF MESSINA. ACT IV. Scene I. A Church, Emer Don Pedro, Don John, Leonato, Friar Francis. Claudio, Benedick, Hero, Beatrice, and Attendants. Leonato. Come, Friar Francis, be brief ; only to the plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their particular du- ties afterwards. 82 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Friar Francis. You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady. Claudia. No, Leonato. To be married to her ; friar, you come to marry her. Friar Francis. Lady, you come hither to be married to this count. lo Hero. I do. Friar Francis. If either of you know any inward impedi- ment why you should not be conjoined, I charge you, on your souls, to utter it. Claudia. Know you any, Hero ? Hero. None, my lord. Friar Francis. Know you any, count ? Leonato. I dare make his answer, none. Claudia. O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do ! 2a Benedick. How now ! interjections? Why, then, some be of laughing, as, ah, ha, he ! Claudia. Stand thee by, friar. — Father, by your leave: Will you with free and unconstrained soul Give me this maid, your daughter? Leonato. As freely, son, as God did give her me. Claudia. And what have I to give you back, whose worth May counterpoise this rich and precious gift ? Don Pedro. Nothing, unless you render her again. Claudia. Sweet prince, you learn me noble thankfulness. There, Leonato, take her back again : 31 Give not this rotten orange to your friend ; She 's but the sign and semblance of her honour. Behold how like a maid she blushes here ! O, what authority and show of truth Can cunning sin cover itself withal I Comes not that blood as modest evidence To witness simple virtue ? W^ould you not swear. ACT IV. SCENE I. 83 All you that see her, that she were a maid, By these exterior shows? But she is none: 40 She knows the heat of a luxurious bed ; Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty. Leonato. What do you mean, my lord ? Claudio. Not to be married, Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton. Leonato. Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof. Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth, And made defeat of her virginity, — • Claudio. I know what you would say. No, Leonato, I never tempted her with word too large ; But, as a brother to his sister, show'd 5« Bashful sincerity and comely love. Hero. And seem'd I ever otherwise to you ? Claudio. Out on thy seeming ! I will write against it ; You seem to me as Dian in her orb, As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown; But you are more intemperate in your blood Than Venus, or those pamper'd animals That rage in savage sensuality. Hero. Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide ? Leonato. Sweet prince, why speak not you? Don Pedro. What should I speak ? I stand dishonour'd, that have gone about 6t To link my dear friend to a common stale. Leonato. Are these things spoken, or do I but dream? Don yohn. Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true. Benedick. This looks not like a nuptial. Hero. True ! O God ! Claudio. Leonato, stand I here ? Is this the prince ? is this the prince's brother ? Is this face Hero's? are our eyes our own ? Leonato. All this is so ; but what of this, my lord ? Claudio. Let me but move one question to your daughter ; 84 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. And, by that fatherly and kindly power 71 That you have in her, bid her answer truly. Leonato. I charge thee do so, as thou art my child. Hero. O, God defend me ! how am I beset ! — What kind of catechising call you this? Claudio. To make you answer truly to your name. Hero. Is it not Hero ? Who can blot that name With any just reproach ? Claudio. Marry, that can Hero ; Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue. What man was he talk'd with you yesternight 8a Out at your window betwixt twelve and one ? Now, if you are a maid, answer to this. Hero. I talk'd with no man at that hour, my lord. Don Pedro. Why, then are you no maiden. — Leonato, I am sorry you must hear: upon mine honour, Myself, my brother, and this grieved count Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night Talk with a ruffian at her chamber-window ; Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain, Confess'd the vile encounters they have had 90 A thousand times in secret. Don jfohn. Fie, fie ! they are not to be nam'd, my lord, Not to be spoke of; There is not chastity enough in language Without offence to utter them. — Thus, pretty lady, I am sorry for thy much misgovernment. Claudio. O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been. If half thy outward graces had been plac'd About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart ! But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell, 100 Thou pure impiety and impious purity ! For thee I '11 lock up all the gates of love, And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang. To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm. And never shall it more be gracious. ACT IV. SCENE I. 85 Leonato. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me ? \^Hero swoons. Beatrice. Why, how now, cousin ! wherefore sink you down ? Don John. Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light. Smother her spirits up. \Exeimt Don Pedro, Don ^ohn, and Claudio. Benedick. How doth the lady ? Beatrice. Dead, I think. — Help, uncle !^ Hero! why, Hero ! — Uncle! — Signior Benedick ! — Friar 1 Leonato. O Fate ! take not away thy heavy hand. 112 Death is the fairest cover for her shame That may be wish'd for. Beatrice. How now, cousin Hero ! Friar Francis. Have comfort, lady. Leonato. Dost thou look up ? Friar Francis. Yea, wherefore should she not ? Leonato. Wherefore ! Why, doth not every earthly thing Cry shame upon her t Could she here deny The story that is printed in her blood ? — Do not live, Hero ; do not ope thine eyes : 121 For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die. Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames, Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches. Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but one ? Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame ? O, one too much by thee ! Why had I one? Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes ? Why had I not with charitable hand Took up a beggar's issue at my gates, 130 Who smirched thus and mir'd with infamy, ^ I might have said ' No part of it is mine ; This shame derives itself from unknown loins?' But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I prais'd, And mine that i was proud on, mine so much S6 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. That I myself was to myself not mine, Valuing of her, — why, she, O, she is fallen Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again, And salt too little which may season give i4e To her foul-tainted flesh ! Benedick. Sir, sir, be patient. For my part, I am so attir'd in wonder, I know not what to say. Beatrice. O, on my soul, my cousin is belied ! Benedick. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night ? Beatrice. No, truly not ; although, until last night, I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow. Leonato. Confirm'd, confirm'd ! O, that is stronger made Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron ! Would the two princes lie, and Claudio lie, iso Who lov'd her so, that, speaking of her foulness, Wash'd it with tears ? Hence from her ! let her die. Friar Francis. Hear me a little ; For I have only silent been so long, And given way unto this course of fortune, By noting of the lady : I have mark'd A thousand blushing apparitions To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames In angel whiteness bear away those blushes ; And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire, i6a To burn the errors that these princes hold Against her maiden truth. — Call me a fool ; Trust not my reading nor my observations. Which with experimental seal doth warrant The tenour of my book ; trust not my age, My reverence, calling, nor divinity, If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here Under some biting error. Leonato. Friar^ it cannot be. ACT IV. SCENE /. 87 Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left Is that she will not add to her damnation 170 A sin of perjury; she not denies it: Why seek'st thou then to cover with excuse That which appears in proper nakedness ? Friar Francis. 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 180 Maintain'd the change of words with any creature, Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death ! Friar Francis. There is some strange misprision in the princes. Benedick. Two of them have the very bent of honour; And if their wisdoms be misled in this, The practice of it lives in John the bastard, Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies. Leonato. I know not. If they speak but truth of her, These hands shall tear her ; if they wrong her honour. The proudest of them shall well hear of it. 19c 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 Francis. Pause awhile. And let my counsel sway you in this case. Your daughter here the princes left for dead : 900 Let her awhile be secretly kept in, 88 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, 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. Leonato. What shall become of this? what will this do? Friar Francis. 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, 210 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 : 220 When he shall hear she died upon his words. The 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, 230 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 ACT IV. SCENE L 89 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, 240 Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries. Benedick. 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 honour, I will deal in this As secretly and justly as your soul Should with your body. Leonato. Being that I flow in grief, The smallest twine may lead me. Friar Francis. 'T is well consented : presently away; For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.-- 250 Come, lady, die to live : this wedding-day Perhaps is but prolong'd ; have patience and endure. \Exeunt all but Benedick and Beatrice. Benedick. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?, Beatrice. Yea, and I will weep a while longer. Benedick. I will not desire that. Beatrice. You have no reason ; I do it freely. Benedick. Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged. Beatrice. Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her ! Benedick. Is there any way to show such friendship ? 260 Beatrice. A very even way, but no such friend. Benedick. May a man do it.-* Beatrice. It is a man's office, but not yours. Benedick. I do love nothing in the world so well as you ; is not that strange ? Beatrice. As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you : but believe me not; and yet I lie not; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. — I am sorry for my cousin. QO MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Benedick. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me. 27a Beatrice. Do not swear by it, and eat it. Benedick. I will swear by it that you love me ; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you. Beatrice. Will you not eat your word ? Benedick. With no sauce that can be devised to it. I pro test I love thee. Beatrice. Why, then, God forgive me ! Benedick. What offence, sweet Beatrice? = Beatrice. You have stayed me in a happy hour; I was about to protest I loved you. 28a Benedick. And do it with all thy heart. Beatrice. I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest. Beftedick. Come, bid me do any thing for thee. Beatrice. Kill Claudio. Benedick. Ha ! not for the wide world. Beatrice. You kill me to deny it. Farewell. Benedick. Tarry, sweet Beatrice. Beatrice. I am gone, though I am here ; there is no love in you. — Nay, I pray you, let me go. 29a Benedick. Beatrice, — Beatrice. In faith, I will go. Benedick. We '11 be friends first. Beatrice. You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy. Benedick. Is Claudio thine enemy } Beatrice. Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman ? O that I were a man ! What, bear her in hand until they come to take hands ; and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour,— O God, that I were a man ! I would eat his heart in the market-place. 30a Benedick. Hear me, Beatrice, — Beatrice. Talk with a man out at a window ! A proper saving ! , ACT IV. SCENE IL 91 Benedick. Nay, but, Beatrice, — Beatrice. Sweet Hero ! She is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone. Benedick. Beat — Beatrice. Princes and counties ! Surely, a princely testi- mony, a goodly count, Count Comfect \ a sweet gallant, surely ! O that I were a man for his sake 1 or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake ! But manhood is melted into courtesies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too ; he is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie and swears it. — I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving. Benedick. Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee. Beatrice. Use it for my love some other way than swear- ing by it. 321 Benedick. Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero ? Beatrice. Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul. Benedick. Enough, I am engaged ; I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so I leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin ; I must say she is dead : and so, farewell. \Exeunt. Scene H. A Prison. Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton, in gowns; and the Watch, with Conrade and Borachio. Dogberry. Is our whole dissembly appeared ? Verges. O, a stool and a cushion for the sexton. Sexton. Which be the malefactors? . Dogberry. Marry, that am I and my partner. Verges. Nay, that 's certain; we have the exhibition to ex- amine. 92 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be exam' ined ? let them come before master constable. Dogberry. Yea, marry, let them come before me. — What is your name, friend ? lo Borachio. Borachio. Dogberry. Pray, write down, Borachio. — Yours, sirrah ? Conrade. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade. Dogberry. Write down, master gentleman Conrade. — Mas- ters, do you serve God ? Conrade. ") ,^ Borachio. | Y^^' ^''' ™^ ''°P«- Dogberry. Write down, that they hope they serve God: and write God first ; for God defend but God should go be- fore such villains ! — Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves ; and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for yourselves ? 21 Conrade. Marry, sir, we say we are none. Dogberry. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you ; but I will go about with him. — Come you hither, sirrah ; a word in your ear: sir, I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves. Borachio. Sir, I say to you we are none. Dogberry. Well, stand aside, — Fore God, they are both in a tale. — Have you writ down, that they are none ? Sexton. Master constable, you go not the way to examine : you must call forth the watch that are their accusers. 31 Dogberry. Yea, marry, that 's the eftest way. — Let the watch come forth. — Masters, I charge you, in the prince's name, accuse these men. I Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince's brother, was a villain. Dogberry. Write down Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat perjury, to call a prince's brother villain. Borachio. Master constable, — Dogberry. Pray thee, fellow, peace ; I do not like thy look, I promise thee. 41 ACT IV. SCENE II. 93 Sexton. What heard you him say else ? 2 Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don John for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully. Dogberry. Flat burglary as ever was committed. Verges. Yea, by the mass, that it is. Sexton. What else, fellow ? I Watch. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her. 50 Dogberry. O villain ! thou wilt be condemned into ever- lasting redemption for this. Sexton. What else "i Watch. This is all. Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away; Hero was in this manner accused, in this very manner refused, and upon the grief of this suddenly died. — Master constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato's ; I will go before and show him their examination. \Exit. Dogberry. Come, let them be opinioned. 61 Verges. Let them be in the hands — Conrade. Off, coxcomb ! Dogberry. God 's my life, where 's the sexton ? let him write down the prince's officer coxcomb. — Come, bind them. — Thou naughty varlet ! Conrade. Away ! you are an ass, you are an ass. 67 Dogberry. Dost thou not suspect my place .^ dost thou not suspect my years? — O that he were here to write me down an ass ! — But, masters, remember that I am an ass ; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. — No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow, and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Messi- na, and one that knows the law, go to ; and a rich fellow 94 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns and every thing handsome about him. - — Bring him away. — O that I had been writ down an ass ! \_Exeuni LUDOvico ARiosTO (see p. lo). HERO S TOMB. ACT V. Scene I. Before Leonato's House. Enter Leonato and Antonio. Antonio. If you go on thus, you will kill yourself; \nd 't is not wisdom thus to second grief \gainst yourself. q6 much ado about nothing, Leonato, 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 xo Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel j 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 ; 't is 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 3c The like himself Therefore give me no counsel; My griefs cry louder than advertisement. Antonio. Therein do men from children nothing differ. Leonato. 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 oush at chance and sufferance. ACT K SCENE I. ^y Antonio. Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself; Make those that do offend you suffer too. 40 Leonato. 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. Anto7iio. Here comes the prince and Claudio hastily. Enter Don Pedro and Claudio. Don Pedro. Good den, good den. Claudio, Good day to both of you. Leonato, Hear you, my lords, — Don Pedro. We have some haste, Leonato. Leonato. Some haste, my lord ! well, fare you well, my lord : Are you so hasty now ? well, all is one. Don Pedro. Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man. 50 Antonio. If he could right himself with quarrelling, Some of us would lie low. Claudio. Who wrongs him ? Leonato. Marry, thou dost wrong me ; thou dissembler,, thou !— Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword ; I fear thee not. Claudio. Marry, beshrew my hand. If it should give your age such cause of fear; In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword. Leonato. 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 60 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. 98 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 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, 7€ Save this of hers, fram'd by thy villany ! Claiidio. My villany ? Leonato. Thine, Claudio ; thine, I say. Don Pedro. You say not right, old man. Leonato. My lord, my lord, I '11 prove it on his body, if he dare, Despite his nice fence and his active practice. His May of youth and bloom of lustihood. Claudio. Away 1 I will not have to do with you. Leonato. Canst thou so daff me 1 Thou hast kill'd my child ; If thou kill'st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man. Antonio. He shall kill two of us, and men indeed : So 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 '11 whip you from your foining fence; Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will. Leonato. Brother, — Antonio. 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, — 9f Boys, apes, braggarts. Jacks, milksops ! Leonato. Brother Antony,— Antonio. 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 anticly, show outward hideousness, ACT V. SCENE I. 99 And speak off half a dozen dangerous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst ; And this is all. Leoftato. But, brother Antony, — Antonio. Come, 't is no matter : Do not you meddle j let me deal in this. £>oti Pedro. Gentlemen both, we will not wake your pa- tience. — My heart is sorry for your daughter's death; But, on my honour, she was charg'd with nothing But what wa's true and very full of proof. Leonato. My lord, my lord, — Don Pedro. I will not hear you. Leonato. No? Come, brother, away! I will be heard. Antonio. And shall, or some of us will smart for it. \Exeunt Leonato and Antonio. Don Pedro. See, see j here comes the man we went to seek. Enter Benedick. Claudio. Now, signior, what news? no Benedick. Good day, my lord. Do7i Ped?'o. Welcome, signior : you are almost come to part almost a fray. Claudio. We had like to have had our two noses snapped off with two old men without teeth. Don Pedro. Leonato and his brother. What thinkest thou ? Had we fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them. Bejiedick. In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I came to seek you both. 120 Claudio. 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 ? Benedick. It is in my scabbard; shall I draw it? Don Pedro. Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side ? 1 pf r» 100 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Claudia. Never any did so, though very many have been beside their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do the min- strels ; draw, to pleasure us. Don Pedro. As I am an honest man, he looks pale. — Art thou sick, or angry ? 13a Claudio. What, courage, man 1 What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care. Benedick. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, an you charge it against me. I pray you choose another subject. Claudio. Nay, then, give him another staff; this last was broke cross. Don Pedro. By this light, he changes more and more ; I think he be angry indeed. Claudio. If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle. Benedick. Shall I speak a word in your ear ? 140 Claudio. God bless me from a challenge ! Be?iedick. [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 coward- ice. You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me hear from you. Claudio. Well, I will meet you, so I may have good cheer. Don Pedro. What, a feast, a feast ? Claudio. V faith, I thank him : he hath bid me to a calf's head and a capon ; the which if I do not carve- most curi- ously, say my knife 's naught. — Shall I not find a woodcock too ? 152 Benedick. Sir, your wit ambles well ; it goes easily. Don Pedro. I '11 tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the other day. I said, thou hadst a fine wit : ' True,' said she, * a fine little one.' * No,' said I, ' a great wit :' ' Right,' says 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 ACT V. SCENE I. lOi 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. 165 Claudio. For the which she wept heartily and said she cared not. Don Pedro. 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. Claudio. All, all ; and, moreover, God saw him when he was hid in the garden. Don Fedro. But when shall we set the savage bull's horns on the sensible Benedick's head ? Claudio. Yea, and text underneath, * Here dwells Benedick the married man ?' 176 Benedick. 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 Lackbeard there, he and I shall meet ; and, till then, peace be with him. \Exit. Don Pedro. He is in earnest. 185 Claudio. In most profound earnest ; and, I '11 warrant you, for the love of Beatrice. Don Pedro. And hath challenged thee. Claudio. Most sincerely. Don Pedro. What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit ! 191 Claudio. He is then a giant to an ape ; but then is an ape a doctor to such a man. Don Pedro. But, soft you, let me be ; pluck up, my heart, and be sad. Did he not say, my brother was fled? I02 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Enter Dogberry, Verges, and the Watch, with Conrade and BoRACHio. Dogberry. 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, Don Pedro. How now ? two of my brother's men bound ! Borachio one ! 200 Claudio. Hearken after their offence, my lord. Don Pedro. Officers, what offence have these men done ? Dogberry. 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. Don Pedro. First, I ask thee what they have done ; third- ly, I ask thee what 's their offence ; sixth and lastly, why they are committed ; and, to conclude, what you lay to their charge. 211 Claudio. Rightly reasoned, and in his own division ; and, by my troth, there 's one meaning well suited. Don Pedro. 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 ? Borachio. Sweet prince, let me go no farther to mine an- swer ; 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 villany 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 ACT V. SCENE I. 1 03 false accusation ; and, briefly, I desire nothing but the re- ward of a villain. 229 Don Fedro. Runs not this speech like iron through your blood ? Claudio. I have drunk poison whiles he utter'd it. Don Pedro. But did my brother set thee on to this ? Borachio. Yea, and paid me richly for the practice of it. Don Pedro. He is compos'd and fram'd of treachery ; And fled he is upon this villany. Claudio. Sweet Hero ! now thy image doth appear In the rare semblance that I lov'd it first. Dogberry. 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. 241 Verges. Here, here comes master Signior Leonato, and the sexton too. Re-enter Leonato and Antonio, with the Sexton. Leonato. 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 ? Borachio. If you would know your wronger, look on me. Leonato. Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast kill'd Mine innocent child.? Borachio. Yea, even I alone. Leonato. No, not so, villain : thou beliest thyself: 250 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 ; 'T was bravely done, if you bethink you of it. Claudio. I know not how to pray your patience ; Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself; Impose me to what penance your invention I04 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Can lay upon my sin : yet sinn'd I not But in mistaking. Don Pedro. By my soul, nor I ; . 260 And yet, to satisfy this good old man, I would bend under any heavy weight That he '11 enjoin me to. Leonato. 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 to-night. — 270 To-morrow 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. Claudio. O noble sir. Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me ! I do embrace your offer ; and dispose For henceforth of poor Claudio. 28a Leonato. To-morrow then I will expect your coming ; To-night I take my leave. — This naughty m,an Shall face to face be brought to Margaret, AVho I believe was pack'd in all this wrong, Hir'd to it by your brother. Borachio. 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 any thing that I do know by her. 288 Dogberry. Moreover, sir, which indeed is not under white and black, this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass ; I ACT V. SCENE II. loS 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 bor- rows 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. Leonato. I thank thee for thy care and honest pains. Dogberry. Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverend youth ; and I praise God for you. 300 Leonato. There 's for thy pains. Dogberry. God save the foundation ! Leonato. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee. Dogberry. 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. 310 [Exeunt Dogberry and Verges, Leonato. Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell. Antonio. Farewell, my lords ; we look for you to-morrow. Don Pedro, We will not fail. Claudio. To-night I '11 mourn with Hero. Leonato. [To the Watc}{\ Bring you these fellows on.— We '11 talk with Margaret, How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow. \Exeunt^ severally. Scene II. Leonato'' s Orchard. Enter Benedick and Margaret, meeting. Benedick. Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice. Io6 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Margaret. Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty ? Benedick. In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it ; for, in most comely truth, thou deservest it. Margaret. To have no man come over me ! why, shall I always keep below stairs ? Benedick. Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's mouth \ it catches. lo Margaret. And yours as blunt as the fencer's foils, which hit, but hurt not. Benedick. A most manly wit, Margaret ; it will not hurt a woman ; and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice : I give thee the bucklers. Margaret. Give us the swords ; we have bucklers of our own. Benedick. If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice ; and they are dangerous weapons for maids. 20 Margaret. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs. Benedick. And therefore will come. \Exit Margaret. [Sings] The god of love, That sits above. And knows me, aiid knows me. How pitiful T deserve, — 27 I mean in singing ; but in loving, Leander the good swim- mer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and a whole book- ful of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned 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, T was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms. — ACT V. SCENE II. Iq> Enter Beatrice. Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee ? Beatrice. Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me. Benedick. O, stay but till then ! ^^ Beatrice. ' Then ' is spoken j fare you well now : and yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came ; which is, with knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio. Benedick. Only foul words ; and thereupon I will kiss thee. Beatrice. Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome ; therefore I will de- part unkissed. Bejzedick. 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.? 53 Beatrice. For them all together; which maintained 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? Benedick. Suffer love ! a good epithet ! I do suffer love in- deed, for I love thee against my will. Beatrice. In spite of your heart, I think ; alas, poor heart ! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours j for J will never love that which my friend hates. 62 Benedick. Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably. Beatrice. It appears not in this confession j there 's not one wise man among twenty that will praise himself. Benedick. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived 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. Beatrice. And how long is that, think you ? 70 lo8 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Benedick. Question : why, an hour in clamour and a quar« ter in rheum ; therefore is it most expedient for the wise, if Don Worm, his conscience, find no impediment to the con- trary, to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to my- self. So much for praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy; and now tell me, how doth your cousin ? Beatrice. Very ill. Benedick. And how do you ? Beatrice. Very ill too. fo Benedick. Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste. Enter Ursula. Ursula. Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder 's old coil at home : it is proved my Lady Hero hath been falsely accused, the prince and Claudio mightily abused ; and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone. Will you come presently? Beatrice. AVill you go hear this news, signior? 88 Benedick. I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes j and moreover I will go with thee to thy uncle's. \Exeunt. Scene III. A Church. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and three or four with tapers, Claudio. Is this the monument of Leonato? A Lord. It is, my lord. Claudio. [Reading out of a scroll] 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. % ACT V. SCENE IV. 1 09 Hang thou there upon the tomb, \Affixing it. Praising her when I am dumb. Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn. Song. Pardon^ goddess of the nighty Those that slew thy virgin knight; For the which, with songs of woe, Round about her tomb they go. Midfiight, assist our moan ; Help us to sigh and groan. Heavily, heavily : Graves, yawn and yield your dead. Till death be uttered, 2c Heavily, heavily. Claudio. Now, unto thy bones good night ! Yearly will I do this rite. Don 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. Claudio. Good morrow, masters ; each his several way. Don Pedro. Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds ; sd And then to Leonato's we will go. Claudio. And Hymen now with luckier issue speed 's Than this for whom we render'd up this woe ! [Exeunt Scene IV. A Room in Leonafo^s House. Enter Leonato, Antonio, Benedick, Beatrice, Margaret, Ursula, Friar Francis, and Hero. Friar Francis. Did I not tell you she was innocent ? ■Leonato. So are the prince and Claudio, who accus'd her Upon the error that you heard debated ; no MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, But Margaret was in some fault for this, Although against her will, as it appears In the true course of all the question. Antonio. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well. Benedick. And so am I, being else by faith enforc'd To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it. Leonato. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all, ^^ Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves, And when I send for you, come hither mask'd. — \Exemit 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. Antonio. Which I will do with confirm'd countenance. Benedick. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think. Bf'iar Fraficis. To do what, signior ? Benedick. To bind me, or undo me ; one of them. — 2a Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior. Your niece regards me with an eye of favour. Leonato. That eye my daughter lent her ; 't is most true. Benedick. And I do with an eye of love requite her. Leonato. The sight whereof I think you had from me. From Claudio, and the prince ; but what 's your will ? Benedick. 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, — 30 In which, good friar, I shall desire your help. Leonato. My heart is with your liking. Friar Francis. And my help.— Here comes the prince and Claudio. Enter Don Pedro atid Claudio, and two or three others, Don Pedro. Good morrow to this fair assembly. ACT V. SCENE IV. m Leonato. Good morrow, prince ; good morrow^ Claudio : We here attend you. Are you yet determin'd To-day to marry with my brother's daughter? Claudio. I '11 hold my mind, were she an Ethiope. Leonato. Call her forth, brother ; here 's the friar ready. \^Exit Antonio. Don Pedro. Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what 's the matter, 40 That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness ? Claudio. I think he thinks upon the savage bull. — Tush, fear not, man ; we '11 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. Benedick. 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 50 Much like to you, for you have just his bleat. Claudio. For this I owe you ; here comes other reckon- ings.— Re-enter Antonio, with the Ladies masked. Which is the lady I must seize upon ? Antonio. This same is she, and I do give you her. Claudio. Why, then she 's mine. — Sweet, let me see your face. Leonato. No, that you shall not, till you take her hand Before this friar and swear to marry her. Claudio. 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 ; 6^//^-arrovvs are used) ; in other words, he challenged him to shoot at hearts. The fool, to ridicule this piece of van- ity, in his turn challenged Benedick to shoot at crows with the cross-bow and bird-bolt ; an inferior kind of archery used by fools, who, for obvious reasons, were not permitted to shoot with pointed arrows : whence the proverb, 'A fool's bolt is soon shot' " Cf A. Y. L. v. 4. 67 and Hen, V. iii. 7. 132. See also L. L L. iv. 3. 25 and T. N. i. 5. 100. 39. To eat, etc. Cf Hen., V. iii. 7. 99 : " Rambures. He longs to eat the English. Co7istable. I think he will eat all he kills." 40. Tax. Reproach, inveigh against. Cf A. Y. L. ii. 7. 71, 86, Ham. \. 4. 18, iii. 3. 29, etc. 41. Meet with you. Even with you, a match for you. Steevens says that the expression is common in the midland counties, and quotes Hol- iday, T£T^voy«jWia, 1618 : "Go meet her, or else she '11 be meet with me." 43. Victual. Elsewhere S. uses the plural. Bacon has both " Vict- ual " and " Victuals " in Essay xxxiii. Cf Exod. xii. 39 and Josh. i. 11. Help. S. uses both helped and holp as past tense and as participle. For the former use of holp, see K. John, i. i. 240, Cor. v. 3. 63, etc. ; and for the latter, Temp. i. 2. 63, Rich. II. v. 5. 62, Macb. i. 6. 23, etc We find holpen in Ps. Ixxxiii. 8, Dan. xi. 34, etc. 44. Trencher-man. Cf trencher-friend ( = parasite) in T of A. iii. 6. 106, and trencher -knight (= waiter) in I. I. L. v, 2. 464 (cf 476) ; also Lodge, Wifs Miserie, 1 596 ; " His doublet is of cast satten cut sometime upon taffata, but that the bumbast hath eaten through it, and spotted here and there with pure fat to testifie that he is a good trencher-man." 49. Stuffed. Fully endowed. Cf R. and J iii. 5. 183 : " Stuff 'd, as they say, with honourable parts ;" and W. T. ii. i. 185 : "of stuff 'd suffi- ciency." Edwards observes that Mede, in his Discotirses on Scripture, speaks of Adam as " he whom God had stuffed with so many excellent qualities." Beatrice uses the word contemptuously = stuffed out, padded. I20 NOTES. Farmer says that a stuffed man was " one of the many cant phrases for a cuckold.^'' 52. Stuffing. Halliwell says : " Beatrice seems to use the teim stuff- Dig in a sense analogous to the Latin vestis fai'tum ; or, possibly, in ref- erence to his mental qualities." We are all mortal. One of the affected phrases of the time. Cf. Sir Gyles Goosecappe, Knight, 1606 : " Sir Gyles Goosecap has always a deathes head (as it were) in his mouth, for his onely one reason for ev- ery thing is, because wee are all mortall." 57. Five wits. The wits, or intellectual powers, seem to have been reckoned as five to correspond with the five senses, which were also called wits. Cf Chaucer, Perso7ies Tale : " the five wittis ; as sight, here- ing, smelling, savouring, and touching." Boswell quotes a prayer by Sir Thomas More, in which he asks to be forgiven for his sins "ifi mispend- ing of my five wittes." Schmidt says that "the proverbial five wits" were " common wit, imagination, fantasy, estimation, memory." In Sonn. 141. 9 we find the two meanings distinguished : " But my five wits nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee." 59. To keep himself warm. *' To have wit enough to keep one's self warm " was a common proverb. Cf T. of S. ii. i. 268 : " Fetruchio. Am 1 not wise ? Katharina. Yes ; keep you warm." Steevens quotes among other examples of the phrase, B. J., Cynthia^ s Rev- els: "your whole self cannot but be perfectly wise ; for your hands have wit enough to keep themselves warm." Bear it for a difference. That is, for a mark of distinction ; a term in heraldry. Cf. Ham. iv. 5. 183 : "you must wear your rue with a differ- ence." 62. Sworn brother. See Rich. II. p. 208 or A. V. L. p. 199. 64. Faith. That is, his fidelity as a friend. 65. Block. Still the technical term for the wooden model on which hats are shaped. Cf Lear, iv. 6. 187 : "this' a good block." See also Epigrammes by I. D., 1596 : " He weares a hat now of the flat-crowne blocke, The treble ruffes, long cloake, and doublet French ; He takes tobacco, and doth weare a locke ; And wastes more time in dressing then a wench ;" and Dekker, Seven Deadly Sinnes of London, 1606 : "the blocke for his head alters faster then the feltmaker can fitte him, and thereupon we are called in scorne blockheads." 66. Not in your books. Evidently = not in favour with you, but the origin of the phrase has been much disputed. Johnson gives it " to be in one's codicils or will, to be among friends set down for legacies." Steevens takes the books to be memorandum-books, or, perhaps, heraldic records (cf T. of S. ii. i. 225). Farmer says " to be in a man's books orig- inally meant to be in the list of his retainers.^'' K. explains it as a com- mercial allusion = one to whom you give credit. Schmidt, like Steevens, ACT L SCENE I. 12 1 decides on "books of memory" (i Hen. VI. ii. 4. loi and 2 Hen. VI. i. 1. 100), which seems the most plausible explanation. 68. Sqicai-er. Quarreller, bully. Cf. j^«a?r— quarrel in M. N. D. ii. i. 30, A. and C. ii. I. 45, iii. 3. 41, etc. 74. Pi'esently. Immediately ; the usual meaning in S. Cf. Temp. i. 2. 125, iv. I. 42, V. I. loi, etc. 75. A thousand pou?id. See Rich. II. p. 182. 77. Hold friends with yon. Cf. M.for M. i. 2. 185 : " Implore her in my voice, that she make friends To the strict deputy." 89. Charge. Burden, incumbrance (Johnson). Douce thinks it means " the person committed to your care." 94. Yon have it f nil. Schmidt explains this as = "you are the man, you will do," and compares T. of S. i. i. 203 ; but it seems rather— you get as good as you sent, you are well answered. 95. Fathers herself. Is like her father ; a phrase common in Dorset- shire (Steevens). For the verb, cf J. C. ii. i. 297, Macb. iv. 2. 27, etc. loi. Still. Continually; as in 117 below. Gr. 69. 105. Is it possible, Qic. Steevens compares Cor. ii. 1.93: "Our very priests must become mockers, if they encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are." 107. Convert. For the intransitive use, cf R. of L. 592, Macb. iv. 3. 229, Rich. II. V. I. 66, v. 3. 64, etc. 109. Of. By. Cf. ^a