As once Europa did at lufty Jove,

When he would play the noble beast in love.
Bene. Bull Jove, Sir, had an amiable low,

And fome fuch ftrange bull leap'd your father's cow; And got a calf, in that fame noble feat,

Much like to you; for you have juft his bleat.

SCENE XI.

Enter Antonio, with Hero, Beatrice, Margaret, and Urfula, mafk'd.

Claud. For this I owe you. Here come other reckonWhich is the lady I must feize upon?

[ings. Ant. This fame is fhe, and I do give you her. Claud. Why, then she's mine; fweet, let me see your face.

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

Claud. Give me your hand. Before this holy Friar, I am your husband if you like of me.

Hero. And when I liv'd, I was your other wife;

[Unmasking. And when you lov'd, you were my other husband. Claud. Another Hero ?

Hero. Nothing certainer.

One Hero dy'd defil'd, but I do live;

And, furely, as I live, I am a maid.

Pedro. The former Hero! Hero, that is dead!

Leon. She dy'd, my Lord, but whiles her flander

Friar. All this amazement can I qualify;

When, after that the holy rites are ended,
I'll tell thee largely of fair Hero's death:
Mean time let wonder seem familiar,

And to the chapel let us prefently.

[liv'd.

Bene. Soft and fair, Friar. Which is Beatrice? Beat. I answer to that name; what is your will? Bene. Do not you love me?

Beat. Why, no, no more than reason.

Bene. Why, then your uncle, and the Prince, and

Claudio, have been deceiv'd; they swore
Beat. Do not you love me?

Bene. Troth, no, no more than reason.

you did.

Beat. Why, then, my coufin, Margaret, and Urfula, Have been deceiv'd; for they did fwear you did. Bene. They fwore you were almost fick for me. Beat. They fwore you were well-nigh dead for me. Bene. 'Tis no matter; then you do not love me ? Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompence.

Leon. Come, coufin, I am fure you love the gentle

man.

Claud. And I'll be fworn upon't that he loves her; For here's a paper written in his hand,

A halting fonnet of his own pure brain,
Fashion'd to Beatrice.

Hero. And here's another,

Writ in my coufin's hand, ftolen from her pocket,
Containing her affection unto Benedick.

Bene. A miracle! here's our own hands against our hearts; come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity.

Beat. I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great perfuafion, and partly to fave your life; for, as I was told, you were in a confumption. Bene. Peace, I will stop your mouth.

[Kiffing her. Pedro. How doft thou, Bencdick, the married man? Bene. I'll tell thee what, Prince; a college of witcrackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Doft thou think I care for a fatyr, or an epigram? No: “ if a

man will be beaten with brains, he fhall wear nothing "handfome about him." In brief, fince I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can fay against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have faid againft it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclufion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee; but in that thou art like to be my kinfman, live unbruis'd, and love my coufin.

Claud. I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgell'd thee out of thy fingle life, to make thee a double dealer; which, out of queftion, thou wilt be, if my coufin do not look exceeding narrowly to thee.

Bene. Come, come, we are friends; let's have a

dance ere we are marry'd, that we may lighten our own hearts, and our wives heels.

Leon. We'll have dancing afterwards.

Bene. First, o' my word; therefore, play, mufic. Prince, thou art fad, get thee a wife, get thee a wife; there is no staff more reverend than one tipt with horn. Enter Messenger.

Meff. My Lord, your brother John is ta'en in flight, And brought with armed men back to Meffina.

Bene. Think not on him till to-morrow: I'll devife thee brave punishments for him. Strike up, pipers.

[Dance. [Exeunt omnes.

SCENE, partly at Venice; and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia

upon the continent.

A C T I. SCENE I.

Anth.

Aftreet in Venice.

Enter Anthonio, Solarino, and Salanio.

IN

N footh, I know not why I am so sad.
It wearies me; you fay, it wearies you.
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What ftuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn-

And fuch a want-wit fadnefs makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.

Sal. Your mind is toffing on the ocean;
There, where your Argofies with portly fail,
Like figniors and rich burghers on the flood,
Or as it were the pageants of the sea,
Do overpeer the petty traffickers,

That curtly to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.

Sola. Believe me, Sir, had I fuch venture forth,
The better part of my affections would

Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still
Plucking the grafs, to know where fits the wind;
Peering in maps for ports, and peers, and roads;
And every object that might make me fear
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt,
Would make me fad.

Sal. My wind, cooling my broth,

Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
What harm a wind too great might do at sea.
I should not fee the fandy hour-glafs run,
But I fhould think of fhallows and of flats;
And fee my wealthy Andrew dock'd in fand,
Vailing her high top lower than her ribs,
To kifs her burial. Should I go to church,
And fee the holy edifice of ftone ;

And not bethink me ftrait of dang'rous rocks 15
Which, touching but my gentle veffel's fide,
Would scatter all the fpices on the stream,
Enrobe the roaring waters with my filks;
And, in a word, but even now worth this,
And now worth nothing? Shali I have the thought
To think on this, and fhall I lack the thought,
That fuch a thing, bechanc'd, would make me fad ?
But tell not me ;-I know, Anthonio

Is fad to think upon his merchandize.

Anth. Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it, My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,

Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate

Upon the fortune of this prefent year:

Therefore my merchandize makes me not fad.
Sola. Why then you are in love.

Anth. Fie, fie!

Sola. Not in love neither! then let's say, you're sad, Because you are not merry; and 'twere as easy For you to laugh and leap, and fay, you're merry, Because you are not fad. " Now, by two-headed Janus, "Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time : "Some that will evermore peep through their eyes, VOL. II.