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Pedro. Speak low, if you fpeak love.

Balth. Well, I would, you did like me. (6)

Marg. So would not I for your own fake, for I have many ill qualities.

Balth. Which is one?

Marg. I fay my Prayers aloud.

Balth. I love you the better, the hearers may cry Amen.

Marg. God match me with a good dancer!

Balth. Amen.

Marg. And God keep him out of my fight when the dance is done! Anfwer, Clerk.

Balth. No more words, the clerk is answer'd.

Urf. I know you well enough; you are Signior An

tonio.

Ant. At a word, I am not.

Urf. I know you by the wagling of your head.
Ant. To tell you true, I counterfeit him.

Urf. You could never do him fo ill-well, unless you were the very man: here's his dry hand up and down; you are he, you are he.

Ant. At a word, I am not.

Urf. Come, come, do you think, I do not know you by your excellent wit? can virtue hide it felf? go to, mum, you are he; graces will appear, and there's an

end.

Beat. Will you not tell me, who told you fo?
Bene. No, you fhall pardon me.

Beat. Nor will you not tell me, who you are?

Bene. Not now.

Beat. That I was difdainful, and that I had my good Wit out of the Hundred merry Tales; well, this was Signior Benedick that faid fo.

Bene. What's he?

(6) Balth. Well; I would, you did like me.] This and the two following little Speeches, which I have placed to Balthafar, are in all the printed Copies given to Benedick. But, 'tis clear, the Dialogue here ought to be betwixt Balthafar, and Margaret: Benedick, a little lower, converfes with Beatrice and fo every Man talks with his Woman once round.

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Beat. I am fure, you know him well enough.
Bene. Not I, believe me.

Beat. Did he never make you laugh?

Bene. I pray you, what is he?

Beat. Why, he is the Prince's jefter; a very dull fool, only his gift is in devifing impoffible flanders: none but libertines delight in him, and the commendation is not in his wit, but in his villany; for he both pleaseth men and angers them, and then they laugh at him, and beat him; I am fure, he is in the fleet; I would, he had boarded me.

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Bene. When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him what you fay

Beat. Do, do, he'll but break a comparison or two on me; which, peradventure, not mark'd, or not laugh'd at, ftrikes him into melancholy, and then there's a partridge wing fav'd, for the fool will eat no fupper that night. We must follow the leaders.

[Mufick within.

Bene. In every good thing. Beat. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning.

Manent John, Borachio, and Claudio.

[Exeunt.

John. 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 vifor remains.

Bora. And that is Claudio; I know him by his Bearing.

John. Are you not Signior Benedick?

Claud. You know me well, I am he.

John. Signior, you are very near my brother in his love, he is enamour'd on Hero; I pray you, difsuade him from her, the is no equal for his birth; you may do the part of an honest man in it.

Claud. How know ye, he loves her?

John. I heard him fwear his affection.

Bura. So did I too, and he fwore he would marry her to night.

Joba.

John. Come, let us to the banquet.

[Exeunt John and Bor.
Claud. Thus answer I in name of Benedick,
But hear this ill news with the ears of Claudio.
'Tis certain fo, the Prince wooes for himself.
Friendship is conftant in all other things,
Save in the office and affairs of love;
Therefore all hearts in love ufe their own tongues,
Let every eye negotiate for it felf,

And truft no agent; beauty is a witch,
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.
This is an accident of hourly proof,

Which I miftrufted not. Farewel then, Hero!

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Enter Benedick.

Bene. Count Claudio?

Claud. Yea, the fame.

Bene. Come, will you go with me?
Claud. Whither?

Bene. Even to the next willow, about your own business, Count. What fashion will you wear the garland of? about your neck, like an Ufurer's chain? or under your arm, like a Lieutenant's fcarf? you muft wear it one way, for the Prince hath got your Hero.

Claud. I wish him joy of her.

Bene. Why, that's fpoken like an honeft drover; fo they fell bullocks: but did you think, the Prince would have ferved you thus?

Claud. I pray you, leave me.

Bene. Ho! now you ftrike like the blind man; 'twas the boy that stole your meat, and you'll beat the post.

[Exit.

Claud. If it will not be, I'll leave you. Bene. Alas, poor hurt fowle! now will he creep into fedges. But that my lady Beatrice fhould 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 fo I am apt to do my felf wrong: I am not fo reputed. It is the base (tho' bitter) difpofition of Ec 3

Beatrice

Beatrice, that puts the world into her person, and fo gives me out, well, I'll be reveng'd as I may.

Enter Don Pedro.

Pedro. Now, Signior, where's the Count? did you fee him?

Bene. Troth, my lord, I have play'd the part of lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a warren, I told him (and I think, told him true) that your Grace had got the Will of this young lady, and I offer'd him my company to a willow tree, either to make him a garland, as being forfaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipt.

Pedro. To be whipt! what's his fault?

Bene. The flat tranfgreffion of a school-boy; who, being over-joy'd with finding a bird's neft, fhews it his companion, and he fteals it.

Pedro. Wilt thou make a trust, a tranfgreffion? the tranfgreffion is in the stealer.

Bene. Yet it had not been amifs, the rod had been made, and the garland too; for the garland he might have worn himfelf, and the rod he might have beftow'd on you, who (as I take it) have ftol'n his bird's neft.

Pedro. I will but teach them to fing, and restore them to the owner.

Bene. If their finging answer your faying, by my faith, you fay honeftly.

Pedro. The lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you; the gentleman, that danc'd with her, told her the is much wrong'd by you.

Bene. O, the mifus'd me paft the indurance of a block; an oak, but with one green leaf on it, would have anfwer'd her; my very vifor began to affume life, and scold with her; fhe told me, not thinking I had been my felf, that I was the Prince's jefter, and that I was duller than a great thaw; (7) hudling jeft

upon

(7) budling jest upon jeft, with fuch impoffible conveyance, upon me.] Thus all the printed Copies; but I freely confefs, I can't poffibly

upon jeft, with fuch impaffable conveyance upon me, that I ftood like a man at a mark, with a whole army fhooting at me, she speaks Ponyards, and every word ftabs; if her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her, fhe would infect to the North-Star; I would not marry her, though the were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he tranfgrefs'd; she would have made Hercules have turn'd Spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of her, you shall find her the infernal Até in good apparel. I would to God, fome fcholar would conjure her; for, certainly, while fhe is here a man may live as quiet in hell as in a fanctuary, and people fin upon purpose, because they would go thither, fo, indeed, all difquiet, horror, and perturbation follow her.

Enter Claudio, Beatrice, Leonato and Hero.

Pedro. Look, here fhe comes.

Bene. Will your Grace command me any service to the world's end? I will go on the flighteft errand now to the Antipodes, that you can devise to send me on; I will fetch you a tooth-picker now from the farthest inch of Afia; bring you the length of Prefter John's foot; fetch you a hair off the great Cham's beard; do you any ambaffage to the pigmies, rather than hold three words conference with this harpy; you have no employment for me?

Pedro. None, but to defire your good company.

Bene. O God, Sir, here's a difh I love not. I cannot indure this Lady Tongue.

Pedro. Come, Lady, come; you have loft the heart of Signior Benedick.

Beat. Indeed, my Lord, he lent it me a while, and I gave him ufe for it, a double heart for a fingle one;

poffibly underfland the Phrafe. I have ventur'd to fubftitute impaffable. To make a Pafs (in Fencing,) is, to thrust push and by impaffable, I prefume, the Poet meant, that the pufh'd her jefts upon him with fuch Swiftnefs, that it was impoffible for him to pass them off, to parry them.

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