Beat. Dead, I think:-help, uncle: Hero! why, Hero!-uncle !-Signior Benedick!—friar ! That may be wish'd for. Beat. How now, cousin Hero! F. Fran. Have comfort, lady. Leon. Dost thou look up? F. Fran. Yea, wherefore should she not? Leon. Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly thing Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny The story that is printed in her blood?- O, one too much by thee! Why had I one? Hath drops too few to wash her clean again, Bene. Sir, sir, be patient. For my part, I am so attir'd in wonder, I know not what to say. Beat. O, on my soul, my cousin is belied! Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night? Beat. No, truly, not; although, until last night, I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow. Leon. 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, Who lov'd her so, that, speaking of her foulness, Wash'd it with tears? Hence from her! let her die. F. Fran. Hear me a little; For I have only been silent so long, Leon. Friar, it cannot be. Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left Is that she will not add to her damnation A sin of perjury; she not denies it: Why seek'st thou, then, to cover with excuse That which appears in proper nakedness? F. Fran. Lady, what man is he you are accus'd of? If I know more of any man alive I know none: Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant, At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight Maintain'd the change of words with any creature, Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death! F. Fran. There is some strange misprision in the princes. Bene. 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. Leon. I know not. If they speak but truth of her, Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, F. Fran. Pause awhile, And let my counsel sway you in this case. Your daughter here the princes left for dead: And publish it that she is dead indeed; That appertain unto a burial. Leon. What shall become of this? what will this do? F. Fran. Marry, this, well carried, shall on her behalf Change slander to remorse ;—that is some good: But on this travail look for greater birth. She dying, as it must be so maintain'd, That what we have we prize not to the worth 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, Than when she liv'd indeed; then shall he mourn Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries. Bene. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you : Leon. The smallest twine may Being that I flow in grief, lead me. F. Fran. 'Tis well consented: presently away; For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.— Come, lady, die to live: this wedding-day Perhaps is but prolong'd: have patience and endure. [Exeunt Friar Francis, Hero, and Leonato. Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while? Beat. Yea, and I will weep a while longer. Bene. I will not desire that. Beat. You have no reason; I do it freely. Bene. Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged. Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her! Bene. Is there any way to show such friendship? Beat. A very even way, but no such friend. Bene. May a man do it? Beat. It is a man's office, but not yours. Bene. I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange? Beat. 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. Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me. Beat. Do not swear by it, and eat it. Bene. I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you. Beat. Will you not eat your word? Bene. With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee. Beat. Why, then, God forgive me! Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice? Beat. You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to protest I loved you. Bene. And do it with all thy heart. Beat. I love you with so much of my heart, that none is left to protest. Bene. Come, bid me do any thing for thee. Beat. Kill Claudio. Bene. Ha! not for the wide world. Beat. You kill me to deny it. Farewell. Bene. Tarry, sweet Beatrice. Beat. I am gone, though I am here:-there is no love in you:-nay, I pray you, let me go. Bene. Beatrice, Beat. In faith, I will go. Bene. We'll be friends first. Beat. You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy. |