D. John. Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true. Bene. This looks not like a nuptial. Hero. Claud. Leonato, stand I here? True!-O God! Is this the prince? Is this the prince's brother? Is this face Hero's? Are our eyes our own? Leon. All this is so; but what of this, my lord? Claud. Let me but move one question to your daughter; And, by that fatherly and kindly power That you have in her, bid her answer truly. Leon. Icharge thee do so, as thou art my child. What kind of catechising call you this? Claud. To make you answer truly to your name. Hero. Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name With any just reproach? Claud. Marry, that can Hero; What man was he talk'd with you yesternight, Hero. I talk'd with no man at that hour, my lord. D. John. Without offence, to utter them. Thus, pretty lady, I am sorry for thy much misgovernment. Claud. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been If half thy outward graces had been placed About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart! Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me? [HERO Swoons. Beat. Why, how now, cousin? wherefore sink you down? D. John. Come, let us go: these things, come thus to light, Smother her spirits up. [Exeunt D. PEDRO, D. JOHN, and CLAUD. Bene. How doth the lady? Beat. Dead, I think;-help, uncle; Hero! why, Hero!-Uncle !-Signior Benedick!—friar! Death is the fairest cover for her shame That may be wish'd for. How now, cousin Hero? Dost thou look up? Friar. Have comfort, lady. Leon. Friar. 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?— Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes: For did I think thou would'st not quickly die, Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames, Hath drops too few to wash her clean again, Bene. Sir, sir, be patient: For my part, 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 Who lov'd her so that, speaking of her foulness, For I have only been silent so long, And given way unto this course of fortune, 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 Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accused of? If I know more of any man alive Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant, Let all my sins lack mercy!--O my father, Prove you that any man with me convers'd At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight Maintain❜d the change of words with any creature, Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death! Friar. There is some strange misprision in the princes. Bene. Two of them have the very bent of 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, These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour, The proudest of them shall well hear of it. Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, Friar. And publish it that she is dead indeed: That appertain unto a burial. Leon. What shall become of this? What will this do? Friar. Marry, this, well carried, shall on her behalf Change slander to remorse; that is some good: But not for that dream I on this strange course, She dying, as it must be so maintain'd, That what we have we prize not to the worth 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,- And wish he had not so accused her; No, though he thought his accusation true. And, if it sort not well, you may conceal her,— In some reclusive and religious life, Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries. As secretly and justly as your soul Leon. Being that I flow in grief The smallest twine may lead me. Friar. 'Tis well consented; presently away; For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.- Perhaps is but prolonged; have patience, and endure. Bene. I will not desire that. Beat. You have no reason; I do it freely. Bene. Surely, I do believe your fair cousin is wrong'd. Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her! Bene. Is there any way to show such friendship? Beat. A very even way, but no such friend. Bene. May a man do it? Beat. It is a man's office, but not yours. Bene. I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange? 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? |