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Claud. And Hymen now with luckier iffue fpeed's Than this, for which we render'd up this wo!



Leonato's house.

Enter Leonato, Benedick, Margaret, Urfula, Antonio, Friar, and Hero.

Friar. D

ID I not tell you she was innocent?

Leon. So are the prince and Claudio who accus'd her,

Upon the errour that you heard debated.

But Margaret was in fome fault for this;
Although against her will, as it appears
In the true course of all the question.

Ant. Well, I am glad that all things fort fo well.
Bene. And fo am I, being else by faith enforc'd
To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.

Leon. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all,
Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves,
And, when I fend for you, come hither mask'd:
The prince and Claudio promis'd by this hour
To vifit me; you know your office, brother,
You must be father to your brother's daughter,
And give her to young Claudio.

[Exeunt Ladies.
Ant. Which I will do with confirm'd countenance.
Bene. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.
Friar. To do what, fignior?

Bene. To bind me, or undo me, one of them : Signior Leonato, truth it is, good fignior,

Your neice regards me with an eye of favour.

Leon. That eye my daughter lent her; 'tis moft true.
Bene. And I do with an eye of love requite her.
Leon. The fight whereof, I think, you had from me,


From Claudio, and the prince; but what's your will?
Bene. Your answer, fir, is enigmatical;
But, for my will, my will is, your good will
May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin'd
I' th' state of honourable marriage;

In which, good friar, I fhall defire your help.
Leon. My heart is with your liking.
Friar. And my help.

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Enter Don Pedro, and Claudio, with Attendants.

Pedro. Good morrow to this fair affembly.

Leon. Good morrow, prince, good morrow, Claudio, We here attend you; are you yet determin'd

To-day to marry with my brother's daughter?

Claud. I'll hold my mind, were the an Ethiope.

Leon. Call her forth, brother, here's the friar ready. [Ex. Ant. Pedro. Good morrow, Benedick; why, what's the matter, That you have fuch a february face,

So full of froft, of ftorm, and cloudiness?

Claud. I think, he thinks upon the favage bull: Tush, fear not, man, we'll tip thy horns with gold, And fo all Europe fhall rejoice at thee,

As once Europa did at lufty Jove,

When he would play the noble beast in love.

Bene. Bull Jove, fir, had an amiable low,

And some such strange bull leap'd your father's cow,

And got a calf in that fame noble feat,

Much like to you, for you have just his bleat..

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Enter Antonio with Hero, Beatrice, Margaret, and Ursula, mask’d.

Claud. For this I owe you; here come other reck'nings. Which is the lady I must seize upon ?


Leon. 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 fwear 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 liv'd.
Friar. All this amazement can I qualify.

When after that the holy rites are ended,

I'll tell you largely of fair Hero's death:
Mean time, let wonder seem familiar,

And to the chapel let us presently.

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; for they did fwear, you did.

Beat. Do not you love me?

Bene. Troth, no, no more than reason.

Beat. Why, then my coufin, Margaret, and Urfula, Are much deceiv'd; for they did fwear, you did. Bene. They fwore, you were almost sick for me. Beat. They fwore, you were wellnigh 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 gentleman. 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, ftol'n from her pocket,
Containing her affection unto Benedict.

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 now 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 ftop your mouth.

[kiffes her.

Pedro. How doft thou, Benedick, the marry'd man? Bene. I'll tell thee what, prince; a college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour: doft thou think, I care for a fatire, or an epigram? no: if a man will be beaten with brains, he shall wear nothing handsome 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 against 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 unbruised, and love my coufin.

Claud. I had well hoped thou wouldst have deny'd Beatrice, that I might have cudgell'd thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double dealer; which, out of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin 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, mufick. Prince, thou art fad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife: there is no staff more reverend than one tipt with horn.




Enter Meffenger.

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.

[Exeunt omnes.

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