 Much adieu about nothing. Dramatis personae. Don Pedro, Prince of Aragon. Read by Janice in Georgia. Don John, his bastard brother. Read by Christine Ohock. Claudio, a young lord of Florence. Read by Lizzie Driver. Benedict, a young lord of Padua. Read by Elizabeth Clutt. Leonardo, governor of Messina. Read by Stephen Carney. Antonio, his brother. Read by Kellevan. Balthazar, servant to Don Pedro. Read by David O'Connell. Baraccio, follower of Don John. Read by Troy Bond. Conrad, follower of Don John. Read by James Pritchard. Dogberry, a constable. Read by Roslyn Wills. Verges, a head borough. Read by Lamar Gully. Friar Francis. Read by Sharon Soar. A sexton. Read by Joyce Eternal. A boy. Read by Ariel Lipscha. Hero, daughter to Leonardo. Performed by Karen Savage. Beatrice, niece to Leonardo. Read by Christian Hughes. Margaret, waiting gentlewoman, attending on hero. Read by Gates Meru. Ursula, waiting gentlewoman, attending on hero. Read by Cibela Denton. Messenger. Read by Josh Wilson. First Watch. Read by Graham Daley. Second Watch. Read by Kellevan. A Lord. Read by Jill Lu. Narrator. Read by Laurie Ann Walden. Act I of Much Ado About Nothing. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Much Ado About Nothing. By William Shakespeare. Act I. Scene I. Before Leonardo's house. Enter Leonardo, hero, Beatrice, and others with a messenger. I learned in this letter that Don Pedro of Aragon comes this night to Messina. He is very near by this. He was not three leagues off when I left him. How many gentlemen have he lost in this action? But few of any sort, and none of name. A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers. I find here that Don Pedro hath bestowed much honor on a young Florentine called Claudio. Much deserved on his part. And equally remembered by Don Pedro. He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age. Doing in the figure of a lamb the feats of a lion. He hath indeed better betrid expectation than you must expect of me to tell you how. He hath an uncle here, and Messina will be very much glad of it. I have already delivered him letters, and there appears much joy in him. Even so much that joy could not show itself modest enough without a badge of bitterness. Did he break out into tears? In great measure. A kind overflow of kindness. There are no faces truer than those that are so washed. How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping? I pray you, is Senior Montanto returned from the wars or no? I know none of that name, lady. There was none such in the army of any sort. What is he that you ask for, niece? My cousin means Senior Benedict of Padua. Oh, he is returned, and as pleasant as ever he was. He set up his bills here in Messina and challenged Cupid at the flight, and my uncle's fool reading the challenge subscribed for Cupid, and challenged him at the birdbolt. I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these wars. But how many hath he killed? For indeed, I promise to eat all of his killing. Faith, niece, you taxing your Benedict too much. But he'll be meat with you, I doubt it not. He hath done good service, lady, in these wars. You had musty vitil, and he hath hoped to eat it. He is a very valiant, trencher man. He hath an excellent stomach. And a good soldier too, lady. And a good soldier to a lady. But what is he to a lord? A lord to a lord, a man to a man, stuffed with all honourable virtues. It is so indeed. He is no less than a stuffed man, but for the stuffing. Well, we are all mortal. You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a kind of merry war between Senior Benedict and her. They never meet, but there's a skirmish of wit between them. Alas! He gets nothing by that. In our last conflict, four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man governed with one, so that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse, for it is all the wealth that he hath left to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his companion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother. Is it possible? Very easily possible. He wears his faith, but as the fashion of his hat, it ever changes with the next block. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books. No, and he were I would burn my study. But I pray you, who is his companion? Is there no young square now who will make a voyage with him to the devil? He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio. Oh, lord, he will hang upon him like a disease. He is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio. If he have caught the Benedict, it will cost him a thousand pound airy be cured. I will hold friends with you, lady. Do good friend. You will never run mad, niece. No, not till a heart January. Don Pedro is approached. Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Claudio, Benedict, Balthazar, and others. Good senior Leonardo, you are come to meet your trouble. The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it. Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of your grace. For trouble being gone, comfort should remain. But when you depart from me, sorrow abides, and happiness takes his leave. You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this is your daughter. Her mother hath many times told me so. Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her? Senior Benedict, no. For then you're a child. You have it full, Benedict. We may guess by this what you are being a man. Truly the lady fathers herself. Be happy, lady, for you are like an honorable father. If senior Leonardo be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina as like him as she is. I wonder that you will still be talking, senior Benedict. Nobody marks you. What? My dear lady disdain. Are you yet living? Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meat food to feed it as senior Benedict? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain if you come in her presence. Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you accepted. And I would I could find it in my heart that I had not a hard heart, for truly I love none. A dear happiness to women. They would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood. I am of your humour for that. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me. God keep your ladyship still in that mind, so some gentleman or other shall escape a predestinate, scratched face. Scratching could not make it worse, and was such a face as yours were. Well, you are a rare parrot teacher. A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours. I would buy horse at the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuum. But keep your way, a God's name I have done. You always end with a jade's trick. I know you of old. That is the sum of all, Leonardo. Senor Claudio and Senor Benedict, my dear friend Leonardo hath invited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at least a month, and he heartily praise some occasion may detain us longer. I dare swear he is no hypocrite, but praise from his heart. If you swear, my lord, you shall not be foresworn. To Don John. Let me bid you welcome, my lord. Be reconciled to the prince, your brother. I owe you all duty. I thank you. I am not of many words, but I thank you. Pleaseth your grace, Leedon. Your hand, Leonardo. We will go together. Exeant all but Benedict and Claudio. Benedict, does thou note the daughter of Senor Leonardo? I noted her not, but I looked on her. Is she not a modest young lady? Do you question me as an honest man should do for my simple true judgment? Or would you have me speak after my custom as being a professed tyrant to their sex? No. I pray thee speak in sober judgment. Why, of faith, me thinks she is too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too little for a great praise? Only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is she were unhandsome, and being no other but as she is, I do not like her. Thou thinkest I am in sport. I pray thee tell me truly how thou likeest her. Would you buy her that you inquire after her? Can the world buy such a jewel? Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this with a sad brow, or do you play the flouting jack to tell us Cupid is a good hair-finder, and Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take you to go in the song? In mine eyes she is the sweetest lady that I ever looked on. I can see yet without spectacles, and I see no such matter. There's her cousin, and she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May, that the last of December, but I hope you have no intent to turn husband. Have you? I would scarce trust myself, though I have sworn the contrary, if here would be my wife. Is to come to this, a faith. Hath not the world one man, but he will wear his cap with suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of three score again? Go to a faith, and thou wilt needst the rustly neck into a yoke, wear the print of it, and sigh away Sundays. Look, Don Pedro has returned to seek you. Re-enter, Don Pedro. What secret have held you here that you followed not to Leonato's? I would your grace would constrain me to tell. I charge thee on thy allegiance. You here, Count Claudio? I can be secret as a dumb man. I would have you think so, but on my allegiance mark you this, on my allegiance. He is in love. With who, now that is your grace's part, mark how short his answer is. With Hero, Leonato's short daughter. If this were so, so were it uttered. Like the old tale, my lord, it is not so, nor twas not so, but indeed God forbid it should be so. If my passion changed not shortly, God forbid it should be otherwise. Amen, if you love her, for the lady is very well worthy. You speak this to fetch me in, my lord. By my truth I speak my thought. And in faith, my lord, I spoke mine. And by my two faiths and truths, my lord, I spoke mine. That I love her, I feel. That she is worthy, I know. That I neither feel how she should be loved nor know how she should be worthy is the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me. I will die in it at the stake. Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in despite of beauty. I never could maintain his part but in the force of his will. That a woman conceived me, I thank her. That she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks. But that I will have a re-cheat winded in my forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick. All women shall pardon me. Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none. And the fine is, for the which I may go the finer, I will live a bachelor. I shall see thee ere I die look pale with love. With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord, not with love. Prove that ever I lose more blood with love than I will get again with drinking. Pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen and hang me up at the door of a brothel-house with a sign of blind cupid. Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou will prove a notable argument. If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me. And he that hits me, let him be clapped on the shoulder and called Adam. Well, as time shall try, in time the savage bull doth bear the yoke. The savage bull may, but if ever the sensible Benedict bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set them in my forehead. And let me be vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write, Here is good horse to hire, let them signify under my sign, Here you may see Benedict, the married man. If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad. Nay, if cupid hath not spent all his quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly. I look for an earthquake, too, then. Well, you will temporize with the hours. In the meantime, good senior Benedict, repair to Leonatoes. Commend me to him, and tell him I will not fail him at supper, for indeed he hath made great preparation. I have almost madder enough in me for such an embossage, and so I commit you. To the tuition of God. From my house, if I had it. The sixth of July, your loving friend, Benedict. Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your discourse is sometime guarded with fragments, and the guards are but slightly basted on, neither. ere you flout old ends any further, examine your conscience, and so I leave you. Exit. My liege, your highness now may do me good. My love is thine to teach. Teach it but how, and thou shalt see how apt it is to learn hard lesson that may do thee good. Hath Leonato any son, my lord? No child but hero, she's his only heir. Does thou affect her, Claudia? My lord, when you went onward on this ended action, I looked upon her with a soldier's eye. That liked, but had a rougher task in hand than to driving liking to the name of love. But now I am returned, and that war thoughts have left their places vacant. In their rooms comes thronging soft and delicate desires. All prompting me how fair young hero is, saying, I like to ear I went to wars. Thou wilt be like a lover presently, and tire the hero with a book of words. If thou dost love, fair hero, cherish it, and I will break with her and with her father, and thou shalt have her. Was not to this in that thou beganst to twist so fine a story? How sweetly you do minister to love! That no love's grief by his complexion. But lest my liking might too sudden seem, I would have salved it with a longer treatise. What need the bridge much broader than the flood? The fairest grant is the necessity. Look, what will serve is fit. Tis once thou lovest, and I will fit thee with the remedy. I know we shall have reveling to-night. I will assume thy part in some disguise and tell fair hero I am Claudio. And in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart and take her hearing prisoner with the force and strong encounter of my amorous tale. Then after to her father I will break. And the conclusion is she shall be thine. In practice let us put it presently. Exeant. Scene two. A room in Leonato's house. Enter Leonato and Antonio. Meeting. How now, brother? Where is my cousin, your son? hath he provided this music? He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can tell you strange news that you dreamt not of. Are they good? As the event stamps them, but they have a good cover. They show well outward. The Prince and Count Claudio walking in a thick-pleached alley in my orchard were thus much overheard by a man of mine. The Prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my niece, your daughter, and meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance. And if he found her a-cordant, he meant to take the present time by the top and instantly break with you of it. hath the fellow any wit that told you this? A good sharp fellow, I would sin for him and question him yourself. No, no, we will hold it as a dream till it appear itself. But I will acquaint my daughter with all that she may be the better prepared for an answer, if paired venture this be true. Go you and tell her of it. Several persons cross the stage. Cousins, you know what you have to do. Oh, I call you mercy, friend. Go you with me, and I will use your skill. Good cousin, have a care this busy time. Exeant. Name three, another room in Leonato's house. Enter Don John and Conrad. What the good year, my lord. Why are you thus out of measure sad? There is no measure in the occasion that breeds, therefore the sadness is without limit. You should hear reason. And when I have heard it, what blessings brings it? If not a present remedy, at least a patient's sufferance. I wonder that thou, being as thou sayst thou art, born under Saturn, goest about to apply a moral medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide what I am. I must be sad when I have cause, and smile at no man's jests. Eat when I have stomach, and wait for no man's leisure. Sleep when I am drowsy, and tend to no man's business. Laugh when I am merry, and claw no man in his humour. Yeah, but you must not make a full show of this till you may do it without controlment. You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath taken you newly into his grace. Where it is impossible you should take true root, but by the fair weather that you make yourself, it is needful that you frame the season for your own harvest. I had rather be a canker and a hedge than a rose in his grace, and it better fits my blood to be disdained of all and do fashion a carriage to rob love from any. In this, though I cannot be said to be a flattering, honest man, it must not be denied, but I am a plain dealing villain. I am trusted with a muzzle, and enfranchised with a clog. Therefore I have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my mouth, I would bite. If I had my liberty, I would do my liking. In the meantime, let me be that I am, and seek not to alter me. Can you make no use of your discontent? I make all use of it, for I use it only. Who comes here? Enter Boraccio. What news, Boraccio? I came yonder from a great supper. The Prince, your brother, is warily entertained by Leonato, and I can give you intelligence of an intended marriage. Will it serve for any model to build mischief on? What is he for a fool that betroths himself to unquietness? Mary, it is your brother's right hand. Who? The most exquisite Claudio. Even he? A proper squire. And who? And who? Which way looks he? On hero, the daughter and heir of Leonato. A very forward march chick. And how came you to this? Being entertained for a perfumer as I was smoking a musty room, comes me the Prince and Claudio hand in hand in sad conference. I whipped me behind the arras, and there heard it agreed upon that the Prince should woo hero for himself, and having obtained her, give her to Count Claudio. Come, come, let us dither. This may prove food to my displeasure, that young startup hath all the glory of my overthrow. If I can cross him any way, I will bless myself every way. You are both sure, and will assist me. To the best, my lord. Let us to the great supper. Their cheer is greater than I am subdued. Would the cook were of my mind, shall we go to prove what's to be done? We'll wait upon your lordship. Exeant. End of Act I. Act II. Of Much Ado About Nothing. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare. Act II. Scene I. A hall in Leonato's house. Enter Leonato, Antonio, Hiro, Beatrice, and others. Was not Cal John here at supper? I saw him not. How tartly that gentleman looks. I never can see him, but I am heartburned an hour after. He is of a very melancholy disposition. He were an excellent man that were made just the midway between him and Benedict. The one is too like an image, and says nothing, and the other too like my lady's eldest son ever more tattling. Then half senior Benedict's tongue and count John's mouth, and half count John's melancholy and senior Benedict's face, with a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in his purse. Such a man would win any woman in the world if he could get her goodwill. By my truth, niece, that wilt never get thee a husband if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue. He baits. She's too cursed. Too cursed is more than cursed. I shall lessen God's sending that way, for it is said God sends a cursed cow short horns, but to a cow too cursed he sends none. So by being too cursed God will send you no horns? Just. If he sends me no husband, for the witch-blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening. Lord, I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face. I'd rather lie in the woollen. You may light on a husband that hath no beard. What should I do with him? Dress him in my apparel and make him my waiting gentlewoman? He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man, and he that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man, I am not for him. Therefore I will even take six pence and earnest of the bear-ward, and lead his apes into hell. Well, then go you into hell? No, but to the gate, and there will the devil meet me like an old cuckold with horns on his head and say, Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven, here is no place for you maids. So I deliver up my apes and away to St. Peter for the heavens. He shows me where the bachelor sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long. To hero. Well, niece, I trust you will be ruled by your father. Yes, Faith. It is my cousin's duty to make curtsy and say, Father, as it please you. But yet, fro that cousin. Let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy and say, Father, as it please me. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband. Not till God makes men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered with a piece of valiant dust? To make an account of her life to a clod of wayward Marl? No, uncle, I'll none. Adam's sons are my brethren, and truly I hold it a sin to match my kindred. Daughter, remember what I told you. If the Prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer. The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in good time. If the Prince be too important, tell him there is measure in everything, and so dance out the answer. For hear me, hero, wooing wedding and repenting is as a scotch jig, a measure, and a sank pace. The first sweet is hot and hasty, like a scotch jig, and full is fantastical. The wedding, manorly modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry, and then comes repentance, and with his bad legs falls into the sank pace faster and faster till he sink into his grave. Cousin, you apprehend passings rudely. I have a good eye, uncle. I can see a church by daylight. The revelers are entering. Brother, make good room. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedict, Balthasar, Don John, Baraccio, Margaret, Ursula, and others, masked. Lady, will you walk about with your friend? So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing, I am yours for the walk, and especially when I walk away. With me in your company? I may say so, when I please. And when please you to say so? When I like your favour. For God defend the loot should be like the case. My visor is Philemon's roof. Within the house is Jove. Why, then, your visor should be thatched. Speak low if you speak loud. Takes her aside. Well, I would you did like me. So would not I for your own sake, for I have many ill qualities. Which is one? I say my prayers aloud. I love you the better. The hearers may cry amen. God, match me with a good dancer. Amen! And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is done. Answer, clerk. No more words. The clerk is answered. I know you well enough. You are Senior Antonio. At a word I am not. I know you by the waggling of your head. More to tell you true, I counterfeit him. You could never do him so ill well, unless you were the very man. Here's his dry hand up and down. You are he, you are he. At a word I am not. Come, come. Do you think I do not know you by your excellent wit? Can virtue hide itself? Go to, mom, you are he. Graces will appear, and there's an end. Will you not tell me who told you so? No, you shall pardon me. Nor will you not tell me who you are? Not now. That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit out of the hundred merry tales. Well, this was Senior Benedict that said so. What's he? I'm sure you know him well enough. Not I, believe me. Did he never make you laugh? I pray you, what is he? Why, he is the Prince's jester. Very dull fool. Only his gift is in devising impossible slanders. None but Libertine's delight in him, and the commendation is not in his wit, but in his villainy, for he both pleases men and angers them, and then they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in the fleet. I would he had boarded me. When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him what you say. Do, do, but he'll break a comparison or two on me, which, per-adventure not marked or laughed at, strikes him into melancholy, and then there's a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no supper that night. Music within. We must follow the leaders. In every good thing. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning. Dance. Then exe-ent all but Don John, Baraccio, and Claudio. Sure, my brother is Amorous on Hero, and hath withdrawn her father to break with him about it. The ladies follow her, but one visor remains. And that is Claudio. I know him by his bearing. Are you not? Señor Benedict. He know me well. I am he. Señor, you are very near my brother in his love. He is enamoured on Hero. I pray you dissuade him from her. She is no equal for his birth. You may do the part of an honest man in it. How know you, he loves her. I heard him swear his affection. So did I, too, and he swore he would marry her to-night. Come, let us to the banquet. Exe-ent Don John and Baraccio. Thus answer I a name of Benedict. But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio. To ascertain so. The Prince woos for himself. Friendship is constant in all other things. Save in the office and affairs of love. Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues. Let every eye negotiate for itself and trust no agent. For beauty is a witch, against whose charms faith melted into blood. This is an accident of hourly proof, which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero. Re-enter, Benedict. Count Claudio. Ye, the same. Come, will you go with me? Wither. Even to the next willow about your own business count. What fashion will you wear the garland of? About your neck like a userer's chain? Or under your arms like a lieutenant's scarf? You must wear it one way, for the Prince hath got your Hero. I wish him joy of her. Why, that's spoken like an honest drovier. So they sell bullocks. But did you think the Prince would have served you thus? I pray you, leave me. Ho, now you strike like the blind man. It was the boy that stole your meat, and you'll beat the post. If it will not be, I'll leave you. Exit. Alas! Poor, hurt fowl! Now will he creep into sedges. But that my Lady Beatrice should know me and not know me. The Prince's fool. Ha! It may be I go under that title because I am merry. Ye, but so I am apt to do myself wrong. I am not so reputed. It is the base, though bitter, disposition of Beatrice that puts the world into her person, and so gives me out. Well, I'll be revenged as I may. Re-enter Don Pedro. Now, senor, where's the count? Did you see him? Truth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a lodge and a warren. I told him, and I think I told him true, that your grace had got the goodwill of this young lady, and I offered him my company to a willow tree, either to make him a garland as being forsaken, or to bind him up a rod as being worthy to be whipped. To be whipped? What's his fault? The flat transgression of a schoolboy, who, being overjoyed with finding a bird's nest, shows it his companion, and he steals it. Will thou make a trust a transgression? The transgression is in the stealer. Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made, and the garland too. For the garland he might have worn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stolen his bird's nest. I will but teach them to sing and restore them to the owner. If they're singing answer your saying, by my faith you say honestly. The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you. The gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you. Oh, she misused me past the endurance of a block! An oak but with one green leaf on it would have answered her. My very visor began to assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the Prince's jester, that I was duller than a great thaw, huddling jest upon jest with such impossible conveyance upon me that I stood like a man at a mark with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks pognards, and every word stabs. If her breath were as terrible as her terminations there were no living near her. She would infect to the North Star. I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he transgressed. She would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of her. You'll find her the infernal ate in good apparel. I would to God some scholar would conjure her, for certainly while she is here a man may live as quiet and hell as in a sanctuary, and people sin upon purpose because they would go thither. So indeed all disquiet, horror, and perturbation follow her. Re-enter Claudio, Beatrice, Hiro, and Leonardo. Look, here she comes. Feel your grace command me any service to the world's end. I will go on the slightest errand now to the antipodes that you can devise to send me on. I will fetch you a tooth-picker now from the furthest inch of Asia. Bring you the length of Prestor John's foot. Fetch you a hair off the great Cham's beard. Do you any embossage to the pygmies, rather than hold three words conference with this harpy? You have no employment for me? None but to desire your good company. Oh, God, sir, here's a dish I love not. I cannot endure my lady tongue. Exit. Come, lady, come. You have lost the heart of Signor Benedict. Indeed, my lord, he lent it me a while, and I gave him use for it, a double heart for a single one. Mary, once before he wanted of me with false dice, therefore your grace may well say I have lost it. You have put him down, lady, you have put him down. So I would not he should do to me, my lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. I have brought Count Claudio whom you sent me to seek. Why, how now, Count? Wherefore are you sad? Not sad, my lord. How, then, sick? Neither, my lord. The Count is neither sad nor sick nor merry nor well, but civil Count, civil as an orange and something of that jealous complexion. Faith, lady, I think you're blazing to be true. Though I'll be sworn if he be so, his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name and fair hero is one. I have broke with her father and his good will obtained. Name the day of marriage and God give thee joy. Count, take of me my daughter and with her my fortunes, his grace hath made the match and all grace say amen to it. Speak, Count, tis your cue. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy. I wove it a little happy if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours. I give away myself for you and do it upon the exchange. Speak, cousin, or if you cannot stop his mouth with a kiss and let not him speak neither. In faith, lady, you have a merry heart. Yea, my lord, I thank it, poor fool. It keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart. And so she doth, cousin. Good lord for alliance. Thus goes every one to the world but I and I am sunburnt. I may sit in a corner and cry hi-ho for a husband. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. I would rather have one of your father's getting. Hath your grace ne'er a brother like you? Your father got excellent husbands if a maid could come by them. Will you have me, lady? No, my lord, unless I might have another for working days. Your grace is too costly to wear every day. But I beseech your grace pardon me. I was born to speak all mirth and no matter. Your silence most defends me and to be merry best becomes you. For out of question you were born in a merry hour. No, sure, my lord, my mother cried. But then there was a star danced and under that I was born. Cousins, God give you joy. Nis, will you look to those things I told you of? I cry you mercy, uncle, by your grace's pardon. Exit. By my truth a pleasant spirited lady. There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord. She is never sad but when she sleeps, and not ever sad then for I have heard my daughter say she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked herself with laughing. She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband. Oh, by no means. She mocks all wooers out of suit. She were an excellent wife for Benedict. Oh, lord, my lord, if they were but a weak merry they would talk themselves mad. Well, Claudio, when mean you to go to church? Tomorrow, my lord, time goes on crutches till love have all his rights. Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just seven night and a time to breathe, too, to have all things answer my mind. Come, you shake your head it's so long a breathing. But I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go dullly by us. I will, in the interim, undertake one of Hercules's labours, to bring Signior Benedict and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection the one with the other. I would feign have it a match, and I doubt not but to fashion it if you three will minister such assistance as I shall give you direction. My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten nights's watchings. And I, my lord. And you, too, gentle hero? I will do any modest office, my lord, and my cousin to a good husband. And Benedict is not the unhopefulous husband that I know. Thus far, can I praise him, he is of noble strain, of approved valor and confirmed honesty. I will teach you how to humor your cousin that she shall fall in love with Benedict. And I, with your two helps, will so practice on Benedict that in despite of his quick wit and the squeezy stomach he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer. His glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me, and I will tell you my drift. Exeant Scene 2 Another room in Leonato's house Enter Don John and Baraccio It is so the Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of Leonato. Yea, my lord, but I can cross it. Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be medicinable to me. I am sick and displeasure to him, and whatsoever comes with wart his affection ranges evenly with mine. How can't thou cross this marriage? Not honestly, my lord, but so covertly that no dishonesty shall appear in me. Show me briefly how. I think I told your lordship a year since how much I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting gentlewoman to hero. I remember. I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night, appoint her to look out at her lady's chamber window. What life is in that to be the death of this marriage? The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to the prince, your brother. Spare not to tell him that he hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned Claudio, to use estimation do you mightily hold up to a contaminated stale such a one as hero. What proof shall I make of that? Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex Claudio, to undo hero, and kill Leonardo. Look you for any other issue? Only to despite them I will endeavour anything. Go then. Find me a meat-hour to draw Don Pedro in the Count Claudio alone. Tell them that you know that hero loves me. Kind of zeal both to the prince and Claudio as, in love of your brother's honour, who hath made this match, and his friend's reputation, who is thus like to be cosened with the semblance of a maid, that you have discovered thus. They will scarcely believe this without trial, offer them instances which shall bear no less likelihood than to see me at her chamber window, hear me call Margaret, hero, hear Margaret term me Claudio, and bring them to see this the very night before the intended wedding, for in the meantime I will so fashion the matter that hero shall be absent, and there shall appear such seeming truth of hero's disloyalty, that jealousy shall be called assurance in all the preparation overthrown. Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put it in practice. Be cunning in the working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats. Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning shall not shame me. I will presently go learn their day of marriage. Exit. Scene three. Leonato's garden. Enter Benedict. Boy. Enter a boy. Senior. In my chamber window lies a book. Bring it hither to me in the orchard. I am here already, sir. I know that. But I would have thee hence and here again. Exit, boy. I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviors to love, will, after he have laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love, and such a man as Claudio. I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife, and now had he rather hear the table and the pipe. I have known when he would have walked ten mile a foot to see a good armour, and now will he lie ten nights awake carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose like an honest man and a soldier, and now as he turned orthography, his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted and see with these eyes? I cannot tell. I think not. I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster, but I'll take my oath on it till he have made an oyster of me he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well. Another is wise, yet I am well. Another virtuous, yet I am well. But till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that's certain. Wise are all none. Virtuous are all never cheap in her. Fair are all never look on her. Mild are come not near me. Noble are not I for an angel. Of good discourse and excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha! the Prince and Monsieur Leuve. I will hide me in the arbor. Withdraws Enter Don Pedro, Leonardo and Claudio, followed by Balthazar and Musicians. Come shall we hear this music? Yea, my lord, how still the evening is, as hushed on purpose to grace harmony. See you where Benedict hath hid himself? Oh, very well, my lord. The music ended. We'll fit the kid-fox with a penny-worth. Come, Balthazar, we'll hear that song again. Oh! good, my lord. Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once. It is the witness still of excellency to put a strange face on his own perfection. I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more. Because you talk of wooing, I will sing. Since many a word hath commenced his suit to her, he thinks not worthy. Yet he woos, yet will he swear he loves. Nay, pray thee, come, or if thou wilt hold longer argument, do it in notes. Note this before my notes. There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting. Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks. Notes, notes, forsooth, and nothing. Music. Oh, now divine air. Now is his soul ravished. Is it not strange that sheep's guts should hail souls out of men's bodies? Well, a horn for my money when all's done. Balthazar sings. Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more. Men were deceivers ever. One foot in sea, and one on shore, to one thing constant never. Then sigh not so, but let them go, and be you blithe and bonny. Converting all your sounds of woe into, hey, nonny, nonny. Sing no more, did he sing no more, of dumb, so dull, and heavy. The fraud of men was ever so, since summer first was navy. Then sigh not so, but let them go, and be you blithe and bonny. Converting all your sounds of woe into, hey, nonny, nonny. By my truth a good song. And an ill singer, my lord. Ha! no, no, Faith, thou singst well enough for a shift. Aside. And he had been a dog that should have howled thus they would have hanged him. And I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had his leaf of her the night raven. Come what playing could have come after it. Yay, Mary. Dust thou hear, Balthazar? I pray thee, get us some excellent music. For tomorrow night we would have it at the Lady Hero's Chamber window. The best I can, my lord. Do so. Farewell. Exeant, Balthazar, and Musicians. Come hither, Leonardo. What was it you told me up to-day that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signor Benedict? Oh, I. Aside to Don Pedro. Stalk on, stalk on, the foul sits. I didn't ever think that lady would have loved any man. No, nor I neither. But most wonderful that she should so dot on Signor Benedict whom she hath and all outward behaviors seemed ever to abhor. Aside. It's possible. Sits the wind in that corner. By my truth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it, but that she loves him with an enraged affection. It is past the infinite of thought. Maybe she doth but counterfeit. Faith, like enough. Oh, God! Counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it. Why? What effects of passion shows she? Aside. Place the hook well, this fish will bite. What effects, my lord? She will sit you. You heard my daughter tell you how. She did indeed. How now? I pray you. You amaze me. I would have thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection. I would have sworn it had, my lord, especially against Benedict. Aside. I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it. Navery cannot, sure, hide itself in such reverence. Aside. He hath taken the infection. Hold it up. Hath she made her affection known to Benedict? No, and swear she never will. That's her torment. Tis true indeed. So your daughter says, shall I, says she, that hath so often countered him with scorn, right to him that I love him? This says she now when she is beginning to write to him, for she'll be up twenty times a night, and there will she sit in her smock till she have rid a sheet of paper. My daughter tells us all. Now you talk of a sheet of paper. I remember a pretty gesture your daughter told us of. Oh, when she had rid it and was reading it over, she found Benedict and Beatrice between the sheet? That. Oh, she tore the letter into a thousand half pens, railed at herself that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her. Under him says she, by my own spirit, for I should flout him if he writ to me, yay, though I love him, I should. Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses. Oh, sweet Benedict, God give me patience. She doth indeed. My daughter says so, and the ecstasy hath so much overborn her, that my daughter is sometimes a fear she will do a desperate outrage to herself. It is very true. It were good that Benedict knew of it by some other if she will not discover it. To what end? He would but make a sport of it until meant the poor lady worse. And he should it were an alms to hang him. She is an excellent sweet lady, and out of all suspicion she is virtuous. And she is exceedingly wise in everything but in loving Benedict. Oh, my lord, wisdom and blood combating and so tender a body. We have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause being her uncle and her guardian. I would she had bestowed this dotage on me. I would have daft all other respects and made her half myself. I pray you tell Benedict of it, and hear what he will say. Were it good, thank you? Here I think surely she will die, for she says she will die if he love her not, and she will die if she make her love known, and she will die if he woo her, rather than she will bait one breath of her accustomed crossness. She doth well. If she should make tender of her love, it is very possible he'll scorn it. For the man, as you know all, hath a contemptible spirit. He is a very proper man. He hath indeed a good outward happiness. For God, and in my mind, very wise, he doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit. And I take him to be valiant. As Hector I assure you, and in the managing of quarrels you may say he is wise, for either he avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes them with a most Christian-like fear. If he do fear God, a must necessarily keep peace. If he break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling. And so will he do. For the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek Benedict and tell him of her love? Never tell him, my lord. Let her wear it out with good counsel. Nay, that's impossible. She may wear her heart out first. Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter. Let it cool the while. I love Benedict well, and wish he would modestly examine himself to see how much he is unworthy so good a lady. My lord, will you walk? Dinner is ready. Aside. If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation. Aside. Let there be the same net spread for her, and that must your daughter and her gentle woman carry. The sport will be when they hold one an opinion of another's dotage in no such matter. That's the scene I would see, which will be merely a dumb show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner. Exeant Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonardo Advancing from the Arbor This can be no trick. The conference was sadly born. They have the truth of this from a hero. They seem to pity the lady. It seems her affections have their full bent. Love me! Why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured. They say I will bear myself proudly if I perceive the love come from her. They say too that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. I did never think to marry. I must not seem proud. Only are they that hear their detractions and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair, to the truth I can bear them witness. And virtuous, to so I cannot reprove it. And wise, but for loving me, by my truth it is no addition to her wit nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage. But doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humour? No. The world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day she's a fair lady. I do spy some marks of love in her. Enter Beatrice. Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner. Fair Beatrice. I thank you for your pains. I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me. If it had been painful I would not have come. You take pleasure then in the message? Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's point and choke a door with all. You have no stomach, senior, fare you well. Exit. Ha! Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner. There's a double meaning in that. I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me. That's as much as to say any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of her I am a villain. If I do not love her I am a Jew. I will go get her picture. Exit. End of Act II. Act III. Of Much Ado About Nothing. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare. Act III. Scene I. Leonardo's Garden. Enter Hiro, Margaret, and Ursula. Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour. There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice proposing with the Prince and Claudio. Whisper her ear, and tell her I and Ursula walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse is all of her. Say that thou overheardst us, and bid her steal into the bleached bower where honey-suckles ripened by the sun forbid the sun to enter, like favourites made proud by princes that advance their pride against the power that bred it. Where will she hide her to listen to our propers? This is thy office. Bear thee well in it, and leave us alone. I'll make her come, I warrant you, presently. Exit. Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come, as we do trace this alley up and down, our talk must be only of Benedict. When I do name him, let it be thy part to praise him more than ever man did merit. My talk to thee must be how Benedict is sick in love with Beatrice. Of this matter is little Cupid's crafty arrow made that only wounds by hearsay. Enter Beatrice behind. Now begin. For look where Beatrice, like a lap-wing, runs close by the ground to hear our conference. The pleasant angling is to see the fish, cut with her golden oars the silver stream, and greedily devour the treacherous bait. So angle we for Beatrice, who even now is couched in the wood-bind coberture. Fear you not, my part of the dialogue. When we go near her, let her ear lose nothing of the full sweet bait that we lay for it. They advance to the bower. No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful. I know her spirits are as coy and wild as haggards of the rock. But are you sure that Benedict loves Beatrice so entirely? So says the prince and my new trothed lord. And did they bid you tell her of it, madam? They didn't treat me to acquaint her of it, but I persuaded them, if they loved Benedict, to wish him wrestle with affection and never to let Beatrice know of it. Why did you so? Dot not the gentleman deserve as full as fortune at a bed as ever Beatrice shall couch upon? Oh, God of love! I know he doth deserve as much as may be yielded to a man. But nature never framed a woman's heart of proudest stuff than that of Beatrice. Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, misprising what they look on, and her wit values itself so highly, that to her all matter else seems weak. She cannot love, nor take no shape, nor project of affection. She is so self-endeered. Sure I think so, and therefore certainly it were not good she knew his love, lest she make sport at it. Why you speak truth. I never yet saw man how wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured, but she would spell him backward. With their face she would swear the gentleman should be her sister, if black, why nature, drawing of an antique, made a foul blot, if tall, a lance ill-headed, if low, an agate, very vilely cut, if speaking, why a vein blown with all winds, if silent, why a block moved with none. So turns she every man the wrong side out, and never gives to truth and virtue that which simpleness and merit purchase if. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable. No. Not to be so odd, and from all fashions as Beatrice's, cannot be commendable. But who dare tell her so? If I should speak she would mock me into air, oh, she would laugh me out of myself, press me to death with wit. Therefore let Benedict, like covered fire, consume away in size, waste inwardly. It were a better death than die with mocks which is as bad as die with tickling. Yet tell her of it, hear what she will say. No. Rather I will go to Benedict and counsel him to fight against his passion, and truly I'll devise some honest slanders to stain my cousin with. One doth not know how much an ill word may empoison liking. Oh, do not your cousin such a wrong. She cannot be so much without true judgment, having so swift an excellent a wit, as she is prized to have, as to refuse so where a gentleman as senior Benedict. He is the only man of Italy. Always accepted, my dear Claudio. I pray you, be not angry with me, madam. Speaking my fancy, senior Benedict, for shape, for bearing, argument and valor, goes foremost in report through Italy. Indeed he hath an excellent good name. His excellence did earn it, ere he had it. When are you married, madam? Why, every day, to-morrow. Come, go in. I'll show these summer tires, and have thy counsel which is the best to furnish me to-morrow. She's limed, I warn't you. We have caught her, madam. If it proves so, then loving goes by haps. Some cupid kills with arrows, some with traps. Exeot, hero, and Ursula, advancing. What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much? Contempt farewell, and maiden pride adieu. No glory lives behind the back of such. And Benedict, love on, I will requite thee. Bring my wild heart to thy loving hand. If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee to bind our loves up in a holy band. For others say thou dost deserve, and I believe it better than reporting thee. Exeot. Scene two, a room in Leonato's house. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedict, and Leonato. I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then I go toward Aragon. I'll bring you thither, my lord, if you'll vouchsave me. Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new gloss of your marriage as to show a child his new coat and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold with Benedict for his company. For from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot he is all mirth. He hath twice, or thrice, cut cupid's bowstring, and the little hangman dare not shoot at him. He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper. For what his heart thinks his tongue speaks. Galance, I am not as I have been. So say I. Me thinks you are sadder. I hope you be in love. Hang him, truant. There's no true drop of blood in him to be truly touched with love. If he be sad he wants money. I have the toothache. Draw it. Hang it. Just hang it first, and draw it afterwards. What, sigh for the toothache? Where is but a humor or a worm? Well everyone can master of grief but he that has it. Yet say I, he is in love. There is no appearance of fancy in him unless it be a fancy that he hath two strange disguises as to be a Dutchman to-day, a Frenchman to-morrow, or in the shape of two countries at once as a German from the waist downward all slops and a Spaniard from the hip upward no doublet. Unless he have a fancy to this foolery as it appears he hath he is no fool for fancy as you would have it appear he is. If he be not in love with some woman there is no believing old signs. A brush is his hat to mornings. What should that bode? Hath any man seen him at the barbers? No, but the barbers man hath been seen with him, and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuffed tennis balls. Indeed he looks younger than he did by the loss of a beard. Nay, rubs himself with civet. Can you smell him out by that? That's as much as to say the sweet heaths in love. The greatest no-dob it is his melancholy. And when was he won to wash his face? Yea, or to paint himself, for the witch I hear what they say of him. Nay, but his jesting spirit, which is now crept into loot-string and to new-governed by stops. Indeed that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude, conclude he is in love. Nay, but I know who loves him. That I would know too. I warrant one that knows him not. Yes, and his ill conditions. And, despite of all, dies for him. She shall be buried with her face upwards. That is this no charm for the two-thake. Old Senor, walk aside with me. I have studied eight or nine wise words to speak to you, which these hobby-horses must not hear. Exiant, Benedict, and Leonardo, for my life to break with him about Beatrice. Tis even so. Hero and Margaret are by this played their part with Beatrice. And then the two hearts will not bite one another when they meet. Enter Don John. My lord and brother, God save you. Den, brother. If your leisure served, I would speak with you. In private? If it please you, yet Count Claudio may hear for what I would speak of concerns him. What's the matter? To Claudio. Means your lordship to be married to-morrow? You know he does. I know not that, when he knows what I know. If there be any impediment, I pray you discover it. You may think I love you not. Let that appear hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now will manifest. For my brother I think he holds you well, and in dearness of heart hath hope to affect your ensuing marriage. Surely suit ill spent, and labour ill bestowed. Why what's the matter? I came hither to tell you, and circumstances shortened, for she has been too long a talking of the lady is disloyal. Who, hero? Even she, Leonardo's hero, your hero, every man's hero. Disloyal? The words too good to paint out her wickedness, I could say she were worse. Think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not till further warrant. O but with me to-night, you shall see her chamber window entered, even the night before her wedding day. If you love her then, to-morrow wed her, but it would be better fit your honour to change your mind. May this be so? I will not think it. If you dare not trust that you see, confess not that you know. If you will follow me, I will show you enough. And when you have seen more, and heard more, proceed accordingly. If I see anything to-night, why I should not marry her to-morrow, in the congregation where I shall wed, there will I shame her. And as I would for thee to obtain her, I will join with thee to disgrace her. I will disparage her no farther till you are my witnesses, bear it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show itself. O day untwardly turned, nor misty strangely thwarting. O plague right well prevented, so will you say when you have seen the sequel. Exiant. Seen three, astreet. Enter dogberry and verges with the watch. Are you good men and true? Yea, or else it were pity, but they should suffer salvation, body and soul. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them. If they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the Prince's watch. Well, give them their charge, neighbour dogberry. First, who think you are the most desertless man to be constable? Here Oach Cake, sir, or George Seacall, for they can write and read. Come hither, neighbour Seacall, God hath blessed you with a good name. To be a well-favoured man is a gift of fortune, but to write and read comes by nature. Both which, master constable? You have. I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why give God thanks and make no boast of it, and for your writing and reading let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man to be the constable of the watch, therefore bear you the lantern. This is your charge. You shall comprehend all vagrum men. You are to bid any man stand in the Prince's name. How if it will not stand? Why, then take no note of him, but let him go, and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid of a name. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the Prince's subjects. True, and they are to meddle with none but the Prince's subjects. You shall also make no noise in the streets, for for the watch to babble and to talk is most tolerable and not to be endured. We will rather sleep than talk. We know what belongs to a watch. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman, for I cannot see how sleeping should offend, only have a care that your bills be not stolen. Well, you are to call it all the alehouses and bid those that are drunk to get them to bed. How if they will not? Why, then let them alone till they are sober. If they make you not, then the better answer you may say they are not the men you took them for. Well, sir. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him by virtue of your office to be no true man, and for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why the more is for your honesty. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him? Truly by your office you may, but I think they that touch pitch will be defiled. The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company. You have always been called a merciful man, partner. Truly I would not hang a dog by my will much more a man who hath any honesty in him. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse and bid her still it. Call if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us. Why then, depart in peace and let the child wake her with crying, for the you that will not hear her lamb when it buzz will never answer a calf when he bleeds. Tis very true. This is the end of the charge. You constable are to present the prince's own person. If you meet the prince in the night, you may stay him. Nay, barrelady, that I think I cannot. Five shillings to one aunt, with any man that knows the statutes, he may stay him. Marry not without the prince be willing, for indeed the watch out to offend no man, and it is an offence to say a man against his will. Barrelady, I think it be so. Well, masters, good night, and there be any matter of wait chances. Call up me. Keep your fellows' counsels in your own, and good night. Come, neighbor. Well, masters, we hear our charge. Let us go sit here upon the church bench till two, and then all to bed. One word more, honest neighbors, I pray you watch about Signor Leonato's door, for the wedding being there tomorrow there is a great coil to-night. Adieu. Be vigilant. I beseech you. Exiant, dog-berry, and verges, enter Baraccio and Conrad. What, Conrad? Aside. Peace. Stand out. Conrad, I say. Dear man, I am at D'Elbo. Mass and my elbow itched. I thought there would a scab follow. Oh, well, Odeon, answer for that, and now forward with detail. Stand thee close, then, under this penthouse, for it drizzles rain, and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee. Aside. Some treason, masters, yet stand close. Therefore know I have earned of Don John a thousand ducats. Is it possible that any villainy should be so dear? Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any villainy should be so rich, for when rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will. I wonder at it. That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak is nothing to a man. Yes, it is a prow. I mean the fashion. Yes, the fashion is the fashion. Touch. I may as well say the fool's the fool, but seize thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is. Aside. I know that deformed. There has been a vile thief this seven years. That goes up and down like a gentleman. I remember this now. Disthou not hear somebody? No. Toss the vein on the house. Seize thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is. How giddily he turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen and five and thirty. Sometime fashioning them like pharaohs, soldiers in the Ritchie painting. Sometime like Godbell's priests in the old church window. Sometime like the shaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry where his cod-piece seems as massy as his club. All this I see. And I see that the fashion wears how more affraud than the man. But art thou not thyself giddy with the fashion, too? That thou hast shifted out thy tail into telling me of the fashion? Not so neither. But know that I have to-night Woode Margaret, the lady-hero's gentle woman by the name of Hero. She leans me out at her mistress's chamber window, bids me a thousand times good-night. I tell this tale vilely. I should first tell thee how the prince Claudio and my master, planted and placed and possessed by my master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable encounter. And thought Stain Margaret was Hero? Two of them did, the prince and Claudio, but the devil my master knew she was Margaret, and partly by his oaths, which first possessed them, partly by the dark night, which did deceive them, but chiefly by my villainy, which did confirm any slander that Don John had made. Away went Claudio enraged, swore he would meet her as he was appointed next morning at the temple, and there before the whole congregation, shame her with what he saw or night, and send her home again without a husband. We charge you on the prince's name. Stand. We'll up the right master constable. We have here recovered the most dangerous piece of lettery that was ever known in the common will. And one deformed is one of them. I know him. Where's Locke? Master's, master's. You'll be made bring deformed forth, I warrant you. Master's. Never speak. We charge you that us obey you to go with us. We are like to prove a goodly commodity being taken up of these men's bills. A commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, we'll obey you. Exeant. Scene four, a room in Leonato's house. Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula. Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice and desire her to rise. I will, lady. And bid her come hither. Well. Exit. Troth, I think your other Robato were better. No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this. By my troth's not so good, and I warrant your cousin will say so. My cousins are fool, and thou art another. I'll wear none but this. I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair were a thought browner. And your gown's a most rare fashion, if faith. I saw the Duchess of Milan's gown that they pray so. Oh, that exceeds they say. By my troth's, but a night gown in respect of yours. Cloth a golden cuts and laced with silver, set with pearls, down sleeves, side sleeves, and skirts round, under-born with a blushed tinsel. But for a fine, quaint, graceful, and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten aunt. God give me joy to wear it, for my heart is exceeding heavy. It will be heavier soon, by the weight of a man. Fie upon thee, art not ashamed. Of what, lady? Of speaking honourably. It's not marriage honourable in a beggar, it's not your lord honourable without marriage. I think you would have me say, saving your reverence a husband. And bad thinking do not rest true speaking, I'll offend nobody. Is there any harm in the heavier for a husband? None, I think, and it be the right husband and the right wife. Otherwise, it is light and not heavy. Ask my lady Beatrice else, here she comes. Enter Beatrice. Good morrow, Cuzz. Good morrow, sweet hero. Why how now? Do you speak in the sick tune? I am out of all other tune, me thinks. Ooh, claps into light a love. That goes without a burden. Do you sing it, and I'll dance it. Ye light of love with your heels. Then if your husband have stables enough, you'll see he shall lack no barns. Oh, illegitimate construction, I scorn that with my heels. It is almost five o'clock, cousin, it is time you were ready. By my truth I am exceedingly ill. By ho. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband. For the letter that begins them all, H. Well, and you be not turned turk, there's no more sailing by the star. What means the fool, Tro? Nothing I, but God send every one their heart's desire. These gloves the Count sent me. They are an excellent perfume. I am stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell. I'm made, and stuffed. There's goodly catching of cold. Oh, God help me. God help me, how long have you professed apprehension? Ever since you left it, doth not my wit become merelly. It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your cap. By my truth I am sick. Ooh, I get you some of this distilled cardus benedictus, and lay it to your heart. It is the only thing for a qualm. There thou pricks to with a thistle. Benedictus? Why benedictus? You have some moral in this benedictus. Moral? No, by my truth. I have no moral meaning. I meant plain holy thistle. You may think perchance that I think you are in love. Nay, by your lady, I am not such a fool to think what I list, nor I list not to think what I can, nor indeed I cannot think if I would think my heart out of thinking that you are in love, or that you will be in love, or that you can be in love. But benedictus was such another, and now is he become a man. He swore he would never marry, and yet now, in despite of his heart, he eats his meat without grudging, and how you may be converted I know not, but me thinks you look with your eyes as other women do. What pace is this that thy tongue keeps? Not a false gallop. Re-enter Ursula. Madam, withdraw. The prince, the count, senior benedict, Don John, and all the gallants of the town are come to fetch you to church. Help me to dress good, Cous, good Meg, good Ursula. Exe-ent. Scene five. Another room in Leonato's house. Enter Leonato and Dogberry and Verges. What would you with me, honest neighbor? Mary, sir, I would have some confidence with you that discerns you nearly. Brief, I pray you, for you see it is a busy time with me. Mary, this it is, sir. Yes, in truth it is, sir. What is it, my good friends? Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter. An old man, sir, and his wit, sir, not so blunt as God help I would desire they were, but in faith honest is the skin between his brows. Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man living. That is an old man, and no honester than I. Comparisons are odorous, palabres, neighbor Verges. Neighbours, you are tedious. It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor Duke's officers. But truly, for my own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find it in my heart to bestow all of it upon your worship. All thy tediousness on me? Ha! Yay and twer a thousand pound more than tis, for I hear as good exclamation on your worship as of any man in the city, and though I be but a poor man I am glad to hear it. And so am I. I would faint know what you have to say. Sorry, sir, I'll watch tonight. Accepting your worship's presence had taken a couple of as added to knaves as any in Messina. A good old man, sir, he will be talking, as they say, when the age is in, the wit is out. God help us, it is a world to see, well said in faith, neighbor Verges. Well, God's a good man, and two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An honest soul, if faith, sir, by my truth, he is his ever-broke bread. But God is to be worshiped, all men are not alike, alas, good neighbor. Indeed, neighbor, he comes too short of you. Guess that God gives. I must leave you. One word, sir, I'll watch, sir, have indeed comprehended two auspicious persons, and we would have them this morning examined before your worship. Take their examination yourself and bring it to me. I am now in great haste, as may appear unto you. It shall be suffrageance. Drink some wine, here you go, very well. Enter a messenger. My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to her husband. I'll wait upon them. I am ready. Exient, Leonardo, and messenger. Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis Seacole, bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the jail. We are now to examination these men. And we must do it wisely. We will spare for no wit, I warrant you. Here's that shall drive some of them to a non-com, only get the learned writer to set down our excommunication and meet me at the jail. Exient. End of Act 3. Act 4. Scene 1. The inside of a church. Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Leonardo, Friar Francis, Claudio, Benedict, Hero, Beatrice, etc. Come Friar Francis, be brief, only to the plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their particular duties afterwards. You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady? No. To be married to her Friar, you come to marry her. Lady, you come hither to be married to this count? I do. If either of you know any inward impediment, why you should not be conjoined, I charge you on your souls to utter it. Know you any hero? None, my lord. Know you any count? I dare make his answer, none. Oh, what man dare do, what man may do, what man daily do, not knowing what they do. Now interjections, why then some be of laughing as, ha-ha, hee! Stanley by Friar, father, by your leave, will you with free and unconstrained soul give me this maid, your daughter? As freely, son, as God did give her me. And what have I to give you back, whose worth may count a poise as rich and precious gift? Nothing, unless you render her again. Sweet Prince, you learn me noble thankfulness. There, Leonardo, take her back again. Give not this rotten orange to your friend. She'd put the sign and semblance of her honour. Behold how like a maid she blushes here. Oh, what authority and show of truth, concunning sin cover itself with all. Comes not that blood as modest evidence to witness simple virtue? Would you not swear, all you that see her, that she were a maid, by these exterior shows? But she is none. She knows the heat of a luxurious bed. Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty. What do you mean, my lord? Not to be married. Not knit my assault an approved wanton. Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof, have vanquished the resistance of her youth and made defeat of her virginity, I know what you would say. If I have known her, you will say she'd embrace me as a husband, and so extenuate the forehand sin. No, Leonardo, I never tempted her with word too large, but as a brother to his sister showed bashful sincerity and comely love. And seemed I ever otherwise to you? Out on thee, seeming. I will write against it. You seem to me as Diane in her orb, as chased as is the butt ere it be blown. But you are more intemperate in your blood than Venus, or those permbed animals at rage in savage sensuality. Is my lord well that he doth speak so wide? Sweet Prince, why speak not you? What should I speak? I stand dishonored, that have gone about to link my dear friend to a common stale. Are these things spoken, or do I but dream? Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true. This looks not like a nuptial. True, oh God! Leonardo, stand I here. Is this the prince? Is this the prince's brother? Is this face heroes? Are our eyes our own? All this is so. But what of this, my lord? 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. I charge thee do so, as thou art my child. Oh God, defend me! How am I beset? What kind of catacysin call you this? To make you answer truly to your name. Is it not hero? Who can blot that name with any just reproach? Mary, that can hero. Hero itself can blot out hero's virtue. What man was he talked with you yesterday night, out at your window, betwixt twelve and one? Now if you are made, answer to this. I talked with no man at that hour, my lord. Why then you are no maiden. Leonardo, I am sorry you must hear. Upon my honour myself, my brother, and this grieved count did see her, hear her at that hour last night, talk with a ruffian at her chamber window, who hath indeed, like a most liberal villain, confess the vile encounters they have had a thousand times in secret. Thy, thy, they are not to be named, my lord, not to be spoke of. There is not chastity enough in languid without offence to utter them. Pretty lady, I am sorry for thy much misgovernment. O hero, what a hero hath thou been if half thy outward graces had been placed about thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart. But fare thee well most foul, most fair, fare well thy pure impiety and impious purity. For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love, and on my eyelids shall conjecture hang, to turn all beauty into thoughts of harm, and never shall it more be gracious. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me? Hero swooned. Why, how now, cousin, wherefore sink you down? Come, let us go. These things come thus to light, smother her spirits up. Exiant Don Pedro, Don John, and Claudio. How doth the lady? Dead, I think. Help, uncle, hero, why hero? Uncle, Signor Benedict Fryer. O fate, take not away thy heavy hand. Death is the fairest cover for her shame that may be wished for. How now, cousin, hero? Have comfort, lady. Does thou look up? Yea, wherefore should she not? 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 open thine eyes, for did I think thou wouldst not die quickly, thought I thy spirit were stronger than my shames, my self-wood on the rear of reproaches strike at thy life, grieved I, I had but one. Chied I for that at frugal nature's frame? O, won too much by thee. Why had I won? Why ever was thou lovely in mine eyes? Why had I not, with charitable hand, took up a beggar's issue at my gates, who smirched thus, admired with infamy, I might have said, no part of it is mine. This shame derives itself from unknown loins, but mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised, and mine that I was proud on, mine so much that I myself was to myself not mine valuing of her. Why, she—oh, she has fallen into a pit of ink that the wide sea hath drops too few to wash her clean again, and saw too little, which may season give to her foul tainted flesh. Sir, sir, be patient. For my part, I am so attired in wonder, I know not what to say. O, on my soul, my cousin is blide. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night? No, truly not. Although, until last night, I have this twelve-month been her bedfellow. Confirmed, confirmed, O, that is stronger made, which was before barred up with the ribs of iron. Would the two princes lie, and Claudio lie, who loved her so, that speaking of her foulness washed it with tears? Hence from her, let her die! Hear me a little, for I have only been silent so long, and given way unto this course of fortune, by noting of the lady. I have marked a thousand blushing apparitions to start into her face, a thousand innocent shames in angel whiteness bear away those blushes, and in her eye there hath appeared a fire to burn the errors that these princes hold against her maiden truth. Call me a fool, trust not my reading nor my observations, which with experimental seal doth warrant the tenure of my book. Trust not my age, my reverence, calling, nor divinity. If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here, under some biting error. Friar, it cannot be. Thou seest that all the grace that she left is that she will not add to her damnation of sin of perjury. She not denies it. Why seekest thou then to cover with excuse that which appears in proper nakedness? Lady, what man is he you are accused of? They know that do accuse me, I know none. 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 conversed at ours unmeet, or that I yesterday night maintained the change of words with any creature, refuse me, hate me, torture me to death. There were some strange misprison in the princes. 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 and frame of villainies. 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 but of mine, nor age so eat up my invention, nor fortune made such havoc of my means, nor my bad life refit me so much of my friends. But they shall find, awaked in such a kind, both strength of limb, and policy of mind, ability in means, and choice of friends to quit me of them throughly. Pause awhile, and let my counsel sway you in this case. Your daughter here, the princes left for dead. Let her awhile be secretly kept in, and publish it that she is dead indeed. Maintain a mourning ostentation, and on your family's old monument hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites that appertain unto a burial. What shall become of this? What will this do? 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, but on this travail look for greater birth. She dying, as it must be so maintained, upon the instant that she was accused, shall be cemented, pitied, and excused of every hearer. For it so falls out that what we have, we prize not to the worth while we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost. Why then we rack the value? Then we find the virtue that possession would not show us, whilst it is ours. So will it fare with Claudio, when he shall hear she died upon his words. The idea of her life shall sweetly creep into his study of imagination, and every lovely organ of her life shall come apparelled in more precious habit, more moving delicate and full of life into the eye and prospect of his soul than when she lived indeed. Then shall he mourn, if ever love had interest in his liver, and wish he had not so accused her. No, though he thought his accusation true, let this be so, and doubt not but success will fashion the event in better shape than I can lay it down in likelihood. But if all aim but this be levelled false, the supposition of the lady's death will quench the wonder of her infamy, and, if it sort not well, you may conceal her as best befits her wounded reputation in some reclusive and religious life, out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries. Senor Leonato, let the friar advise you, and though you know my inwardness and love is very much unto the Prince and Claudio, yet by mine honour I will deal in this as secretly and justly as your soul should with your body. Being that I flow in grief, the smallest twine may lead me. 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 prolonged. Have patience, and endure. And friar, hero, and Leonato. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while? Yea, and I will weep a while longer. I will not desire that. You have no reason. I do it freely. Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged. Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would write her? Is there any way to show such friendship? A very even way, but no such friend. May a man do it. It is a man's office, but not yours. I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange? As strange is the thing I know not. It were 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. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me. Do not swear by it and eat it. I will swear by it that you love me, and I will make him eat it that says I love not you. You will not eat your word? With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest. I love thee. Why then, God forgive me. What a fence, sweet Beatrice. You have stayed me in a happy hour. I was about to protest I loved you. And do it with all thy heart. I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest. Come, bid me do anything for thee. Kill Claudio. Ha! Not for the wide world. You kill me to deny it, farewell. Tarry, sweet Beatrice. I am gone, though I am here. There is no love in you. Nay, I pray you let me go. Beatrice! In faith I will go. We'll be friends first. You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy. Is Claudio thine enemy? Is he not approved in the height of villain that has slandered, scorned, dishonored my kinswoman? Oh, that I were a man. What bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then with public accusation uncovered slander, unmitigated rancor? Oh, God, that I were a man I would eat his heart in the market place. Oh, hear me, Beatrice. Walk with a man out at a window, a proper saying. Nay, but Beatrice! Sweet hero, she is wronged. She is slandered. She is undone. A Beatrice! Princes and counties, surely a princely testimony, a good count confect, a sweet gallant, surely. Oh, that I were a man for his sake. Or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake. But manhood is melted into curses, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones, too. He is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving. Oh, tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee. Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it. Think you in your soul, the Count Claudio hath wronged hero. Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul. Enough. I am engaged. I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave you. By this hand Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go comfort your cousin. I must say she is dead. And so farewell. Exient. Seen to a prison. Enter dogberry, verges, and sexton in gowns, and the watch with Conrad and Baraccio. Is our whole assembly appeared? Or a stool and a cushion for the sexton. Which be the malefactors? Mary, that am I and my partner. Nay, that's certain, we have the exhibition to examine. But which are the offenders that are to be examined? Let them come before Master Constable. Yea, Mary, let them come before me. What is your name, friend? Baraccio. Pray, write down Baraccio. Yours, Sira? I'm a gentleman, sir. My name is Conrad. Write down Master Gentleman Conrad. Masters, do you serve God? Yea, sir, we hope. Write down that they hope they serve God, and write God first. For God defend, but God should go before such villains. Because it is proved already that you are little better than false naves, and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for yourselves? Mary, sir, we say we are none. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you, but I will go about with him. Come you hither, Sira, a word in your ear. Sir, I say to you it is thought you are false naves. Sir, I say to you we are none. Well, stand aside, for God they are both in a tale. Have you written down that they are none? Master Constable, you go not the way to examine. You must call forth the watch that are their accusers. Yea, Mary, that's the afterest way. Let the watch come forth. Masters, I charge you in the Prince's name. Accus these men. This man said, sir, that Don John, the Prince's brother, was a villain. Write down Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat perjury to call the Prince's brother villain. Master Constable. Pray thee, fellow peace, I do not like thy look, I promise thee. What heard you him say else? Mary, that he had received a thousand dockets of Don John for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully. Flat, burglary, as ever was committed. What else, fellow? And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly and not marry him. Oh villain, thou shalt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this. What else? This is all. And this is more, Masters, than you can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away. Hero was in this manner accused, in this manner refused, and upon grief of this suddenly died. Master Constable, let these men be bound and brought to Leonados. I will go before and show him their examination. Exit. Come. Let them be opinioned. Let them be in the hands of Coxham. God's my life. Where's the sexton? Let him write down the Prince's officer, Coxcom. Come, bind them, thou naughty Barlet. Away you are an ass. You're an ass. Does thou not suspect my place? Does thou not suspect my years? Oh, that he were here to write me down an ass. But Masters, remember, that I am an ass, though it be not written down yet, forget not, that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety and shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow, and which is more an officer, and which is more a householder, and which is more as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Messina, and one that knows the law, go to, and a rich fellow enough, go to, and a fellow that hath had losses, and one that hath two gowns and everything handsome about him. Bring him away. Oh, that I had been written down, an ass. Exit. End of Act 4.