Much Ado About Nothing Page #9

of Beatrice.

Will you then write me a sonnet in praise

of my beauty?

In so high a style, Margaret, that no man

living shall come over it,

for, in most comely

truth, thou deservest it.

To have no man

come over me.

Why, shall I always

keep below stairs?

Thy wit is as quick

as the greyhound's mouth,

it catches.

And yours as blunt

as the fencer's foils,

which hit, but hurt not.

A most manly wit, Margaret,

it will not hurt a woman.

So, I pray thee, call Beatrice.

I give thee bucklers.

Give us the swords,

we have bucklers of our own.

The god of love sits above

Knows me, and knows me

How pitiful I deserve...

I mean in singing.

But in loving, Leander

the good swimmer,

Troilus the first

employer of panders,

why, they were never

so truly turned over

and over as my

poor self in love.

Marry, I cannot show

it in rhyme, I have tried.

I can find out no rhyme

to "lady" but "baby,"

an innocent rhyme.

For "scorn," "horn,"

a hard rhyme.

For "school," "fool,"

a babbling rhyme.

Very ominous endings.

No, I was not born

under a rhyming planet.

Nor I cannot woo

in festival terms.

Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come

when I called thee?

Yea, signior, and depart

when you bid me.

O, stay but till then!

"Then" is spoken,

fare you well now.

And yet, ere I go.

Let me go with that I came,

which is, knowing what hath passed

between you and Claudio.

Only foul words, and thereupon I

will kiss thee.

Foul words is but foul wind,

and foul wind is but foul breath,

and foul breath is noisome,

therefore I will depart unkissed.

Thou hast frighted

the word out of his right sense,

so forcible is thy wit.

But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio

undergoes my challenge

and either I will

shortly hear from him,

or I will subscribe

him a coward.

And, I pray thee, now,

tell me for which

of my bad parts

didst thou first

fall in love with me?

For them all together,

which maintained so

politic a state of evil

that they would not admit any good part

to intermingle with them.

But for which of my good parts did you first

suffer love for me?

Suffer love!

A good epithet!

I do suffer love, indeed,

for I love thee

against my will.

In spite of

your heart, I think.

If you will spite it for my sake,

I will spite it for yours,

for I could never love

that which my friend hates.

Thou and I are too

wise to woo peaceably.

I pray thee, now tell me,

how doth your cousin?

Very ill.

And how do you?

Very ill, too.

Serve God,

love me, and mend.

Madam, you must

come to your uncle!

It is proved my Lady Hero

hath been falsely accused,

the prince and Claudio

mightily abused,

and Don John is the author of all,

who's fled and gone.

Will you come presently?

Will you come

hear this news, signior?

I will live in thy heart,

die in thy lap, and be buried

in thy eyes,

and, moreover,

I will go with thee.

Did I not tell you

she was innocent?

So are the prince

and Claudio,

who accused her upon the error

that you heard debated.

But Margaret was in some fault for this,

although against her will,

as it appears in the true course

of all the question.

Well.

I am glad that all

things sort so well.

Friar, I must entreat

your pains, I think.

To do what, signior?

To bind me, or undo me,

one of them.

Signior Leonato,

truth it is, good sir,

your niece regards me

with an eye of favor.

That eye my daughter

lent her 'tis most true.

And I do with an eye

of love requite her.

The sight whereof

I think you had from me,

from Claudio, and the prince.

But what's your will?

Your answer, sir,

is enigmatical.

For my will, my will is your good will

may stand with ours

in this day to be conjoin'd in the state

of honorable marriage.

In which, dear Friar,

I shall entreat your pains.

Good morrow to

this fair assembly.

Good morrow, Prince.

Good morrow, Claudio.

We here attend you.

Are you yet determined to-day to marry with my

brother's daughter?

I'll hold my mind,

were she an Ethiope.

Come forth.

Here's the friar. Ready.

Which is the lady

I must seize upon?

This same is she,

and I do give you her.

Why, then she's mine.

Sweet, let me

see your face.

No, that you

shall not,

till you take her hand before this friar

and swear to marry her.

Give me your hand.

Before this holy friar,

I am your husband,

if you like of me.

And when I lived,

I was your other wife.

And when you loved,

you were my other husband.

Another Hero!

Nothing certainer.

One Hero died defiled,

but I do live,

and surely as I live,

I am a maid.

The former Hero?

Hero that is dead?

She died, my lord, but whiles

her slander lived.

All this amazement can I qualify.

When after that

the holy rites are ended,

I'll tell you largely

of fair Hero's death.

Meantime let wonder

seem familiar,

and to the chapel

let us presently.

Soft and fair, friar.

Which is Beatrice?

I answer to

that name.

What is your will?

Do not you love me?

Why, no,

no more than reason.

Why, then your uncle

and the prince and Claudio

have been deceived.

They swore you did.

Do not you love me?

Troth, no, no more

than reason.

Why, then my cousin Margaret

and Ursula are much deceived,

for they did swear

you did.

They swore you were

almost sick for me.

Well, they swore

that you were well-nigh dead for me.

'Tis no such matter.

Then you do not love me?

No,

truly, but in

friendly recompense.

I am sure you

love the gentleman.

And I'll be sworn upon

it that he loves her,

for here's a paper

written in his hand,

a halting sonnet of

his own pure brain,

fashion'd to Beatrice.

And here's another writ

in my cousin's hand,

stolen from her pocket, containing her

affection unto Benedick.

A miracle.

Here's our own hands

against our hearts.

Come, I'll have thee,

but, by this light,

I take thee for pity.

O, I would not deny you,

but, by this good day,

I yield upon great persuasion

and partly to save your life, for I was told you

were in a consumption.

Peace. I will stop

your mouth.

How dost thou,

Benedick the married man?

I'll tell thee

what, Prince,

a college of wit-crackers

cannot flout me out of my humor.

Thinkest thou I care for a satire

or an epigram?

No, since I do

purpose to marry,

I will think nothing

to any purpose

that the world

can say against it,

and therefore

never flout at me

for what I have

said against it,

for man is a giddy thing,

and this is my conclusion.

My lord.

Your brother John

is ta'en in flight,

and brought with armed

men back to Messina.

Think not on him

till to-morrow.

I'll devise thee

brave punishments for him.

Let's dance ere

we are married,

that it may lighten our

hearts and our wives' heels.

We'll have

dancing afterward.

First, upon my word.

Therefore, play, music.

Prince, thou art sad.

Get thee a wife,

get thee a wife.

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