Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night? Beat. No, truly, not; although, until last night, I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow. Leon. Confirm'd, confirm'd! O, that is stronger made Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron! Who loved her so, that, speaking of her foulness, 150 Wash'd it with tears? Hence from her! let her To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames In angel whiteness beat away those blushes; Leon. Friar, it cannot be. Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left A sin of perjury; she not denies it: 161 165 170 175 Why seek'st thou, then, to cover with excuse none: If I know more of any man alive 180 Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant, Friar. There is some strange misprision in the princes. 185 Bene. Two of them have the very bent of honour; And if their wisdoms be misled in this, The practice of it lives in John the bastard, Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies. Leon. I know not. If they speak but truth of her, 190 These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour, The proudest of them shall well hear of it. Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, 195 Ability in means and choice of friends, To quit me of them throughly. Friar. Pause awhile, 200 And let my counsel sway you in this case. Your daughter here the princes left for dead: And publish it that she is dead indeed; And on your family's old monument Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites Leon. 205 What shall become of this? what will this do? Friar. Marry, this, well carried, shall on her behalf Change slander to remorse; that is some good: But on this travail look for greater birth. 210 215 220 That what we have we prize not to the worth The idea of her life shall sweetly creep Into his study of imagination; 225 And every lovely organ of her life Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit, More moving-delicate and full of life, Than when she lived indeed; then shall he mourn, If ever love had interest in his liver, 231 And wish he had not so accused her, No, though he thought his accusation true. Let this be so, and doubt not but success And if it sort not well, you may conceal her, In some reclusive and religious life, Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries. 235 240 Bene. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you; And though you know my inwardness and love 245 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. Leon. Being that I flow in grief, 250 The smallest twine may lead me. Friar. 'Tis well consented: presently away; For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure. Come, lady, die to live: this wedding-day |