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!
Would the two princes lie, and Claudio lie,

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;
And in her eye there hath appear'd 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 tenor of my book; trust not my age,
My reverence, calling, nor divinity,
If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here
Under some biting error.

Leon.

Friar, it cannot be.

Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left
Is that she will not add to her damnation

A sin of perjury; she not denies it:

161

165

170

175

Why seek'st thou, then, to cover with excuse
That which appears in proper nakedness?
Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accused of?
Hero. They know that do accuse me; I know

none:

If I know more of any man alive

180

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 hours unmeet, or that I yesternight
Maintain'd the change of words with any creature,
Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death!

Friar. There is some strange misprision in the

princes.

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 age so eat up my invention,

Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,
Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,
But they shall find, awaked in such a kind,
Both strength of limb and policy of mind,

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:
Let her awhile be secretly kept in,

And publish it that she is dead indeed;
Maintain a mourning ostentation,

205

And on your family's old monument

Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites
That appertain unto a burial.

Leon.

What shall become of this? what will

this do?

Friar. Marry, this, well carried, shall on her

behalf

Change slander to remorse; that is some good:
But not for that dream I on this strange course,

But on this travail look for greater birth.
She dying, as it must be so maintain'd,
Upon the instant that she was accused,
Shall be lamented, pitied, and excused
Of every hearer: for it so falls out

210

215

220

That what we have we prize not to the worth
Whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and lost,
Why, then we rack the value, then we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
Whiles it was 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;

225

And every lovely organ of her life

Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit,

More moving-delicate and full of life,
Into the eye and prospect of his soul,

If ever love had interest in his liver,

Than when she lived indeed; then shall he mourn,

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
Will fashion the event in better shape
Than I can lay it down in likelihood.
But if all aim but this be levell❜d 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.

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