Claud. Not to be married,

Not knit my soul to an approved wanton

Leon. Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof,
Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth-
Claud. No, Leonato,

I never tempted her with word too large;
But, as a brother to a sister, show'd

Bashful sincerity, and comely love.

Hero. And seem'd I ever otherwise to you? Claud. Out on thy seeming! I will write against it; You seem to me, as Dian in her orb:

As chaste, as is the bud ere it be blown;

blood

But you are more intemperate in your
Than Venus, or those pamper'd animals,
That rage in savage sensuality.

Hero. Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?
Leon. Sweet prince, why speak not you?
Pedro. What should I speak?

I stand dishonour'd, that have gone about
To link my dear friend to a wanton here.

Leon. Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?
John. Sir, they are spoken, and these things are

true.

Hero. True, O Heaven!

Claud. Leonato, stand I here?

Is this the prince? Is this the prince's brother?
Is this face Hero's? Are our eyes our own?

Leon. All this is so; but what of this, my lord ?
Claud. 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. Leon. I charge thee do so, as thou art my child! Hero. O Heaven defend me! how I am beset !

What kind of catechizing call you this?

Claud. To make you answer truly to your name. Hero. Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name With any just reproach ?

Claud. Marry, that can Hero;

Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue.

What man was he, talk'd with you yesternight,
Out at your window, betwixt twelve and one?
Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.

Hero. I talk'd with no man at that hour, my lord.
Pedro. Leonato,

I am sorry, you must hear;-Upon mine 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, most like a liberal villain,
Confess'd the vile encounters they have had
A thousand times in secret.

John. Fie, fie! they are

Not to be nam'd, my lord, not to be spoke of;
There is not chastity enough in language,
Without offence, to utter them: Thus, pretty lady,
I am sorry for thy much misgovernment.

Claud. O Hero, what an angel hadst thou been,
If half thy outward graces had been plac'd
About the thoughts and counsels of thy heart!
But, fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell!
For thee, I'll lock up all the gates of love,
And on my eye-lids, shall conjecture hang,
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,

And never shall it more be gracious. [HERO swoons.
Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me?
Beatr. Why, how now, cousin? wherefore sink you
down?

[Exeunt DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, and CLAUDIO. Bened. How doth the lady?

Beatr. Dead, I think ;-Help, uncle!

Hero! why, Hero! uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar! Leon. O fate, take not away thy heavy hand!

Death is the fairest cover for her shame,

That may be wish'd for.

Beatr. How now, cousin Hero?

Friar. Have comfort, lady.

Leon. Dost thou look up?

Friar. Yea; Wherefore should she not?

Leon. 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 ope thine eyes:
For did I think, thou wouldst not quickly die,
Thought I, thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,
Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches,
Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but one?
Chid I for that, at frugal nature's frame?
I've one too much by thee! O, she is fall'n
Into a pit of ink! that the wide sea
Hath drops too few, to wash her clean again!
Bened. Sir, sir, be patient!

For my part, I am so attir'd in wonder,
I know not what to say.

Beatr. O, on my soul, my cousin is belied!
Bened. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?
Beatr. No, truly, not; although, until last night,
I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.

Leon. Confirm'd, confirm'd! Oh, that is stronger made,

Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron!
Would the two princes lie? and Claudio lie?
Who lov'd her so, that, speaking of her foulness.

Wash'd it with tears? Hence! from her! let her die!
Friar. Hear me a little;

For I have only silent been so long,

And given way unto this course of fortune,

By noting of the lady: I have mark'd

A thousand blushing apparitions start
Into her face; a thousand innocent shames
In angel whiteness, bear away those blushes.
Call me a fool;

Trust not my reading, nor my observation,

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:

Why seek'st thou, then, to cover with excuse
That, which appears in proper nakedness?

Friar Lady, what man is he, you are accus'd of? Hero. 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 convers'd
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.

Bened. 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 frames of villanies.

Leon. 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.

Friar. Pause awhile,

And let my counsel sway you in this case.

Your daughter here, the princes left for dead;

Let her a while be secretly kept in,

And publish it, that she is dead indeed.

Leon. What shall become of this? what will this do?

Friar. She dying, as it must be maintain'd,

Upon the instant that she was accus'd,

Shall be lamented, pity'd, and excus'd,

Of every hearer; 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 apparell'd in more precious habit,
Into the eye and prospect of his soul,

Than when she liv'd indeed: then shall he mourn,
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.

you:

Bened. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise
And though, you know, my inwardness and love
very much unto the prince and Claudio,
Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this

Is

As secretly, and justly, as your soul

Should with your body.

Leon. Being, that I flow in grief,

The smallest twine may lead me.

Friar. 'Tis well consented; presently, away;

Come, lady, die, to live: this wedding day,

Perhaps, is but prolong'd; have patience, and endure.

[Exeunt all but BENEDICK and BEATRICE.

Bened. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this

while?

Beatr. Yea, and I will weep a white longer.

Bened. I will not desire that.

Beatr. You have no reason: I do it freely.

Bened. Surely, I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.

Beatr. Ah, how much might the man deserve of me, that would right her!

Bened. Is there any way to show such friendship?
Beatr. A very even way, but no such friend.
Bened. May a man do it?

Beatr. It is a man's office, but not yours.