Wash'd it with Tears? Hence from her, let her die.

Frier. Hear me a little, for I have only been filent fo long, and given way unto this courfe of Fortune, by noting of the Lady. I have mark'd

A thoufand blushing Apparitions

To start into her Face, a thousand innocent Shames
In Angel whitenefs bear away thofe 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,
Truft not my Reading, nor my Obfervations,
Which with experimental Seal doth warrant
The tenure of my Book; truft not my Age,
My Reverence, Calling, nor Divinity,
If this fweet Lady lye not guiltless here,
Under fome biting Error.

Leon. Frier, it cannot be;

Thou feeft that all the Grace that she hath left,
Is, that she will not add to her Damnation
A Sin of Perjury, the not denies it:

Why feek'ft thou then to cover with Excufe,
That which appears in proper Nakedness?

Frier. 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 Modefty 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 yefternight
Maintain'd the Change of Words with any Creature,
Refuse me, hate me, torture me to Death.

Frier. There is fome strange Mifprifion in the Prince.
Bene. Two of them have the very bent of Honour,

And if their Wisdoms be miss-led in this,

The Practice of it lives in John the Baftard,

Whofe Spirits toil in frame of Villanies.

Leon. I know not: If they speak but Truth of her,
These Hands fhall tear her; if they wrong her Honour,
The proudest of them fhall well hear of it.

Time hath not yet so dry'd this Blood of mine,
Nor Age so eat up my Invention,

Nor

Nor Fortune made fuch Havock of my Means,
Nor my bad Life reft me fo much of Friends,
But they fhall find awak'd in fuch a kind,
Both Strength of Limb, and Policy of Mind,
Ability in Means, and Choice of Friends,
To quit me of them thoroughly.
Frier. Paufe a while,

And let my Counsel fway you in this cafe.
Your Daughter here the Princefs (left for dead)
Let her awhile be fecretly kept in,

And publish it that she is dead indeed:

Maintain a mourning Oftentation,
And on your Family's old Monument
Hang mournful Epitaphs, and do all Rites

That appertain unto a Burial.

Leon. What fhall become of this? what will this do? Frier. Marry, this well carry'd, fhall on her behalf Change Slander to Remorfe, that is fome good:

But not for that, dream I on this strange course,
But on this Travel look for greater Birth:
She dying, as it must be so maintain❜d,
Upon the Inftant that she was accus'd,
Shall be lamented, pity'd, and excus'd
Of every Hearer: For fo it falls out,
That what we have we prize not to the worth,
Whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and loft,
Why then we rack the Value, then we find
The Virtue that Poffeffion would not fhew us
Whilft it was ours; fo will it fare with Claudio:
When he shall hear the dy'd upon his Words,
Th' Idea of her Life fhall fweetly creep
Into his Study of Imagination,

And every lovely Organ of her Life

Shall come apparel'd in more precious Habit;
More moving, delicate, and full of Life,

Into the Eye and Prospect of his Soul,

Than when the liv'd indeed. Then fhall he mourn,
If ever Love had Intereft in his Liver,
And wish he had not so accused her;
No, tho' he thought his Accufation true:
Let this be fo, 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 level'd false,
The Suppofition of the Lady's Death
Will quench the Wonder of her Infamy.
And if it fort not well, you may conceal her,
As best befits her wounded Reputation,
In fome reclufive and religious Life,

Out of all Eyes, Tongues, Minds, and Injuries.
Bene. Signior Leonato, let the Frier advise you,'
And tho' you know my Inwardness and Love
Is very much unto the Prince and Claudio,
Yet, by mine Honour, I will deal in this
As fecretly and justly, as your Soul
Should with your Body.

Leon. Being that I now in Grief,
The smallest Twine may lead me.

Frier. 'Tis well confented, prefently away,
For to ftrange Sores, ftrangely they ftrain the Cure:
Come Lady, die to live; this Wedding-Day

Perhaps is but prolong'd, have Patience and endure. [Exeunt.
Manent Benedick and Beatrice.

Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?
Beat. Yea, and I will weep a while longer.

Bene. I will not defire that.

Beat. You have no reason, I do it freely.

Bene. Surely I do believe your fair Coufin is wrong'd." Beat. Ah how much might the Man deserve of me that

would right her!

Bene. Is there any way to fhew fuch Friendship?

Beat. A very even way, but no fuch Friend.

Bene. May a Man do it?

Beat. It is a Man's Office, but not yours.

Bene. I do love nothing in the World fo well as you; is not that strange?

Beat. As ftrange as the thing I know not; it were as poffible for me to fay, I loved nothing fo well as you; but believe me not; and yet I lye not; I confefs nothing, nor I deny nothing: I am forry for my Coufin.

Bene. By my Sword, Beatrice, thou lov'ft me.
Beat. Do not fwear by it and eat it.
VOL. I.

B b

Bent

Enter Beatrice.

Hero. Good Morrow, Coz.

Beat. Good Morrow, fweet Hera.

Hero. Why how now? do you fpeak in the fick Tune? Beat. I am out of all other Tune methinks.

Marg. Clap's into Light a Love (that goes without a Burden,) do you fing it, and I'll dance it.

Beat. Yes light a love with your Heels, then if your Husband have Stables enough, you'll look he shall lack no Barns.

Marg. O illegitimate Construction! I fcorn that with my Heels.

Beat, 'Tis almoft five a Clock, Coufin; 'tis time you were ready: By my troth I am exceeding ill, hey ho! Marg. For a Hawk, a Horse, or a Husband?

Beat. For the Letter that begins them all, H.

Marg. Well, and you be not turn'd Turk, there's no more failing by the Star,

Beat. What means the Fool, trow?

Marg. Nothing I, but God fend every one their Heart's Defire.

Hero. Thefe Gloves the Count fent me, they are an excellent Perfume.

Beat. I am ftuft, Cóufin, I cannot smell.

Marg. A Maid and ftuft! there's a goodly catching of

Cold.

Beat. O God help me, God help me, how long have you profest Apprehenfion?

Marg. Ever fince you left it; doth not my Wit become me rarely.

Beat. It is not feen enough, you should wear in your Cap. By my troth I am fick.

Marg. Get you fome of this diftill'd Carduus Benedictus, and lay it to your Heart, it is the only thing for a Qualm. Hero. There thou prick'ft her with a Thistle.

Beat. Benedictus? why Benedictus? You have fome Mọral in this Benedictus.

Marg. Moral? no by my troth, I have no moral meaning, I meant plain Holy-Thiftle; you may think perchance that I think you are in Love, nay birlady I am not fuch a Fool to think what I lift, nor I lift not to think what I can,

nor

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: Yet Benedick was fuch another, and now is he become a Man; he swore he would never marry, and yet now in defpight of his Heart he eats his Meat without grudging, and how you may be converted I know not, but methinks you look with your Eyes as other Women do.

Beat. What pace is this thy Tongue keeps?
Marg. Not a false Gallop.

Enter Urfula..

Urfu. Madam, withdraw; the Prince, the Count, Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the Gallants of the Town are come to fetch you to Church,

Hero. Help to drefs me, good Coz, good Meg, good Urfula.

Exeunt.

Enter Leonato, with Dogberry and Verges. Leon. What would you with me, honeft Neighbour? Dogb. Marry Sir I would have fome Confidence with you, that decerns you nearly.

Leon. Brief I pray you, for you fee 'tis a bufie time with me.

Dogb. Marry this it is, Sir.

Verg. Yes in truth it is, Sir.

Leon. What is it, my good Friends?

Dogb. Goodman Verges, Sir, fpeaks a little of the matter, an old Man, Sir, and his Wits are not fo blunt, as, God help, I would defire they were, but in faith honeft as the Skin between his Brows.

Verg. Yes I thank God, I am as honeft as any man liying that is an old man, and no honester than I.

Dogb. Comparifons are odorous, palabras, Neighbour Verges.

Leon. Neighbours, you are tedious.

Dogb. It pleafes your Worship to fay fo, but we are the poor Duke's Officers; but truly for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a King, I could find in my heart to be ftow it all of your Worship.

Leon. All thy Tedioufnefs on me! ah—

Dogb.