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Cut with her golden oars the filver ftream,
And greedily devour the treacherous bait;
So angle we for Beatrice, who e'en now
Is couched in the woodbine-coverture;
Fear you not my part of the dialogue.

Hero. Then go we near her, that her ear lofe nothing
Of the falfe fweet bait that we lay for it.
No, truly, Urfula, fhe's too disdainful;
know, her fpirits are as coy and wild
As haggerds of the rock.

Urfu. But are you fure,

That Benedick loves Beatrice fo intirely?

Hero. So fays the Prince, and my new-trothed lord. Urfu. And did they bid you tell her of it, Madam? Hero. They did intreat me to acquaint her of it; But I perfuaded them, if they lov'd Benedick, To wish him wraftle with affection,

And never to let Beatrice know of it.

Urfu. Why did you fo? doth not the Gentleman Deferve as full, as fortunate a bed,

As ever Beatrice fhall couch upon


Hero. O God of love! I know he doth deferve
As much as may be yielded to a man:

But Nature never fram'd a woman's heart
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice.
Difdain and Scorn ride fparkling in her eyes,
Mif-prizing what they look on; and her wit
Values it felf fo highly, that to her

All matter else seems weak; fhe cannot love,
Nor take no shape nor project of affection,
She is fo felf-indeared.

Urfu. Sure, I think fo;

And therefore certainly it were not good

She knew his love, left fhe make sport at it.

Hero. Why, you speak truth. I never yet faw man, How wife, how noble, young, how rarely featur'd, ' But the would fpell him backward; if fair-fac'd, She'd fwear, the gentleman fhould be her fifter; If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antick, Made a foul blot; if tall, a launce ill-headed;

If low, an Aglet very vilely cut: (10)

If fpeaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;
If filent, why, a block moved with none.
So turns the every man the wrong fide out,
And never gives to truth and virtue That,
Which fimpleness and merit purchaseth.

Urfu. Sure, fure, fuch carping is not commendable. Hero. No; for to be fo odd, and from all fashions, As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable.

But who dare tell her fo? if I should speak,
She'd mock me into air; O, fhe would laugh me
Out of myself, prefs me to death with wit.
Therefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire,
Confume away in fighs, waste inwardly;
It were a better death than die with mocks,
Which is as bad as 'tis to die with tickling..
Urfu. Yet tell her of it; hear what she will say.
Hero. No, rather I will go to Benedick,
And counfel him to fight against his paffion.
And, truly, I'll devife fome honeft flanders
To ftain my Coufin with; one doth not know,
How much an ill word may impoifon liking.

Urfu. O, do not do your Coufin fuch a wrong.
She cannot be fo much without true judgment,
(Having fo fwift and excellent a wit,

As fhe is priz'd to have) as to refuse

(10) If low, an Agat very vilely cut:] But why an Agat, if low? And what Shadow of Likenefs between a little Man and an Agat? The Ancients, indeed, ufed this Stone to cut in, and upon; but most exquifitely. I make no queftion but the Poet wrote;

·an Aglet very wilely cut ;

An Aglet was the Tag of thofe Points, formerly fo much in Fashion. Thefe Tags were either of Gold, Silver, or Brafs, according to the Quality of the Wearer; and were commonly in the Shape of little Images; or at leaft had a Head cut at the Extremity, as is feen at the End of the Start of old-fashion'd Spoons. And as a tall Man is before compar'd to a Launce ill-beaded; fo, by. the fame Figure, a little Man is very aptly liken'd to an Aglet ill cut, Mr. Warburton.


So rare a gentleman as Benedick.

Hero. He is the only man of Italy, Always excepted my dear Claudio.

Urfu. I pray you, be not angry with me, Madam, Speaking my fancy; Signior Benedick,

For fhape, for bearing, argument and valour,
Goes foremost in report through Italy.

Hero. Indeed, he hath an excellent good name,
Urfu. His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.
When are you marry'd, Madam?

Hero. Why, every day; to morrow; come, go in, I'll fhew thee fome attires, and have thy counfel Which is the best to furnish me to morrow.

Urfu. She's lim'd, I warrant you; we have caught her, Madam.

Hero. If it prove fo, then loving goes by haps; Some Cupids kill with arrows, Some with traps. [Exeunt.

Beatrice, advancing.

Beat. What fire is in my ears? can this be true?
Stand I condemn'd for Pride and Scorn so much?
Contempt, farewell and maiden pride, adieu !
No glory lives behind the back of fuch.
And, Benedick, love on, I will requite thee;
Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand;
If thou doft love, thy kindness fhall incite thee
To bind our loves up in a holy band.
For others fay, thou doft deserve; and I
Believe it better than reportingly.

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SCENE, Leonato's House.


Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick and Leonato.

Pedro. I

DO but flay 'till your marriage be confummate, and then go I toward Arragon.

Claud. I'll bring you thither my lord, if you'll vouchfafe me.

Pedro. Nay, That would be as great a foil in the new


glofs of your marriage, as to fhew a child his new coat and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold with Benedick for his company; for, from the crown of his head to the foale of his foot, he is all mirth; he hath twice or thrice cut Cupid's bow-ftring, and the little hangman dare not fhoot at him; he hath a heart as found as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for what his heart thinks, his tongue fpeaks.

Bene. Gallants, I am not as I have been.
Leon. So fay I; methinks, you are fadder.
Claud. I hope, he is in love.

Pedro. Hang him, truant, there's no true drop of blood in him, to be truly touch'd with love; if he be fad, he wants mony.

Bene. I have the tooth-ach.

Pedro. Draw it.

Bene. Hang it.

Claud. You must hang it firft, and draw it afterwards. Pedro. What? figh for the tooth-ach!

Leon. Which is but a humour, or a worm.

Bene. Well, every one can mafter a grief but he that has it.

Claud. Yet fay I, he is in love.

Pedro. There is no appearance of fancy in him, unlefs it be a fancy that he hath to ftrange disguises, as to be a Dutch man to day, a French man to morrow; or in the shape of two countries at once, a German from the wafte downward, all flops; and a Spaniard from the hip upwards, no doublet: Unless he have a fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no fool for fancy, as you would have it to appear he is.

Claud. If he be not in love with fome woman, there is no believing old figns; he brushes his hat o'mornings; what should that bode?

Pedro. Hath any man seen him at the barber's?

Claud No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him; and the old ornament of his cheek hath already ftuft tennis-balls.

Leon. Indeed, he looks younger than he did by the lofs of a beard.


Pedro. Nay, he rubs himself with civet; can you fmell him out by that?

Claud. That's as much as to say, the fweet youth's in love.

Pedro. The greatest note of it is his melancholy.

Claud. And when was he wont to wash his face? Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself? for the which, I hear what they fay of him.

Claud. Nay, but his jefting spirit, which is now crept into a lute-ftring and now govern'd by stops

Pedro. Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude, he is in love.

Claud. Nay, but I know who loves him.

Pedro. That would I know too: I warrant, one that knows him not.

Claud. Yes, and his ill conditions, and in despight of all, dies for him.

Pedro. She fhall be bury'd with her heels upwards. (11)

Bene. Yet is this no charm for the tooth-ach. Old Signior, walk afide with me, I have ftudy'd eight or nine wife words to fpeak to you which thefe hobbyhorfes must not hear. [Exeunt Benedick and Leonato. Pedra. For my life, to break with him about Beatrice. Claud. 'Tis even fo. Hero and Margaret have by this play'd their parts with Beatrice; and then the two Bears will not bite one another, when they meet.

Enter Don John.

John. My Lord and Brother, God save you.
Pedro. Good den, brother.

John. If your leisure serv'd, I would speak with you.
Pedro. In private?

(11) She fhall be buried with her Face upwards.] Thus the whole Set of Editions: But what is there any ways particular in This? Are not all Men and Women buried fo? Sure, the Poet means, in Oppofition to the general Rule, and by way of Diftinction, with her beels upwards, or face downwards. have chose the first Reading, because I find it the Expreffion in Vogue in our Author's time.


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