Chapter 42
Part 42
BEATRICE. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife’s point, and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior: fare you well.
[Exit.]
BENEDICK. Ha! ‘Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner,’ there’s a double meaning in that. ‘I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me,’ that’s as much as to say, Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture.
[Exit.]
ACT III
SCENE I. Leonato’s Garden.
Enter Hero, Margaret and Ursula.
HERO. Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour; There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice Proposing with the Prince and Claudio: Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursala Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse Is all of her; say that thou overheard’st us, And bid her steal into the pleached bower, Where honey-suckles, ripen’d by the sun, Forbid the sun to enter; like favourites, Made proud by princes, that advance their pride Against that power that bred it. There will she hide her, To listen our propose. This is thy office; Bear thee well in it and leave us alone.
MARGARET. I’ll make her come, I warrant you, presently.
[Exit.]
HERO. Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come, As we do trace this alley up and down, Our talk must only be of Benedick: When I do name him, let it be thy part To praise him more than ever man did merit. My talk to thee must be how Benedick Is sick in love with Beatrice: of this matter Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made, That only wounds by hearsay.
Enter Beatrice behind.
Now begin; For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs Close by the ground, to hear our conference.
URSULA. The pleasant’st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, And greedily devour the treacherous bait: So angle we for Beatrice; who even now Is couched in the woodbine coverture. Fear you not my part of the dialogue.
HERO. Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.
[They advance to the bower.]
No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful; I know her spirits are as coy and wild As haggards of the rock.
URSULA. But are you sure That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?
HERO. So says the Prince, and my new-trothed lord.
URSULA. And did they bid you tell her of it, madam?
HERO. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it; But I persuaded them, if they lov’d Benedick, To wish him wrestle with affection, And never to let Beatrice know of it.
URSULA. Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman Deserve as full as fortunate a bed As ever Beatrice shall couch upon?
HERO. O god of love! I know he doth deserve 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; Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, Misprising what they look on, and her wit Values itself so highly, that to her All matter else seems weak. She cannot love, Nor take no shape nor project of affection, She is so self-endear’d.
URSULA. Sure I think so; And therefore certainly it were not good She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.
HERO. Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man, How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur’d, But she would spell him backward: if fair-fac’d, She would swear the gentleman should be her sister; If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antick, Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed; If low, an agate very vilely cut; If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds; If silent, why, a block moved with none. So turns she every man the wrong side out, And never gives to truth and virtue that Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.
URSULA. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.
HERO. No; not to be so odd, and from all fashions, As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable. But who dare tell her so? If I should speak, She would mock me into air: O! she would laugh me Out of myself, press me to death with wit. Therefore let Benedick, like cover’d fire, Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly: It were a better death than die with mocks, Which is as bad as die with tickling.
URSULA. Yet tell her of it: hear what she will say.
HERO. No; rather I will go to Benedick, And counsel him to fight against his passion. And, truly, I’ll devise some honest slanders To stain my cousin with. One doth not know How much an ill word may empoison liking.
URSULA. O! do not do your cousin such a wrong. She cannot be so much without true judgment,— Having so swift and excellent a wit As she is priz’d to have,—as to refuse So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.
HERO. He is the only man of Italy, Always excepted my dear Claudio.
URSULA. I pray you, be not angry with me, madam, Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick, For shape, for bearing, argument and valour, Goes foremost in report through Italy.
HERO. Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.
URSULA. His excellence did earn it, ere he had it. When are you married, madam?
HERO. Why, every day, tomorrow. Come, go in: I’ll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel Which is the best to furnish me tomorrow.
URSULA. She’s lim’d, I warrant you, We have caught her, madam.
HERO. If it prove so, then loving goes by haps: Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
[Exeunt Hero and Ursula.]
BEATRICE. [Advancing.] What fire is in mine 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 such. And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee, Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand: If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee To bind our loves up in a holy band; For others say thou dost deserve, and I Believe it better than reportingly.
[Exit.]
SCENE II. A Room in Leonato’s House.
Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick and Leonato.
DON PEDRO. I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon.
CLAUDIO. I’ll bring you thither, my lord, if you’ll vouchsafe me.
DON PEDRO. Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new gloss of your marriage, as to show 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 sole of his foot, he is all mirth; he hath twice or thrice cut Cupid’s bowstring, and the little hangman dare not shoot at him. He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for what his heart thinks, his tongue speaks.
BENEDICK. Gallants, I am not as I have been.
LEONATO. So say I: methinks you are sadder.
CLAUDIO. I hope he be in love.
DON PEDRO. Hang him, truant! there’s no true drop of blood in him to be truly touched with love. If he be sad, he wants money.
BENEDICK. I have the tooth-ache.
DON PEDRO. Draw it.
BENEDICK. Hang it.
CLAUDIO. You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards.
DON PEDRO. What! sigh for the tooth-ache?
LEONATO. Where is but a humour or a worm?
BENEDICK. Well, everyone can master a grief but he that has it.
CLAUDIO. Yet say I, he is in love.
DON PEDRO. There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises; as to be a Dutchman today, a Frenchman tomorrow; or in the shape of two countries at once, as a German from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the hip upward, 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 appear he is.
CLAUDIO. If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs: a’ brushes his hat a mornings; what should that bode?
DON PEDRO. Hath any man seen him at the barber’s?
CLAUDIO. No, but the barber’s man hath been seen with him; and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuffed tennis balls.
LEONATO. Indeed he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard.
DON PEDRO. Nay, a’ rubs himself with civet: can you smell him out by that?
CLAUDIO. That’s as much as to say the sweet youth’s in love.
DON PEDRO. The greatest note of it is his melancholy.
CLAUDIO. And when was he wont to wash his face?
DON PEDRO. Yea, or to paint himself? for the which, I hear what they say of him.
CLAUDIO. Nay, but his jesting spirit; which is now crept into a lute-string, and now governed by stops.
DON PEDRO. Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude, conclude he is in love.
CLAUDIO. Nay, but I know who loves him.
DON PEDRO. That would I know too: I warrant, one that knows him not.
CLAUDIO. Yes, and his ill conditions; and in despite of all, dies for him.
DON PEDRO. She shall be buried with her face upwards.
BENEDICK. Yet is this no charm for the tooth-ache. Old signior, walk aside with me: I have studied eight or nine wise words to speak to you, which these hobby-horses must not hear.
[Exeunt Benedick and Leonato.]
DON PEDRO. For my life, to break with him about Beatrice.
CLAUDIO. ’Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this played their parts with Beatrice, and then the two bears will not bite one another when they meet.
Enter Don John.
DON JOHN. My lord and brother, God save you!
DON PEDRO. Good den, brother.
DON JOHN. If your leisure served, I would speak with you.
DON PEDRO. In private?
DON JOHN. If it please you; yet Count Claudio may hear, for what I would speak of concerns him.
DON PEDRO. What’s the matter?
DON JOHN. [To Claudio.] Means your lordship to be married tomorrow?
DON PEDRO. You know he does.
DON JOHN. I know not that, when he knows what I know.
CLAUDIO. If there be any impediment, I pray you discover it.
DON JOHN. You may think I love you not: let that appear hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now will manifest. For my brother, I think he holds you well, and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect your ensuing marriage; surely suit ill-spent and labour ill bestowed!
DON PEDRO. Why, what’s the matter?
DON JOHN. I came hither to tell you; and circumstances shortened,—for she has been too long a talking of,—the lady is disloyal.
CLAUDIO. Who, Hero?
DON JOHN. Even she: Leonato’s Hero, your Hero, every man’s Hero.
CLAUDIO. Disloyal?
DON JOHN. The word’s too good to paint out her wickedness; I could say, she were worse: think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not till further warrant: go but with me tonight, you shall see her chamber window entered, even the night before her wedding-day: if you love her then, tomorrow wed her; but it would better fit your honour to change your mind.
CLAUDIO. May this be so?
DON PEDRO. I will not think it.
DON JOHN. If you dare not trust that you see, confess not that you know. If you will follow me, I will show you enough; and when you have seen more and heard more, proceed accordingly.
CLAUDIO. If I see anything tonight why I should not marry her tomorrow, in the congregation, where I should wed, there will I shame her.
DON PEDRO. And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join with thee to disgrace her.
DON JOHN. I will disparage her no farther till you are my witnesses: bear it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show itself.
DON PEDRO. O day untowardly turned!
CLAUDIO. O mischief strangely thwarting!
DON JOHN. O plague right well prevented! So will you say when you have seen the sequel.
[Exeunt.]
Scene III. A Street.
Enter Dogberry and Verges, with the Watch.
DOGBERRY. Are you good men and true?
VERGES. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul.
DOGBERRY. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the Prince’s watch.
VERGES. Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry.
DOGBERRY. First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable?
FIRST WATCH. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can write and read.
DOGBERRY. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal. God hath blessed you with a good name: to be a well-favoured man is the gift of Fortune; but to write and read comes by Nature.
SECOND WATCH. Both which, Master Constable,—
DOGBERRY. You have: I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore bear you the lanthorn. This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the Prince’s name.
SECOND WATCH. How, if a’ will not stand?
DOGBERRY. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid of a knave.
VERGES. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the Prince’s subjects.
DOGBERRY. True, and they are to meddle with none but the Prince’s subjects. You shall also make no noise in the streets: for, for the watch to babble and to talk is most tolerable and not to be endured.
SECOND WATCH. We will rather sleep than talk: we know what belongs to a watch.
DOGBERRY. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman, for I cannot see how sleeping should offend; only have a care that your bills be not stolen. Well, you are to call at all the alehouses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed.
SECOND WATCH. How if they will not?
DOGBERRY. Why then, let them alone till they are sober: if they make you not then the better answer, you may say they are not the men you took them for.
SECOND WATCH. Well, sir.
DOGBERRY. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man; and, for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty.
SECOND WATCH. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him?
DOGBERRY. Truly, by your office, you may; but I think they that touch pitch will be defiled. The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company.
VERGES. You have been always called a merciful man, partner.
DOGBERRY. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him.
VERGES. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse and bid her still it.
SECOND WATCH. How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us?
DOGBERRY. Why then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with crying; for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes, will never answer a calf when he bleats.
VERGES. ’Tis very true.
DOGBERRY. This is the end of the charge. You constable, are to present the Prince’s own person: if you meet the Prince in the night, you may stay him.
VERGES. Nay, by’r lady, that I think, a’ cannot.
DOGBERRY. Five shillings to one on’t, with any man that knows the statutes, he may stay him: marry, not without the Prince be willing; for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man, and it is an offence to stay a man against his will.
VERGES. By’r lady, I think it be so.
DOGBERRY. Ha, ah, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be any matter of weight chances, call up me: keep your fellows’ counsels and your own, and good night. Come, neighbour.
SECOND WATCH. Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here upon the church bench till two, and then all to bed.
DOGBERRY. One word more, honest neighbours. I pray you, watch about Signior Leonato’s door; for the wedding being there tomorrow, there is a great coil tonight. Adieu; be vigitant, I beseech you.
[Exeunt Dogberry and Verges.]
Enter Borachio and Conrade.
BORACHIO. What, Conrade!
WATCH. [Aside] Peace! stir not.
BORACHIO. Conrade, I say!
CONRADE. Here, man. I am at thy elbow.
BORACHIO. Mass, and my elbow itched; I thought there would a scab follow.
CONRADE. I will owe thee an answer for that; and now forward with thy tale.
BORACHIO. Stand thee close then under this penthouse, for it drizzles rain, and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee.
WATCH. [Aside] Some treason, masters; yet stand close.
BORACHIO. Therefore know, I have earned of Don John a thousand ducats.
CONRADE. Is it possible that any villainy should be so dear?
BORACHIO. Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any villainy should be so rich; for when rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will.
CONRADE. I wonder at it.
BORACHIO. That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is nothing to a man.
CONRADE. Yes, it is apparel.
BORACHIO. I mean, the fashion.
CONRADE. Yes, the fashion is the fashion.
BORACHIO. Tush! I may as well say the fool’s the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is?
WATCH. [Aside] I know that Deformed; a’ has been a vile thief this seven years; a’ goes up and down like a gentleman: I remember his name.
BORACHIO. Didst thou not hear somebody?
CONRADE. No: ’twas the vane on the house.
BORACHIO. Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is? how giddily he turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty? sometime fashioning them like Pharaoh’s soldiers in the reechy painting; sometime like god Bel’s priests in the old church window; sometime like the shaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry, where his codpiece seems as massy as his club?
CONRADE. All this I see, and I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man. But art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion?
BORACHIO. Not so neither; but know, that I have tonight wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero’s gentlewoman, by the name of Hero: she leans me out at her mistress’ chamber window, bids me a thousand times good night,—I tell this tale vilely:—I should first tell thee how the Prince, Claudio, and my master, planted and placed and possessed by my master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable encounter.
CONRADE. And thought they Margaret was Hero?
BORACHIO. Two of them did, the Prince and Claudio; but the devil my master, knew she was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, which first possessed them, partly by the dark night, which did deceive them, but chiefly by my villainy, which did confirm any slander that Don John had made, away went Claudio enraged; swore he would meet her, as he was appointed, next morning at the temple, and there, before the whole congregation, shame her with what he saw o’er night, and send her home again without a husband.
FIRST WATCH. We charge you in the Prince’s name, stand!
SECOND WATCH. Call up the right Master Constable. We have here recovered the most dangerous piece of lechery that ever was known in the commonwealth.
FIRST WATCH. And one Deformed is one of them: I know him, a’ wears a lock.
CONRADE. Masters, masters!
SECOND WATCH. You’ll be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you.
CONRADE. Masters,—
FIRST WATCH. Never speak: we charge you let us obey you to go with us.
BORACHIO. We are like to prove a goodly commodity, being taken up of these men’s bills.
CONRADE. A commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, we’ll obey you.
[Exeunt.]
Scene IV. A Room in Leonato’s House.
Enter Hero, Margaret and Ursula.
HERO. Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire her to rise.
URSULA. I will, lady.
HERO. And bid her come hither.
URSULA. Well.
[Exit.]
MARGARET. Troth, I think your other rebato were better.
HERO. No, pray thee, good Meg, I’ll wear this.
MARGARET. By my troth’s not so good; and I warrant your cousin will say so.
HERO. My cousin’s a fool, and thou art another: I’ll wear none but this.
MARGARET. I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair were a thought browner; and your gown’s a most rare fashion, i’ faith. I saw the Duchess of Milan’s gown that they praise so.
HERO. O! that exceeds, they say.
MARGARET. By my troth ’s but a night-gown in respect of yours: cloth o’ gold, and cuts, and laced with silver, set with pearls, down sleeves, side sleeves, and skirts round, underborne with a bluish tinsel; but for a fine, quaint, graceful, and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on’t.
HERO. God give me joy to wear it! for my heart is exceeding heavy.
MARGARET. ’Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man.
HERO. Fie upon thee! art not ashamed?
MARGARET. Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is not marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord honourable without marriage? I think you would have me say, saving your reverence, ‘a husband:’ an bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I’ll offend nobody. Is there any harm in ‘the heavier for a husband’? None, I think, and it be the right husband and the right wife; otherwise ’tis light, and not heavy: ask my Lady Beatrice else; here she comes.
Enter Beatrice.
HERO. Good morrow, coz.
BEATRICE. Good morrow, sweet Hero.
HERO. Why, how now? do you speak in the sick tune?
BEATRICE. I am out of all other tune, methinks.
MARGARET. Clap’s into ‘Light o’ love’; that goes without a burden: do you sing it, and I’ll dance it.
BEATRICE. Ye, light o’ love with your heels! then, if your husband have stables enough, you’ll see he shall lack no barnes.
MARGARET. O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.
BEATRICE. ’Tis almost five o’clock, cousin; ’tis time you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill. Heigh-ho!
MARGARET. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?
BEATRICE. For the letter that begins them all, H.
MARGARET. Well, and you be not turned Turk, there’s no more sailing by the star.
BEATRICE. What means the fool, trow?
MARGARET. Nothing I; but God send everyone their heart’s desire!
HERO. These gloves the Count sent me; they are an excellent perfume.
BEATRICE. I am stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell.
MARGARET. A maid, and stuffed! there’s goodly catching of cold.
BEATRICE. O, God help me! God help me! how long have you professed apprehension?
MARGARET. Ever since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely!
BEATRICE. It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick.
MARGARET. Get you some of this distilled Carduus benedictus, and lay it to your heart: it is the only thing for a qualm.
HERO. There thou prick’st her with a thistle.
BEATRICE. Benedictus! why benedictus? you have some moral in this benedictus.
MARGARET. Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I meant, plain holy thistle. You may think, perchance, that I think you are in love: nay, by’r Lady, I am not such a fool to think what I list; nor I list not to think what I can; 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 such another, and now is he become a man: he swore he would never marry; and yet now, in despite 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.
BEATRICE. What pace is this that thy tongue keeps?
MARGARET. Not a false gallop.
Re-enter Ursula.
URSULA. 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 dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula.
[Exeunt.]
Scene V. Another Room in Leonato’s House.
Enter Leonato and Dogberry and Verges.
LEONATO. What would you with me, honest neighbour?
DOGBERRY. Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you, that decerns you nearly.
LEONATO. Brief, I pray you; for you see it is a busy time with me.
DOGBERRY. Marry, this it is, sir.
VERGES. Yes, in truth it is, sir.
LEONATO. What is it, my good friends?
DOGBERRY. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter: an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin between his brows.
VERGES. Yes, I thank God, I am as honest as any man living, that is an old man and no honester than I.
DOGBERRY. Comparisons are odorous: palabras, neighbour Verges.
LEONATO. Neighbours, you are tedious.
DOGBERRY. It pleases your worship to say so, 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 bestow it all of your worship.
LEONATO. All thy tediousness on me! ah?
DOGBERRY. Yea, and ’twere a thousand pound more than ’tis; for I hear as good exclamation on your worship, as of any man in the city, and though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it.
VERGES. And so am I.
LEONATO. I would fain know what you have to say.
VERGES. Marry, sir, our watch tonight, excepting your worship’s presence, ha’ ta’en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina.
DOGBERRY. A good old man, sir; he will be talking; as they say, ‘when the age is in, the wit is out.’ God help us! it is a world to see! Well said, i’ faith, neighbour Verges: well, God’s a good man; and two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An honest soul, i’ faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever broke bread; but God is to be worshipped: all men are not alike; alas! good neighbour.
LEONATO. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you.
DOGBERRY. Gifts that God gives.
LEONATO. I must leave you.
DOGBERRY. One word, sir: our watch, sir, have indeed comprehended two aspicious persons, and we would have them this morning examined before your worship.
LEONATO. Take their examination yourself, and bring it me: I am now in great haste, as may appear unto you.
DOGBERRY. It shall be suffigance.
LEONATO. Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to her husband.
LEONATO. I’ll wait upon them: I am ready.
[Exeunt Leonato and Messenger.]
DOGBERRY. Go, good partner, go get you to Francis Seacoal; bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol: we are now to examination these men.
VERGES. And we must do it wisely.
DOGBERRY. We will spare for no wit, I warrant you; here’s that shall drive some of them to a non-come: only get the learned writer to set down our excommunication, and meet me at the gaol.
[Exeunt.]
ACT IV
SCENE I. The Inside of a Church.
Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Leonato, Friar Francis, Claudio, Benedick, Hero, Beatrice &c.
LEONATO. Come, Friar Francis, be brief: only to the plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their particular duties afterwards.
FRIAR. You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady?
CLAUDIO. No.
LEONATO. To be married to her, friar; you come to marry her.
FRIAR. Lady, you come hither to be married to this Count?
HERO. I do.
FRIAR. If either of you know any inward impediment, why you should not be conjoined, I charge you, on your souls, to utter it.
CLAUDIO. Know you any, Hero?
HERO. None, my lord.
FRIAR. Know you any, Count?
LEONATO. I dare make his answer; none.
CLAUDIO. O! what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do!
BENEDICK. How now! Interjections? Why then, some be of laughing, as ah! ha! he!
CLAUDIO. Stand thee by, Friar. Father, by your leave: Will you with free and unconstrained soul Give me this maid, your daughter?
LEONATO. As freely, son, as God did give her me.
CLAUDIO. And what have I to give you back whose worth May counterpoise this rich and precious gift?
DON PEDRO. Nothing, unless you render her again.
CLAUDIO. Sweet Prince, you learn me noble thankfulness. There, Leonato, take her back again: Give not this rotten orange to your friend; She’s but the sign and semblance of her honour. Behold! how like a maid she blushes here. O! what authority and show of truth Can cunning sin cover itself withal. Comes not that blood as modest evidence To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear, All you that see her, that she were a maid, By these exterior shows? But she is none: She knows the heat of a luxurious bed; Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.
LEONATO. What do you mean, my lord?
CLAUDIO. Not to be married, Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton.
LEONATO. Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof, Have vanquish’d the resistance of her youth, And made defeat of her virginity,—
CLAUDIO. I know what you would say: if I have known her, You will say she did embrace me as a husband, And so extenuate the forehand sin: No, Leonato, I never tempted her with word too large; But as a brother to his sister show’d Bashful sincerity and comely love.
HERO. And seem’d I ever otherwise to you?
CLAUDIO. Out on thee! 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; But you are more intemperate in your blood Than Venus, or those pamper’d animals That rage in savage sensuality.
HERO. Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?
LEONATO. Sweet Prince, why speak not you?
DON PEDRO. What should I speak? I stand dishonour’d, that have gone about To link my dear friend to a common stale.
LEONATO. Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?
DON JOHN. Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.
BENEDICK. This looks not like a nuptial.
HERO. True! O God!
CLAUDIO. Leonato, stand I here? Is this the Prince? Is this the Prince’s brother? Is this face Hero’s? Are our eyes our own?
LEONATO. All this is so; but what of this, my lord?
CLAUDIO. 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.
LEONATO. I charge thee do so, as thou art my child.
HERO. O, God defend me! how am I beset! What kind of catechizing call you this?
CLAUDIO. To make you answer truly to your name.
HERO. Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name With any just reproach?
CLAUDIO. 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.
DON PEDRO. Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato, I am sorry you must hear: upon my 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.
DON 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.
CLAUDIO. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been, If half thy outward graces had been plac’d About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart! But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell, Thou pure impiety, and impious purity! For thee I’ll lock up all the gates of love, And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang, To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm, And never shall it more be gracious.
LEONATO. Hath no man’s dagger here a point for me?
[Hero swoons.]
BEATRICE. Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you down?
DON JOHN. Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light, Smother her spirits up.
[Exeunt Don Pedro, Don John and Claudio.]
BENEDICK. How doth the lady?
BEATRICE. Dead, I think! Help, uncle! Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar!
LEONATO. O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand: Death is the fairest cover for her shame That may be wish’d for.
BEATRICE. How now, cousin Hero?
FRIAR. Have comfort, lady.
LEONATO. Dost thou look up?
FRIAR. Yea; wherefore should she not?
LEONATO. 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? O! one too much by thee. Why had I one? Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes? Why had I not with charitable hand Took up a beggar’s issue at my gates, Who smirched thus, and mir’d with infamy, I might have said, ‘No part of it is mine; This shame derives itself from unknown loins?’ But mine, and mine I lov’d, and mine I prais’d, And mine that I was proud on, mine so much That I myself was to myself not mine, Valuing of her; why, she—O! she is fallen Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again, And salt too little which may season give To her foul tainted flesh.
BENEDICK. Sir, sir, be patient. For my part, I am so attir’d in wonder, I know not what to say.
BEATRICE. O! on my soul, my cousin is belied!
BENEDICK. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?
BEATRICE. No, truly, not; although, until last night, I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.
LEONATO. 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 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 been silent so long, And given way unto this course of fortune, By noting of the lady: I have mark’d A thousand blushing apparitions To start into her face; a thousand innocent shames In angel whiteness bear 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 tenure of my book; trust not my age, My reverence, calling, nor divinity, If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here Under some biting error.
LEONATO. 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.
BENEDICK. 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 villainies.
LEONATO. 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. 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, awak’d in such a kind, Both strength of limb and policy of mind, Ability in means and choice of friends, To quit me of them throughly.
FRIAR. Pause awhile, 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; And on your family’s old monument Hang mournful epitaphs and do all rites That appertain unto a burial.
LEONATO. 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 accus’d, Shall be lamented, pitied and excus’d Of every hearer; for it so falls out 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, 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, Than when she liv’d indeed: then shall he mourn,— If ever love had interest in his liver,— 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.
BENEDICK. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you: And though you know my inwardness and love 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.
LEONATO. Being that I flow in grief, 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 Perhaps is but prolong’d: have patience and endure.
[Exeunt Friar, Hero and Leonato.]
BENEDICK. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?
BEATRICE. Yea, and I will weep a while longer.
BENEDICK. I will not desire that.
BEATRICE. You have no reason; I do it freely.
BENEDICK. Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.
BEATRICE. Ah! how much might the man deserve of me that would right her.
BENEDICK. Is there any way to show such friendship?
BEATRICE. A very even way, but no such friend.
BENEDICK. May a man do it?
BEATRICE. It is a man’s office, but not yours.
BENEDICK. I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?
BEATRICE. As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you; but believe me not, and yet I lie not; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin.
BENEDICK. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.
BEATRICE. Do not swear by it, and eat it.
BENEDICK. I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you.
BEATRICE. Will you not eat your word?
BENEDICK. With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee.
BEATRICE. Why then, God forgive me!
BENEDICK. What offence, sweet Beatrice?
BEATRICE. You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to protest I loved you.
BENEDICK. And do it with all thy heart.
BEATRICE. I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.
BENEDICK. Come, bid me do anything for thee.
BEATRICE. Kill Claudio.
BENEDICK. Ha! not for the wide world.
BEATRICE. You kill me to deny it. Farewell.
BENEDICK. Tarry, sweet Beatrice.
BEATRICE. I am gone, though I am here: there is no love in you: nay, I pray you, let me go.
BENEDICK. Beatrice,—
BEATRICE. In faith, I will go.
BENEDICK. We’ll be friends first.
BEATRICE. You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy.
BENEDICK. Is Claudio thine enemy?
BEATRICE. Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O! that I were a man. What! bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour,—O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place.
BENEDICK. Hear me, Beatrice,—
BEATRICE. Talk with a man out at a window! a proper saying!
BENEDICK. Nay, but Beatrice,—
BEATRICE. Sweet Hero! she is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone.
BENEDICK. Beat—
BEATRICE. Princes and Counties! Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly Count Comfect; a sweet gallant, surely! O! that I were a man for his sake, or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into curtsies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.
BENEDICK. Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.
BEATRICE. Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.
BENEDICK. Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero?
BEATRICE. Yea, as sure is I have a thought or a soul.
BENEDICK. Enough! I am engaged, I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin: I must say she is dead; and so, farewell.
[Exeunt.]
Scene II. A Prison.
Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton, in gowns; and the Watch, with Conrade and Borachio.
DOGBERRY. Is our whole dissembly appeared?
VERGES. O! a stool and a cushion for the sexton.
SEXTON. Which be the malefactors?
DOGBERRY. Marry, that am I and my partner.
VERGES. Nay, that’s certain: we have the exhibition to examine.
SEXTON. But which are the offenders that are to be examined? let them come before Master Constable.
DOGBERRY. Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your name, friend?
BORACHIO. Borachio.
DOGBERRY. Pray write down Borachio. Yours, sirrah?
CONRADE. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.
DOGBERRY. Write down Master gentleman Conrade. Masters, do you serve God?
BOTH. Yea, sir, we hope.
DOGBERRY. Write down that they hope they serve God: and write God first; for God defend but God should go before such villains! Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves, and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for yourselves?
CONRADE. Marry, sir, we say we are none.
DOGBERRY. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; but I will go about with him. Come you hither, sirrah; a word in your ear: sir, I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves.
BORACHIO. Sir, I say to you we are none.
DOGBERRY. Well, stand aside. Fore God, they are both in a tale. Have you writ down, that they are none?
SEXTON. Master Constable, you go not the way to examine: you must call forth the watch that are their accusers.
DOGBERRY. Yea, marry, that’s the eftest way. Let the watch come forth. Masters, I charge you, in the Prince’s name, accuse these men.
FIRST WATCH. This man said, sir, that Don John, the Prince’s brother, was a villain.
DOGBERRY. Write down Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat perjury, to call a Prince’s brother villain.
BORACHIO. Master Constable,—
DOGBERRY. Pray thee, fellow, peace: I do not like thy look, I promise thee.
SEXTON. What heard you him say else?
SECOND WATCH. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don John for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully.
DOGBERRY. Flat burglary as ever was committed.
VERGES. Yea, by the mass, that it is.
SEXTON. What else, fellow?
FIRST WATCH. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her.
DOGBERRY. O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this.
SEXTON. What else?
SECOND WATCH. This is all.
SEXTON. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away: Hero was in this manner accused, in this manner refused, and, upon the grief of this, suddenly died. Master Constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato’s: I will go before and show him their examination.
[Exit.]
DOGBERRY. Come, let them be opinioned.
VERGES. Let them be in the hands—
CONRADE. Off, coxcomb!
DOGBERRY. God’s my life! where’s the sexton? let him write down the Prince’s officer coxcomb. Come, bind them. Thou naughty varlet!
CONRADE. Away! you are an ass; you are an ass.
DOGBERRY. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! but, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow; and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina; and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass!
[Exeunt.]
ACT V
SCENE I. Before Leonato’s House.
Enter Leonato and Antonio.
ANTONIO. If you go on thus, you will kill yourself And ’tis not wisdom thus to second grief Against yourself.
LEONATO. I pray thee, cease thy counsel, Which falls into mine ears as profitless As water in a sieve: give not me counsel; Nor let no comforter delight mine ear But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine: Bring me a father that so lov’d his child, Whose joy of her is overwhelm’d like mine, And bid him speak of patience; Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine, And let it answer every strain for strain, As thus for thus and such a grief for such, In every lineament, branch, shape, and form: If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard; Bid sorrow wag, cry ‘hem’ when he should groan, Patch grief with proverbs; make misfortune drunk With candle-wasters; bring him yet to me, And I of him will gather patience. But there is no such man; for, brother, men Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before Would give preceptial medicine to rage, Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air and agony with words. No, no; ’tis all men’s office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man’s virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel: My griefs cry louder than advertisement.
ANTONIO. Therein do men from children nothing differ.
LEONATO. I pray thee peace! I will be flesh and blood; For there was never yet philosopher That could endure the toothache patiently, However they have writ the style of gods And made a push at chance and sufferance.
ANTONIO. Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself; Make those that do offend you suffer too.
LEONATO. There thou speak’st reason: nay, I will do so. My soul doth tell me Hero is belied; And that shall Claudio know; so shall the Prince, And all of them that thus dishonour her.
ANTONIO. Here comes the Prince and Claudio hastily.
Enter Don Pedro and Claudio.
DON PEDRO. Good den, good den.
CLAUDIO. Good day to both of you.
LEONATO. Hear you, my lords,—
DON PEDRO. We have some haste, Leonato.
LEONATO. Some haste, my lord! well, fare you well, my lord: Are you so hasty now?—well, all is one.
DON PEDRO. Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man.
ANTONIO. If he could right himself with quarrelling, Some of us would lie low.
CLAUDIO. Who wrongs him?
LEONATO. Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou dissembler, thou. Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword; I fear thee not.
CLAUDIO. Marry, beshrew my hand, If it should give your age such cause of fear. In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.
LEONATO. Tush, tush, man! never fleer and jest at me: I speak not like a dotard nor a fool, As, under privilege of age, to brag What I have done being young, or what would do, Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head, Thou hast so wrong’d mine innocent child and me That I am forc’d to lay my reverence by, And, with grey hairs and bruise of many days, Do challenge thee to trial of a man. I say thou hast belied mine innocent child: Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart, And she lies buried with her ancestors; O! in a tomb where never scandal slept, Save this of hers, fram’d by thy villainy!
CLAUDIO. My villainy?
LEONATO. Thine, Claudio; thine, I say.
DON PEDRO. You say not right, old man.
LEONATO. My lord, my lord, I’ll prove it on his body, if he dare, Despite his nice fence and his active practice, His May of youth and bloom of lustihood.
CLAUDIO. Away! I will not have to do with you.
LEONATO. Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill’d my child; If thou kill’st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.
ANTONIO. He shall kill two of us, and men indeed: But that’s no matter; let him kill one first: Win me and wear me; let him answer me. Come, follow me, boy; come, sir boy, come, follow me. Sir boy, I’ll whip you from your foining fence; Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will.
LEONATO. Brother,—
ANTONIO. Content yourself. God knows I lov’d my niece; And she is dead, slander’d to death by villains, That dare as well answer a man indeed As I dare take a serpent by the tongue. Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops!
LEONATO. Brother Anthony,—
ANTONIO. Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea, And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple, Scambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys, That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander, Go antickly, show outward hideousness, And speak off half a dozen dangerous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst; And this is all!
LEONATO. But, brother Anthony,—
ANTONIO. Come, ’tis no matter: Do not you meddle, let me deal in this.
DON PEDRO. Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience. My heart is sorry for your daughter’s death; But, on my honour, she was charg’d with nothing But what was true and very full of proof.
LEONATO. My lord, my lord—
DON PEDRO. I will not hear you.
LEONATO. No? Come, brother, away. I will be heard.—
ANTONIO. And shall, or some of us will smart for it.
[Exeunt Leonato and Antonio.]
Enter Benedick.
DON PEDRO. See, see; here comes the man we went to seek.
CLAUDIO. Now, signior, what news?
BENEDICK. Good day, my lord.
DON PEDRO. Welcome, signior: you are almost come to part almost a fray.
CLAUDIO. We had like to have had our two noses snapped off with two old men without teeth.
DON PEDRO. Leonato and his brother. What think’st thou? Had we fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them.
BENEDICK. In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I came to seek you both.
CLAUDIO. We have been up and down to seek thee; for we are high-proof melancholy, and would fain have it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy wit?
BENEDICK. It is in my scabbard; shall I draw it?
DON PEDRO. Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side?
CLAUDIO. Never any did so, though very many have been beside their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do the minstrels; draw, to pleasure us.
DON PEDRO. As I am an honest man, he looks pale. Art thou sick, or angry?
CLAUDIO. What, courage, man! What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.
BENEDICK. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, and you charge it against me. I pray you choose another subject.
CLAUDIO. Nay then, give him another staff: this last was broke cross.
DON PEDRO. By this light, he changes more and more: I think he be angry indeed.
CLAUDIO. If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle.
BENEDICK. Shall I speak a word in your ear?
CLAUDIO. God bless me from a challenge!
BENEDICK. [Aside to Claudio.] You are a villain, I jest not: I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me hear from you.
CLAUDIO. Well I will meet you, so I may have good cheer.
DON PEDRO. What, a feast, a feast?
CLAUDIO. I’ faith, I thank him; he hath bid me to a calf’s-head and a capon, the which if I do not carve most curiously, say my knife’s naught. Shall I not find a woodcock too?
BENEDICK. Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily.
DON PEDRO. I’ll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the other day. I said, thou hadst a fine wit. ‘True,’ says she, ‘a fine little one.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘a great wit.’ ‘Right,’ said she, ‘a great gross one.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘a good wit.’ ‘Just,’ said she, ‘it hurts nobody.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘the gentleman is wise.’ ‘Certain,’ said she, ‘a wise gentleman.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘he hath the tongues.’ ‘That I believe’ said she, ‘for he swore a thing to me on Monday night, which he forswore on Tuesday morning: there’s a double tongue; there’s two tongues.’ Thus did she, an hour together, trans-shape thy particular virtues; yet at last she concluded with a sigh, thou wast the properest man in Italy.
CLAUDIO. For the which she wept heartily and said she cared not.
DON PEDRO. Yea, that she did; but yet, for all that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly. The old man’s daughter told us all.
CLAUDIO. All, all; and moreover, God saw him when he was hid in the garden.
DON PEDRO. But when shall we set the savage bull’s horns on the sensible Benedick’s head?
CLAUDIO. Yea, and text underneath, ‘Here dwells Benedick the married man!’
BENEDICK. Fare you well, boy: you know my mind. I will leave you now to your gossip-like humour; you break jests as braggarts do their blades, which, God be thanked, hurt not. My lord, for your many courtesies I thank you: I must discontinue your company. Your brother the bastard is fled from Messina: you have, among you, killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord Lack-beard there, he and I shall meet; and till then, peace be with him.
[Exit.]
DON PEDRO. He is in earnest.
CLAUDIO. In most profound earnest; and, I’ll warrant you, for the love of Beatrice.
DON PEDRO. And hath challenged thee?
CLAUDIO. Most sincerely.
DON PEDRO. What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!
CLAUDIO. He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an ape a doctor to such a man.
DON PEDRO. But, soft you; let me be: pluck up, my heart, and be sad! Did he not say my brother was fled?
Enter Dogberry, Verges, and the Watch, with Conrade and Borachio.
DOGBERRY. Come you, sir: if justice cannot tame you, she shall ne’er weigh more reasons in her balance. Nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be looked to.
DON PEDRO. How now! two of my brother’s men bound! Borachio, one!
CLAUDIO. Hearken after their offence, my lord.
DON PEDRO. Officers, what offence have these men done?
DOGBERRY. Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things; and to conclude, they are lying knaves.
DON PEDRO. First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I ask thee what’s their offence; sixth and lastly, why they are committed; and, to conclude, what you lay to their charge?
CLAUDIO. Rightly reasoned, and in his own division; and, by my troth, there’s one meaning well suited.
DON PEDRO. Who have you offended, masters, that you are thus bound to your answer? This learned constable is too cunning to be understood. What’s your offence?
BORACHIO. Sweet Prince, let me go no farther to mine answer: do you hear me, and let this Count kill me. I have deceived even your very eyes: what your wisdoms could not discover, these shallow fools have brought to light; who, in the night overheard me confessing to this man how Don John your brother incensed me to slander the Lady Hero; how you were brought into the orchard and saw me court Margaret in Hero’s garments; how you disgraced her, when you should marry her. My villainy they have upon record; which I had rather seal with my death than repeat over to my shame. The lady is dead upon mine and my master’s false accusation; and, briefly, I desire nothing but the reward of a villain.
DON PEDRO. Runs not this speech like iron through your blood?
CLAUDIO. I have drunk poison whiles he utter’d it.
DON PEDRO. But did my brother set thee on to this?
BORACHIO. Yea; and paid me richly for the practice of it.
DON PEDRO. He is compos’d and fram’d of treachery: And fled he is upon this villainy.
CLAUDIO. Sweet Hero! now thy image doth appear In the rare semblance that I lov’d it first.
DOGBERRY. Come, bring away the plaintiffs: by this time our sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the matter. And masters, do not forget to specify, when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass.
VERGES. Here, here comes Master Signior Leonato, and the sexton too.
Re-enter Leonato, Antonio and the Sexton.
LEONATO. Which is the villain? Let me see his eyes, That, when I note another man like him, I may avoid him. Which of these is he?
BORACHIO. If you would know your wronger, look on me.
LEONATO. Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast kill’d Mine innocent child?
BORACHIO. Yea, even I alone.
LEONATO. No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself: Here stand a pair of honourable men; A third is fled, that had a hand in it. I thank you, princes, for my daughter’s death: Record it with your high and worthy deeds. ’Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.
CLAUDIO. I know not how to pray your patience; Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself; Impose me to what penance your invention Can lay upon my sin: yet sinn’d I not But in mistaking.
DON PEDRO. By my soul, nor I: And yet, to satisfy this good old man, I would bend under any heavy weight That he’ll enjoin me to.
LEONATO. I cannot bid you bid my daughter live; That were impossible; but, I pray you both, Possess the people in Messina here How innocent she died; and if your love Can labour aught in sad invention, Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb, And sing it to her bones: sing it tonight. Tomorrow morning come you to my house, And since you could not be my son-in-law, Be yet my nephew. My brother hath a daughter, Almost the copy of my child that’s dead, And she alone is heir to both of us: Give her the right you should have given her cousin, And so dies my revenge.
CLAUDIO. O noble sir, Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me! I do embrace your offer; and dispose For henceforth of poor Claudio.
LEONATO. Tomorrow then I will expect your coming; Tonight I take my leave. This naughty man Shall face to face be brought to Margaret, Who, I believe, was pack’d in all this wrong, Hir’d to it by your brother.
BORACHIO. No, by my soul she was not; Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me; But always hath been just and virtuous In anything that I do know by her.
DOGBERRY. Moreover, sir,—which, indeed, is not under white and black,— this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass: I beseech you, let it be remembered in his punishment. And also, the watch heard them talk of one Deformed: they say he wears a key in his ear and a lock hanging by it, and borrows money in God’s name, the which he hath used so long and never paid, that now men grow hard-hearted, and will lend nothing for God’s sake. Pray you, examine him upon that point.
LEONATO. I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.
DOGBERRY. Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverent youth, and I praise God for you.
LEONATO. There’s for thy pains.
DOGBERRY. God save the foundation!
LEONATO. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee.
DOGBERRY. I leave an arrant knave with your worship; which I beseech your worship to correct yourself, for the example of others. God keep your worship! I wish your worship well; God restore you to health! I humbly give you leave to depart, and if a merry meeting may be wished, God prohibit it! Come, neighbour.
[Exeunt Dogberry and Verges.]
LEONATO. Until tomorrow morning, lords, farewell.
ANTONIO. Farewell, my lords: we look for you tomorrow.
DON PEDRO. We will not fail.
CLAUDIO. Tonight I’ll mourn with Hero.
[Exeunt Don Pedro and Claudio.]
LEONATO. [To the Watch.] Bring you these fellows on. We’ll talk with Margaret, How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Leonato’s Garden.
Enter Benedick and Margaret, meeting.
BENEDICK. Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice.
MARGARET. Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty?
BENEDICK. In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it; for, in most comely truth, thou deservest it.
MARGARET. To have no man come over me! why, shall I always keep below stairs?
BENEDICK. Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound’s mouth; it catches.
MARGARET. And yours as blunt as the fencer’s foils, which hit, but hurt not.
BENEDICK. A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt a woman: and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice. I give thee the bucklers.
MARGARET. Give us the swords, we have bucklers of our own.
BENEDICK. If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons for maids.
MARGARET. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs.
BENEDICK. And therefore will come.
[Exit Margaret.]
The god of love, That sits above, And knows me, and knows me, How pitiful I deserve,—
I mean, in singing: but in loving, Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and a whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned over and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I cannot show it in rime; I have tried: I can find out no rime to ‘lady’ but ‘baby’, an innocent rime; for ‘scorn,’ ‘horn’, a hard rime; for ‘school’, ‘fool’, a babbling rime; very ominous endings: no, I was not born under a riming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms.
Enter Beatrice.
Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee?
BEATRICE. Yea, signior; and depart when you bid me.
BENEDICK. O, stay but till then!
BEATRICE. ‘Then’ is spoken; fare you well now: and yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for; which is, with knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio.
BENEDICK. Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee.
BEATRICE. Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed.
BENEDICK. Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge, and either I must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe him a coward. And, I pray thee now, tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?
BEATRICE. For them all together; which maintained so politic a state of evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?
BENEDICK. ‘Suffer love,’ a good epithet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.
BEATRICE. In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor heart! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates.
BENEDICK. Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
BEATRICE. It appears not in this confession: there’s not one wise man among twenty that will praise himself.
BENEDICK. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived in the time of good neighbours. If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps.
BEATRICE. And how long is that think you?
BENEDICK. Question: why, an hour in clamour and a quarter in rheum: therefore is it most expedient for the wise,—if Don Worm, his conscience, find no impediment to the contrary,—to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy. And now tell me, how doth your cousin?
BEATRICE. Very ill.
BENEDICK. And how do you?
BEATRICE. Very ill too.
BENEDICK. Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste.
Enter Ursula.
URSULA. Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder’s old coil at home: it is proved, my Lady Hero hath been falsely accused, the Prince and Claudio mightily abused; and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone. Will you come presently?
BEATRICE. Will you go hear this news, signior?
BENEDICK. I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes; and moreover I will go with thee to thy uncle’s.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. The Inside of a Church.
Enter Don Pedro, Claudio and Attendants, with music and tapers.
CLAUDIO. Is this the monument of Leonato?
A LORD. It is, my lord.
CLAUDIO. [Reads from a scroll.]
Epitaph.
Done to death by slanderous tongues Was the Hero that here lies: Death, in guerdon of her wrongs, Gives her fame which never dies. So the life that died with shame Lives in death with glorious fame.
Hang thou there upon the tomb,
Praising her when I am dumb. Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.
Song.
Pardon, goddess of the night, Those that slew thy virgin knight; For the which, with songs of woe, Round about her tomb they go. Midnight, assist our moan; Help us to sigh and groan, Heavily, heavily: Graves, yawn and yield your dead, Till death be uttered, Heavily, heavily.
CLAUDIO. Now, unto thy bones good night! Yearly will I do this rite.
DON PEDRO. Good morrow, masters: put your torches out. The wolves have prey’d; and look, the gentle day, Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about Dapples the drowsy East with spots of grey. Thanks to you all, and leave us: fare you well.
CLAUDIO. Good morrow, masters: each his several way.
DON PEDRO. Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds; And then to Leonato’s we will go.
CLAUDIO. And Hymen now with luckier issue speed’s, Than this for whom we rend’red up this woe!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. A Room in Leonato’s House.
Enter Leonato, Antonio, Benedick, Beatrice, Margaret, Ursula, Friar Francis and Hero.
FRIAR. Did I not tell you she was innocent?
LEONATO. So are the Prince and Claudio, who accus’d her Upon the error that you heard debated: But Margaret was in some fault for this, Although against her will, as it appears In the true course of all the question.
ANTONIO. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well.
BENEDICK. And so am I, being else by faith enforc’d To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.
LEONATO. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all, Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves, And when I send for you, come hither mask’d: The Prince and Claudio promis’d by this hour To visit me.
[Exeunt Ladies.]
You know your office, brother; You must be father to your brother’s daughter, And give her to young Claudio.
ANTONIO. Which I will do with confirm’d countenance.
BENEDICK. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.
FRIAR. To do what, signior?
BENEDICK. To bind me, or undo me; one of them. Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior, Your niece regards me with an eye of favour.
LEONATO. That eye my daughter lent her. ’Tis most true.
BENEDICK. And I do with an eye of love requite her.
LEONATO. The sight whereof I think, you had from me, From Claudio, and the Prince. But what’s your will?
BENEDICK. Your answer, sir, is enigmatical: But, for my will, my will is your good will May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin’d In the state of honourable marriage: In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.
LEONATO. My heart is with your liking.
FRIAR. And my help. Here comes the Prince and Claudio.
Enter Don Pedro and Claudio, with Attendants.
DON PEDRO. Good morrow to this fair assembly.
LEONATO. Good morrow, Prince; good morrow, Claudio: We here attend you. Are you yet determin’d Today to marry with my brother’s daughter?
CLAUDIO. I’ll hold my mind, were she an Ethiope.
LEONATO. Call her forth, brother: here’s the friar ready.
[Exit Antonio.]
DON PEDRO. Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what’s the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?
CLAUDIO. I think he thinks upon the savage bull. Tush! fear not, man, we’ll tip thy horns with gold, And all Europa shall rejoice at thee, As once Europa did at lusty Jove, When he would play the noble beast in love.
BENEDICK. Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low: And some such strange bull leap’d your father’s cow, And got a calf in that same noble feat, Much like to you, for you have just his bleat.
CLAUDIO. For this I owe you: here comes other reckonings.
Re-enter Antonio, with the ladies masked.
Which is the lady I must seize upon?
ANTONIO. This same is she, and I do give you her.
CLAUDIO. Why then, she’s mine. Sweet, let me see your face.
LEONATO. No, that you shall not, till you take her hand Before this friar, and swear to marry her.
CLAUDIO. Give me your hand: before this holy friar, I am your husband, if you like of me.
HERO. And when I liv’d, I was your other wife: [Unmasking.] And when you lov’d, you were my other husband.
CLAUDIO. Another Hero!
HERO. Nothing certainer: One Hero died defil’d, but I do live, And surely as I live, I am a maid.
DON PEDRO. The former Hero! Hero that is dead!
LEONATO. She died, my lord, but whiles her slander liv’d.
FRIAR. All this amazement can I qualify: When after that the holy rites are ended, I’ll tell you largely of fair Hero’s death: Meantime, let wonder seem familiar, And to the chapel let us presently.
BENEDICK. Soft and fair, friar. Which is Beatrice?
BEATRICE. [Unmasking.] I answer to that name. What is your will?
BENEDICK. Do not you love me?
BEATRICE. Why, no; no more than reason.
BENEDICK. Why, then, your uncle and the Prince and Claudio Have been deceived; for they swore you did.
BEATRICE. Do not you love me?
BENEDICK. Troth, no; no more than reason.
BEATRICE. Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula, Are much deceiv’d; for they did swear you did.
BENEDICK. They swore that you were almost sick for me.
BEATRICE. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.
BENEDICK. ’Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?
BEATRICE. No, truly, but in friendly recompense.
LEONATO. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.
CLAUDIO. And I’ll be sworn upon ’t that he loves her; For here’s a paper written in his hand, A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, Fashion’d to Beatrice.
HERO. And here’s another, Writ in my cousin’s hand, stolen from her pocket, Containing her affection unto Benedick.
BENEDICK. A miracle! here’s our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity.
BEATRICE. I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.
BENEDICK. Peace! I will stop your mouth. [Kisses her.]
DON PEDRO. How dost thou, Benedick, the married man?
BENEDICK. I’ll tell thee what, Prince; a college of witcrackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No; if man will be beaten with brains, a’ shall wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it, for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee; but, in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruised, and love my cousin.
CLAUDIO. I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double-dealer; which, out of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look exceeding narrowly to thee.
BENEDICK. Come, come, we are friends. Let’s have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives’ heels.
LEONATO. We’ll have dancing afterward.
BENEDICK. First, of my word; therefore play, music! Prince, thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife: there is no staff more reverent than one tipped with horn.
Enter Messenger.
MESSENGER. My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight, And brought with armed men back to Messina.
BENEDICK. Think not on him till tomorrow: I’ll devise thee brave punishments for him. Strike up, pipers!
[Dance. Exeunt.]
THE TRAGEDY OF OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE
Contents
ACT I Scene I. Venice. A street Scene II. Venice. Another street Scene III. Venice. A council chamber
ACT II Scene I. A seaport in Cyprus. A Platform Scene II. A street Scene III. A Hall in the Castle
ACT III Scene I. Cyprus. Before the Castle Scene II. Cyprus. A Room in the Castle Scene III. Cyprus. The Garden of the Castle Scene IV. Cyprus. Before the Castle
ACT IV Scene I. Cyprus. Before the Castle Scene II. Cyprus. A Room in the Castle Scene III. Cyprus. Another Room in the Castle
ACT V Scene I. Cyprus. A Street Scene II. Cyprus. A Bedchamber in the castle
Dramatis Personæ
DUKE OF VENICE BRABANTIO, a Senator of Venice and Desdemona’s father Other Senators GRATIANO, Brother to Brabantio LODOVICO, Kinsman to Brabantio OTHELLO, a noble Moor in the service of Venice CASSIO, his Lieutenant IAGO, his Ancient MONTANO, Othello’s predecessor in the government of Cyprus RODERIGO, a Venetian Gentleman CLOWN, Servant to Othello
DESDEMONA, Daughter to Brabantio and Wife to Othello EMILIA, Wife to Iago BIANCA, Mistress to Cassio
Officers, Gentlemen, Messenger, Musicians, Herald, Sailor, Attendants, &c.
SCENE: The First Act in Venice; during the rest of the Play at a Seaport in Cyprus.
ACT I
SCENE I. Venice. A street.
Enter Roderigo and Iago.
RODERIGO. Tush, never tell me, I take it much unkindly That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse, As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.
IAGO. ’Sblood, but you will not hear me. If ever I did dream of such a matter, Abhor me.
RODERIGO. Thou told’st me, thou didst hold him in thy hate.
IAGO. Despise me if I do not. Three great ones of the city, In personal suit to make me his lieutenant, Off-capp’d to him; and by the faith of man, I know my price, I am worth no worse a place. But he, as loving his own pride and purposes, Evades them, with a bombast circumstance, Horribly stuff’d with epithets of war: And in conclusion, Nonsuits my mediators: for “Certes,” says he, “I have already chose my officer.” And what was he? Forsooth, a great arithmetician, One Michael Cassio, a Florentine, A fellow almost damn’d in a fair wife, That never set a squadron in the field, Nor the division of a battle knows More than a spinster, unless the bookish theoric, Wherein the toged consuls can propose As masterly as he: mere prattle without practice Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election, And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds, Christian and heathen, must be belee’d and calm’d By debitor and creditor, this counter-caster, He, in good time, must his lieutenant be, And I, God bless the mark, his Moorship’s ancient.
RODERIGO. By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.
IAGO. Why, there’s no remedy. ’Tis the curse of service, Preferment goes by letter and affection, And not by old gradation, where each second Stood heir to the first. Now sir, be judge yourself Whether I in any just term am affin’d To love the Moor.
RODERIGO. I would not follow him, then.
IAGO. O, sir, content you. I follow him to serve my turn upon him: We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly follow’d. You shall mark Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave That, doting on his own obsequious bondage, Wears out his time, much like his master’s ass, For nought but provender, and when he’s old, cashier’d. Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are Who, trimm’d in forms, and visages of duty, Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves, And throwing but shows of service on their lords, Do well thrive by them, and when they have lin’d their coats, Do themselves homage. These fellows have some soul, And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir, It is as sure as you are Roderigo, Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago: In following him, I follow but myself. Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In complement extern, ’tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.
RODERIGO. What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe, If he can carry’t thus!
IAGO. Call up her father, Rouse him, make after him, poison his delight, Proclaim him in the streets; incense her kinsmen, And though he in a fertile climate dwell, Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy, Yet throw such changes of vexation on’t, As it may lose some color.
RODERIGO. Here is her father’s house, I’ll call aloud.
IAGO. Do, with like timorous accent and dire yell As when, by night and negligence, the fire Is spied in populous cities.
RODERIGO. What ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho!
IAGO. Awake! what ho, Brabantio! Thieves, thieves! Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags! Thieves, thieves!
Brabantio appears above at a window.
BRABANTIO. What is the reason of this terrible summons? What is the matter there?
RODERIGO. Signior, is all your family within?
IAGO. Are your doors locked?
BRABANTIO. Why, wherefore ask you this?
IAGO. Zounds, sir, you’re robb’d, for shame put on your gown, Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul; Even now, now, very now, an old black ram Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise, Awake the snorting citizens with the bell, Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you: Arise, I say.
BRABANTIO. What, have you lost your wits?
RODERIGO. Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?
BRABANTIO. Not I. What are you?
RODERIGO. My name is Roderigo.
BRABANTIO. The worser welcome. I have charg’d thee not to haunt about my doors; In honest plainness thou hast heard me say My daughter is not for thee; and now in madness, Being full of supper and distempering draughts, Upon malicious bravery, dost thou come To start my quiet.
RODERIGO. Sir, sir, sir,—
BRABANTIO. But thou must needs be sure My spirit and my place have in them power To make this bitter to thee.
RODERIGO. Patience, good sir.
BRABANTIO. What tell’st thou me of robbing? This is Venice. My house is not a grange.
RODERIGO. Most grave Brabantio, In simple and pure soul I come to you.
IAGO. Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not serve God if the devil bid you. Because we come to do you service, and you think we are ruffians, you’ll have your daughter cover’d with a Barbary horse; you’ll have your nephews neigh to you; you’ll have coursers for cousins and gennets for germans.
BRABANTIO. What profane wretch art thou?
IAGO. I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.
BRABANTIO. Thou art a villain.
IAGO. You are a senator.
BRABANTIO. This thou shalt answer. I know thee, Roderigo.
RODERIGO. Sir, I will answer anything. But I beseech you, If ’t be your pleasure, and most wise consent, (As partly I find it is) that your fair daughter, At this odd-even and dull watch o’ the night, Transported with no worse nor better guard, But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier, To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor: If this be known to you, and your allowance, We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs. But if you know not this, my manners tell me, We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe That from the sense of all civility, I thus would play and trifle with your reverence. Your daughter (if you have not given her leave) I say again, hath made a gross revolt, Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes In an extravagant and wheeling stranger Of here and everywhere. Straight satisfy yourself: If she be in her chamber or your house, Let loose on me the justice of the state For thus deluding you.
BRABANTIO. Strike on the tinder, ho! Give me a taper! Call up all my people! This accident is not unlike my dream, Belief of it oppresses me already. Light, I say, light!
[_Exit from above._]