Bene. How doth the Lady?

Beat. Dead I think; help, uncle.

Hero! why, Hero! uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar!
Leon. O fate! take not away thy heavy hand;
Death is the faireft cover for her fhame,

That may be wifh'd for.

Beat. How now, coufin Hero?

Friar. Have comfort, Lady.

Leon. Doft thou look up?

Friar. Yea, wherefore fhould fhe not?

Leon. Wherefore? why doth not every earthly thing Cry fhame upon her? could fhe 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 fpirits were ftronger than thy fhames, My felf would on the rereward of reproaches Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but one? Chid I for that at frugal nature's ' 'hand?` I've one too much by thee. Why had I one? Why ever waft thou lovely in my eyes? Why had not I, with charitable hand, Took up a beggar's iffue at my gates? Who fmeered thus, and mir'd with infamy, I might have said, no part of it is mine, This fhame derives it felf from unknown loins: But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I prais'd, And mine that I was proud on, mine fo much, That I my felf was to my felf not mine, Valuing of her; why, the, Oh! fhe is fall'n Into a pit of ink, that the wide fea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again, And falt too little which may feason give To her foul tainted flesh.

I frame?

Bene.

Bene. Sir, Sir, be patient;

For my part, I am fo attir'd in wonder,

I know not what to say.

Beat. O, on my foul, my coufin is bely'd.
Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?
Beat. No truly, not; altho' until last night

I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.

Leon. Confirm'd, confirm'd! O, that is stronger made,
Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron.
Would the Prince lie? and Claudio would he lie,
Who lov'd her fo, that fpeaking of her foulnefs,
Wash'd it with tears? hence from her, let her die.
Friar. 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 thousand blushing apparitions

To start into her face, a thousand innocent fhames
In angel whitenefs bear away thofe blushes,
And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire
To burn the errors that thefe Princes hold
Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool,
Trust not my reading, nor my obfervation,
Which with experimental feal doth warrant
The tenour of my book; truft not my age,
My reverence, calling, nor divinity,

If this fweet Lady lye not guiltless here
Under fome biting error.

2

Leon. It cannot be ;

Thou feeft that all the grace that fhe hath left,
Is, that she will not add to her damnation
A fin of perjury; fhe not denies it:
Why feek'it thou then to cover with excufe
That which appears in proper nakedness ?

Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accus'd of?
Hero. They know that do accufe me, I know none:
If I know more of any man alive

Kk 2

Than

2 Friar it cannot be;

Than that which maiden modefty doth warrant,
Let all my fins 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,
Refufe me, hate me, torture me to death.

Friar. There is fome strange misprifion in the Princes. Bene. Two of them have the very bent of honour, And if their wifdoms be mif-led in this,

The practice of it lives in John the bastard,
Whofe fpirits toil in frame of villainies.

Leon. I know not: if they speak but truth of her, Thefe hands fhall tear her; if they wrong her honour, The proudeft of them fhall well hear of it.

Time hath not yet fo dry'd this blood of mine,
Nor age fo eat up my invention,

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 ftrength of limb, and policy of mind,
Ability in means, and choice of friends,
To quit me of them throughly.
Friar. Paufe a while,

And let my counsel fway you in this cafe.
Your daughter here the

Princes` left for dead

Let her a while be fecretly kept in,

And publish it that fhe 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? Friar. Marry, this well carry'd, fhall on her behalf

Change flander to remorfe; that is fome good:

But not for that dream I on this ftrange courfe,
But on this travel look for greater birth:
She dying, as it must be so maintain'd,

Princefs... old edit. Warb, emend.

Upon

Upon the inftant that fhe was accus'd,
Shall be lamented, pity'd, and excus'd,
Of every hearer: for it fo 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 fhall hear fhe dy'd upon his words,
Th'idea of her love fhall fweetly creep
Into his ftudy 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 profpect of his foul,

Than when she liv'd indeed. Then fhall he mourn,
If ever love had intereft in his liver,
And wifh he had not fo accused her;
No, tho' he thought his accufation true :
Let this be fo, and doubt not but success
Will fashion the event in better fhape-
Than I can lay it down in likelihood.
But if all aim but this be levell'd falfe,
The fuppofition of the lady's death
Will quench the wonder of her infamy.
And if it fort not well, you may conceal her,
As beft befits her wounded reputation,'
In fome reclufive and religious life,

Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.
Bene. Signior Leonato, let the Friar 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 juftly, as your foul
Should with your body.

Leon. Being that I flow

'In grief, alas! the smallest twine may lead me.

Kk 3

4 In grief, the smallest

Friar.

Friar. 'Tis well confented, prefently away,

For to ftrange fores, ftrangely they ftrain the cure. Come, Lady, die to live; this wedding-day

Perhaps is but prolong'd: have patience and endure,

[Exeunt,

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 lie not; I confefs nothing, nor I dény nothing. I am forry for my coufin.

Bene. By my fword, Beatrice, thou lov'ft me.

Beat. Do not fwear by it and eat it.

Bene. I will fwear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat it that fays I love not you.

Beat. Will you not eat your word?

Bene. With no fauce that can be devis'd to it; I proteft I love thee.

Beat. Why then God forgive me.

Bene. What offence, fweet Beatrice?

Beat. You have ftay'd me in a happy hour; I was

about to proteft I lov'd you.

Bene