No More Learning

It is so. The Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of
Leonato.
Bora. Yea, my lord; but I can cross it.
John. Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be med'cinable to me.
I am sick in displeasure to him, and whatsoever comes athwart his
affection ranges evenly with mine. How canst thou cross this
marriage?
Bora. Not honestly, my lord, but so covertly that no dishonesty
shall appear in me.
John. Show me briefly how.
Bora. I think I told your lordship, a year since, how much I am in
the favour of Margaret, the waiting gentlewoman to Hero.
John. I remember.
Bora. I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night, appoint her
to look out at her lady's chamber window.
John. What life is in that to be the death of this marriage?
Bora. The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to the
Prince your brother; spare not to tell him that he hath wronged
his honour in marrying the renowned Claudio (whose estimation do
you mightily hold up) to a contaminated stale, such a one as
Hero.
John. What proof shall I make of that?
Bora. Proof enough to misuse the Prince, to vex Claudio, to undo
Hero, and kill Leonato. Look you for any other issue?
John. Only to despite them I will endeavour anything.
Bora. Go then; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro and the Count
Claudio alone; tell them that you know that Hero loves me; intend
a kind of zeal both to the Prince and Claudio, as--in love of
your brother's honour, who hath made this match, and his friend's
reputation, who is thus like to be cozen'd with the semblance of
a maid--that you have discover'd thus. They will scarcely believe
this without trial. Offer them instances; which shall bear no
less likelihood than to see me at her chamber window, hear me
call Margaret Hero, hear Margaret term me Claudio; and bring them
to see this the very night before the intended wedding (for in
the meantime I will so fashion the matter that Hero shall be
absent) and there shall appear such seeming truth of Hero's
disloyalty that jealousy shall be call'd assurance and all the
preparation overthrown.
John. Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put it in
practice. Be cunning in the working this, and thy fee is a
thousand ducats.
Bora. Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning shall not
shame me.
John. I will presently go learn their day of marriage.
Exeunt.




Scene III.
Leonato's orchard.

Enter Benedick alone.

Bene. Boy!

[Enter Boy. ]

Boy. Signior?
Bene. In my chamber window lies a book. Bring it hither to me in
the orchard.
Boy. I am here already, sir.
Bene. I know that, but I would have thee hence and here again.
(Exit Boy. ) I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much
another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love,
will, after he hath laugh'd at such shallow follies in others,
become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love; and such
a man is Claudio. I have known when there was no music with him
but the drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor
and the pipe. I have known when he would have walk'd ten mile
afoot to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake
carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain
and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is
he turn'd orthography; his words are a very fantastical banquet--
just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted and see with
these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not. I will not be sworn but
love may transform me to an oyster; but I'll take my oath on it,
till he have made an oyster of me he shall never make me such a
fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am
well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in
one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall
be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never
cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her; mild, or come not
near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an
excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it
please God. Ha, the Prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in
the arbour. [Hides. ]

Enter Don Pedro, Leonato, Claudio.
Music [within].

Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music?
Claud. Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is,
As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony!
Pedro. See you where Benedick hath hid himself?
Claud. O, very well, my lord. The music ended,
We'll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth.

Enter Balthasar with Music.

Pedro. Come, Balthasar, we'll hear that song again.
Balth. O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice
To slander music any more than once.
Pedro. It is the witness still of excellency
To put a strange face on his own perfection.
I pray thee sing, and let me woo no more.
Balth. Because you talk of wooing, I will sing,
Since many a wooer doth commence his suit
To her he thinks not worthy, yet he wooes,
Yet will he swear he loves.
Pedro. Nay, pray thee come;
Or if thou wilt hold longer argument,
Do it in notes.
Balth. Note this before my notes:
There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.
Pedro. Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks!
Note notes, forsooth, and nothing! [Music. ]
Bene. [aside] Now divine air! Now is his soul ravish'd! Is it not
strange that sheep's guts should hale souls out of men's bodies?
Well, a horn for my money, when all's done.
[Balthasar sings. ]
The Song.

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more!
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea, and one on shore;
To one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,
Of dumps so dull and heavy!
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy.
Then sigh not so, &c.

Pedro. By my troth, a good song.
Balth. And an ill singer, my lord.
Pedro. Ha, no, no, faith! Thou sing'st well enough for a shift.
Bene. [aside] An he had been a dog that should have howl'd thus,
they would have hang'd him; and I pray God his bad voice bode no
mischief. I had as live have heard the night raven, come what
plague could have come after it.
Pedro. Yea, marry. Dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray thee get us
some excellent music; for to-morrow night we would have it at the
Lady Hero's chamber window.
Balth. The best I can, my lord.
Pedro. Do so. Farewell.
Exit Balthasar [with Musicians].
Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of to-day? that
your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?
Claud. O, ay! -[Aside to Pedro] Stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits.
--I did never think that lady would have loved any man.
Leon. No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so dote
on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours
seem'd ever to abhor.
Bene. [aside] Is't possible? Sits the wind in that corner?
Leon. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it, but
that she loves him with an enraged affection. It is past the
infinite of thought.
Pedro. May be she doth but counterfeit.
Claud. Faith, like enough.
Leon. O God, counterfeit? There was never counterfeit of passion
came so near the life of passion as she discovers it.
Pedro. Why, what effects of passion shows she?
Claud. [aside] Bait the hook well! This fish will bite.
Leon. What effects, my lord? She will sit you--you heard my
daughter tell you how.
Claud. She did indeed.
Pedro. How, how, I pray you? You amaze me. I would have thought her
spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection.
Leon. I would have sworn it had, my lord--especially against
Benedick.
Bene. [aside] I should think this a gull but that the white-bearded
fellow speaks it. Knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such
reverence.
Claud. [aside] He hath ta'en th' infection. Hold it up.
Pedro. Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?
Leon. No, and swears she never will. That's her torment.
Claud. 'Tis true indeed. So your daughter says. 'Shall I,' says
she, 'that have so oft encount'red him with scorn, write to him
that I love him? '"
Leon. This says she now when she is beginning to write to him; for
she'll be up twenty times a night, and there will she sit in her
smock till she have writ a sheet of paper. My daughter tells us
all.
Claud. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest
your daughter told us of.
Leon. O, when she had writ it, and was reading it over, she found
'Benedick' and 'Beatrice' between the sheet?
Claud. That.
Leon. O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence, rail'd at
herself that she should be so immodest to write to one that she
knew would flout her. 'I measure him,' says she, 'by my own
spirit; for I should flout him if he writ to me. Yea, though I
love him, I should. '
Claud.
Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her
heart, tears her hair, prays, curses--'O sweet Benedick! God give
me patience! '
Leon. She doth indeed; my daughter says so. And the ecstasy hath so
much overborne her that my daughter is sometime afeard she will
do a desperate outrage to herself. It is very true.
Pedro. It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she
will not discover it.
Claud. To what end? He would make but a sport of it and torment the
poor lady worse.
Pedro. An he should, it were an alms to hang him! She's an
excellent sweet lady, and (out of all suspicion) she is virtuous.
Claud. And she is exceeding wise.
Pedro. In everything but in loving Benedick.
Leon. O, my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body,
we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry
for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian.
Pedro. I would she had bestowed this dotage on me. I would have
daff'd all other respects and made her half myself. I pray you
tell Benedick of it and hear what 'a will say.
Leon. Were it good, think you?
Claud. Hero thinks surely she will die; for she says she will die
if he love her not, and she will die ere she make her love known,
and she will die, if he woo her, rather than she will bate one
breath of her accustomed crossness.
Pedro. She doth well. If she should make tender of her love, 'tis
very possible he'll scorn it; for the man (as you know all) hath
a contemptible spirit.
Claud. He is a very proper man.
Pedro. He hath indeed a good outward happiness.
Claud. Before God! and in my mind, very wise.
Pedro. He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit.
Claud. And I take him to be valiant.
Pedro. As Hector, I assure you; and in the managing of quarrels you
may say he is wise, for either he avoids them with great
discretion, or undertakes them with a most Christianlike fear.
Leon. If he do fear God, 'a must necessarily keep peace. If he
break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and
trembling.
Pedro. And so will he do; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it
seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well, I am
sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek Benedick and tell him of
her love?
Claud. Never tell him, my lord. Let her wear it out with good
counsel.
Leon. Nay, that's impossible; she may wear her heart out first.
Pedro. Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter. Let it
cool the while. I love Benedick well, and I could wish he would
modestly examine himself to see how much he is unworthy so good a
lady.
Leon. My lord, will you . walk? Dinner is ready.
[They walk away. ]
Claud. If he dote on her upon this, I will never trust my
expectation.
Pedro. Let there be the same net spread for her, and that must your
daughter and her gentlewomen carry. The sport will be, when they
hold one an opinion of another's dotage, and no such matter.
That's the scene that I would see, which will be merely a dumb
show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner.
Exeunt [Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato].

[Benedick advances from the arbour. ]

Bene. This can be no trick. The conference was sadly borne; they
have the truth of this from Hero; they seem to pity the lady.
It seems her affections have their full bent. Love me? Why, it
must be requited. I hear how I am censur'd. They say I will bear
myself proudly if I perceive the love come from her. They say too
that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. I did
never think to marry. I must not seem proud. Happy are they that
hear their detractions and can put them to mending. They say the
lady is fair--'tis a truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous
--'tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving me--by
my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of
her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance
have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me because I
have railed so long against marriage. But doth not the appetite
alters? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure
in his age. Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of
the brain awe a man from the career of his humour? No, the world
must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not
think I should live till I were married.

Enter Beatrice.

Here comes Beatrice. By this day, she's a fair lady! I do spy
some marks of love in her.
Beat. Against my will I am sent to bid You come in to dinner.
Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.
Beat. I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to
thank me. If it had been painful, I would not have come.
Bene. You take pleasure then in the message?
Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knives point, and
choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior. Fare you well.
Exit.
Bene. 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.




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ACT III. Scene I.
Leonato's orchard.

Enter Hero and two Gentlewomen, 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 Ursley
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 honeysuckles, ripened 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.
Marg. 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. ]

Now begin;
For look where Beatrice like a lapwing runs
Close by the ground, to hear our conference.

[Beatrice hides in the arbour].

Urs. 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 approach the arbour. ]
No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful.
I know her spirits are as coy and wild
As haggards of the rock.
Urs. But are you sure
That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?
Hero. So says the Prince, and my new-trothed lord.
Urs. 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.
Urs. 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,
Misprizing 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-endeared.
Urs. Sure I think so;
And therefore certainly it were not good
She knew his love, lest she'll 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 antic,
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.
Urs. 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.
Urs. 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.
Urs. 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.
Urs.