by William Shakespeare

A hall in Leonato's house.

Scene I.

[Enter Leonato, [Antonio] his Brother, Hero his Daughter, and
Beatrice his Niece, and a Kinsman; [also Margaret and Ursula.]

Was not Count John here at supper?

I saw him not.

How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am
heart-burn'd an hour after.

He is of a very melancholy disposition.

He were an excellent man that were made just in the midway
between him and Benedick. The one is too like an image and says
nothing, and the other too like my lady's eldest son,
evermore tattling.

Then half Signior Benedick's tongue in Count John's mouth, and
half Count John's melancholy in Signior Benedick's face--

With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in his
purse, such a man would win any woman in the world--if 'a could
get her good will.

By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband if thou be
so shrewd of thy tongue.

In faith, she's too curst.

Too curst is more than curst. I shall lessen God's sending that
way, for it is said, 'God sends a curst cow short horns,' but to
a cow too curst he sends none.

So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns.

Just, if he send me no husband; for the which blessing I am at
him upon my knees every morning and evening. Lord, I could not
endure a husband with a beard on his face. I had rather lie in
the woollen!

You may light on a husband that hath no beard.

What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel and make him
my waiting gentlewoman? He that hath a beard is more than a
youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man; and he that
is more than a youth is not for me; and he that is less than a
man, I am not for him. Therefore I will even take sixpence in
earnest of the berrord and lead his apes into hell.

Well then, go you into hell?

No; but to the gate, and there will the devil meet me like an old
cuckold with horns on his head, and say 'Get you to heaven,
Beatrice, get you to heaven. Here's no place for you maids.' So
deliver I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter--for the heavens.
He shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry
as the day is long.

[to Hero] Well, niece, I trust you will be rul'd by your father.

Yes faith. It is my cousin's duty to make cursy and say, 'Father,
as it please you.' But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a
handsome fellow, or else make another cursy, and say,
'Father, as it please me.'

Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.

Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it
not grieve a woman to be overmaster'd with a piece of valiant
dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl?
No, uncle, I'll none. Adam's sons are my brethren, and truly I
hold it a sin to match in my kinred.

Daughter, remember what I told you. If the Prince do solicit you
in that kind, you know your answer.

The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in
good time. If the Prince be too important, tell him there is
measure in everything, and so dance out the answer. For, hear me,
Hero: wooing, wedding, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a
measure, and a cinque-pace: the first suit is hot and hasty like
a Scotch jig--and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly
modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes
Repentance and with his bad legs falls into the cinque-pace
faster and faster, till he sink into his grave.

Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.

I have a good eye, uncle; I can see a church by daylight.

The revellers are ent'ring, brother. Make good room.

[Exit Antonio.]

[Enter, [masked,] Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and Balthasar.
With them enter Antonio, also masked. After them enter
Don John [and Borachio (without masks), who stand aside
and look on during the dance.]

Lady, will you walk a bout with your friend?

So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing, I am yours
for the walk; and especially when I walk away.

With me in your company?

I may say so when I please.

And when please you to say so?

When I like your favour, for God defend the lute should be like
the case!

My visor is Philemon's roof; within the house is Jove.

Why then, your visor should be thatch'd.

Speak low if you speak love. [Takes her aside.]

Well, I would you did like me.

So would not I for your own sake, for I have many ill qualities.

Which is one?

I say my prayers aloud.

I love you the better. The hearers may cry Amen.

God match me with a good dancer!


And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is done!
Answer, clerk.

No more words. The clerk is answered.

[Takes her aside.]

I know you well enough. You are Signior Antonio.

At a word, I am not.

I know you by the waggling of your head.

To tell you true, I counterfeit him.

You could never do him so ill-well unless you were the very man.
Here's his dry hand up and down. You are he, you are he!

At a word, I am not.

Come, come, do you think I do not know you by your excellent wit?
Can virtue hide itself? Go to, mum you are he. Graces will
appear, and there's an end. [ They step aside.]

Will you not tell me who told you so?

No, you shall pardon me.

Nor will you not tell me who you are?

Not now.

That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit out of the
'Hundred Merry Tales.' Well, this was Signior Benedick that said

What's he?

I am sure you know him well enough.

Not I, believe me.

Did he never make you laugh?

I pray you, what is he?

Why, he is the Prince's jester, a very dull fool. Only his gift
is in devising impossible slanders. None but libertines delight
in him; and the commendation is not in his wit, but
in his villany; for he both pleases men and angers them, and then
they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in the fleet. I
would he had boarded me.

When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him what you say.

Do, do. He'll but break a comparison or two on me; which
peradventure, not marked or not laugh'd at, strikes him into
melancholy; and then there's a partridge wing saved, for the
fool will eat no supper that night.
We must follow the leaders.

In every good thing.

Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next

[Dance. Exeunt (all but Don John, Borachio, and Claudio].

Sure my brother is amorous on Hero and hath withdrawn her father
to break with him about it. The ladies follow her and but one
visor remains.

And that is Claudio. I know him by his bearing.

Are you not Signior Benedick?

You know me well. I am he.

Signior, you are very near my brother in his love. He is
enamour'd on Hero. I pray you dissuade him from her; she is no
equal for his birth. You may do the part of an honest man in it.

How know you he loves her?

I heard him swear his affection.

So did I too, and he swore he would marry her tonight.

Come, let us to the banquet.

[Exeunt. Manet Claudio.]

Thus answer I in name of Benedick
But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.
'Tis certain so. The Prince wooes for himself.
Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love.
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.
This is an accident of hourly proof,
Which I mistrusted not. Farewell therefore Hero!
[Enter Benedick [unmasked]].

Count Claudio?

Yea, the same.

Come, will you go with me?


Even to the next willow, about your own business, County. What
fashion will you wear the garland of? about your neck, like an
usurer's chain? or under your arm, like a lieutenant's scarf?
You must wear it one way, for the Prince hath got your Hero.

I wish him joy of her.

Why, that's spoken like an honest drovier. So they sell bullocks.
But did you think the Prince would have served you thus?

I pray you leave me.

Ho! now you strike like the blind man! 'Twas the boy that stole
your meat, and you'll beat the post.

If it will not be, I'll leave you.

Alas, poor hurt fowl! now will he creep into sedges. But, that my
Lady Beatrice should know me, and not know me! The Prince's fool!
Ha! it may be I go under that title because I am merry. Yea, but
so I am apt to do myself wrong. I am not so reputed. It is the
base (though bitter) disposition of Beatrice that puts the world
into her person and so gives me out. Well, I'll be revenged as I

[Enter Don Pedro.]

Now, signior, where's the Count? Did you see him?

Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame, I found him
here as melancholy as a lodge in a warren. I told him, and I
think I told him true, that your Grace had got the good will of
this young lady, and I off'red him my company to a willow tree,
either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or to bind him
up a rod, as being worthy to be whipt.

To be whipt? What's his fault?

The flat transgression of a schoolboy who, being overjoyed with
finding a bird's nest, shows it his companion, and he steals it.

Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The transgression is in
the stealer.

Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made, and the garland
too; for the garland he might have worn himself, and the rod he
might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stol'n his
bird's nest.

I will but teach them to sing and restore them to the owner.

If their singing answer your saying, by my faith you say

The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you. The gentleman that
danc'd with her told her she is much wrong'd by you.

O, she misus'd me past the endurance of a block! An oak but with
one green leaf on it would have answered her; my very visor began
to assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I
had been myself, that I was the Prince's jester, that I was
duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest with such
impossible conveyance upon me that I stood like a man at a mark,
with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every

word stabs. If her breath were as terrible as her terminations,
there were no living near her; she would infect to the North
Star. I would not marry her though she were endowed with all that
Adam had left him before he transgress'd. She would have made
Hercules have turn'd spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make
the fire too. Come, talk not of her. You shall find her the
infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God some scholar would
conjure her, for certainly, while she is here, a man may live as
quiet in hell as in a sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose,
because they would go thither; so indeed all disquiet, horror,
and perturbation follows her.

[Enter Claudio and Beatrice, Leonato, Hero.]

Look, here she comes.

Will your Grace command me any service to the world's end? I will
go on the slightest errand now to the Antipodes that you can
devise to send me on; I will fetch you a toothpicker now from the
furthest inch of Asia; bring you the length of Prester John's
foot; fetch you a hair off the great Cham's beard; do you any
embassage to the Pygmies--rather than hold three words'
conference with this harpy. You have no employment for me?

None, but to desire your good company.

O God, sir, here's a dish I love not! I cannot endure my Lady

Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick.

Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile, and I gave him use for
it--a double heart for his single one. Marry, once before he won
it of me with false dice; therefore your Grace may well say I
have lost it.

You have put him down, lady; you have put him down.

So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the
mother of fools. I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me
to seek.

Why, how now, Count? Wherefore are you sad?

Not sad, my lord.

How then? sick?

Neither, my lord.

The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but
civil count--civil as an orange, and something of that jealous

I' faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true; though I'll be
sworn, if he be so, his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have
wooed in thy name, and fair Hero is won. I have broke with her
father, and his good will obtained. Name the day of marriage, and
God give thee joy!

Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes. His
Grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen to it!

Speak, Count, 'tis your cue.

Silence is the perfectest herald of joy. I were but little happy
if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours. I
give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange.

Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss and
let not him speak neither.

In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.

Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side
of care. My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart.

And so she doth, cousin.

Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I,
and I am sunburnt. I may sit in a corner and cry 'Heigh-ho for a

Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.

I would rather have one of your father's getting. Hath your Grace
ne'er a brother like you? Your father got excellent husbands, if
a maid could come by them.

Will you have me, lady?

No, my lord, unless I might have another for working days: your
Grace is too costly to wear every day. But I beseech your Grace
pardon me. I was born to speak all mirth and no matter.

Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you,
for out o' question you were born in a merry hour.

No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star
danc'd, and under that was I born. Cousins, God give you joy!

Niece, will you look to those things I told you of?

I cry you mercy, uncle, By your Grace's pardon.

By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.

There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord. She is
never sad but when she sleeps, and not ever sad then; for I have
heard my daughter say she hath often dreamt of
unhappiness and wak'd herself with laughing.

She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.

O, by no means! She mocks all her wooers out of suit.

She were an excellent wife for Benedick.

O Lord, my lord! if they were but a week married, they would talk
themselves mad.

County Claudio, when mean you to go to church?

To-morrow, my lord. Time goes on crutches till love have all his

Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just sevennight;
and a time too brief too, to have all things answer my mind.

Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing; but I warrant
thee, Claudio, the time shall not go dully by us. I will in the
interim undertake one of Hercules' labours,
which is, to bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a
mountain of affection th' one with th' other. I would fain have
it a match, and I doubt not but to fashion it if you three will
but minister such assistance as I shall give you direction.

My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten nights' watchings.

And I, my lord.

And you too, gentle Hero?

I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good

And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband that I know. Thus
far can I praise him: he is of a noble strain, of approved
valour, and confirm'd honesty. I will teach you how to humour
your cousin, that she shall fall in love with Benedick; and I,
[to Leonato and Claudio] with your two helps, will so practise on
Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy
stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this,
Cupid is no longer an archer; his glory shall be ours, for we are
the only love-gods. Go in with me, and I will tell you my drift.


Scene II.

A hall in Leonato's house.

[Enter [Don] John and Borachio.]

It is so. The Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of Leonato.

Yea, my lord; but I can cross it.

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

Not honestly, my lord, but so covertly that no dishonesty shall
appear in me.

Show me briefly how.

I think I told your lordship, a year since, how much I am in the
favour of Margaret, the waiting gentlewoman to Hero.

I remember.

I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night, appoint her to
look out at her lady's chamber window.

What life is in that to be the death of this marriage?

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.

What proof shall I make of that?

Proof enough to misuse the Prince, to vex Claudio, to undo Hero,
and kill Leonato. Look you for any other issue?

Only to despite them I will endeavour anything.

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.

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.

Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning shall not shame

I will presently go learn their day of marriage.


Scene III.

Leonato's orchard.

[Enter Benedick alone.]


[Enter Boy.]


In my chamber window lies a book. Bring it hither to me in he

I am here already, sir.

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.]

Come, shall we hear this music?

Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is,
As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony!

See you where Benedick hath hid himself?

O, very well, my lord. The music ended,
We'll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth.

[Enter Balthasar with Music.]

Come, Balthasar, we'll hear that song again.

O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice
To slander music any more than once.

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.

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.

Nay, pray thee come;
Or if thou wilt hold longer argument,
Do it in notes.

Note this before my notes:
There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.

Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks!
Note notes, forsooth, and nothing! [Music.]

[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.
By my troth, a good song.

And an ill singer, my lord.

Ha, no, no, faith! Thou sing'st well enough for a shift.

[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.

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.

The best I can, my lord.

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?

O, ay!-[Aside to Pedro] Stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits. --I
did never think that lady would have loved any man.

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.

[aside] Is't possible? Sits the wind in that corner?

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.

May be she doth but counterfeit.

Faith, like enough.

O God, counterfeit? There was never counterfeit of passion came
so near the life of passion as she discovers it.

Why, what effects of passion shows she?

[aside] Bait the hook well! This fish will bite.

What effects, my lord? She will sit you--you heard my daughter
tell you how.

She did indeed.

How, how, I pray you? You amaze me. I would have thought her
spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection.

I would have sworn it had, my lord--especially against Benedick.

[aside] I should think this a gull but that the white-bearded
fellow speaks it. Knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such

[aside] He hath ta'en th' infection. Hold it up.

Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?

No, and swears she never will. That's her torment.

'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?'"

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

Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your
daughter told us of.

O, when she had writ it, and was reading it over, she found
'Benedick' and 'Beatrice' between the sheet?


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.'

Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart,
tears her hair, prays, curses--'O sweet Benedick! God give me

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.

It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will
not discover it.

To what end? He would make but a sport of it and torment the poor
lady worse.

An he should, it were an alms to hang him! She's an excellent
sweet lady, and (out of all suspicion) she is virtuous.

And she is exceeding wise.

In everything but in loving Benedick.

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

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.

Were it good, think you?

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.

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.

He is a very proper man.

He hath indeed a good outward happiness.

Before God! and in my mind, very wise.

He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit.

And I take him to be valiant.

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.

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

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?

Never tell him, my lord. Let her wear it out with good counsel.

Nay, that's impossible; she may wear her heart out first.

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

My lord, will you walk? Dinner is ready.

[They walk away.]

If he dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation.

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.]

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.

Against my will I am sent to bid You come in to dinner.

Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.

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.

You take pleasure then in the message?

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.

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.




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