To burn the errors that thefe Princes hold Leon. Friar, it cannot be ; Thou feeft, that all the grace that she hath left, Why feeks thou then to cover with excuse 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, Than that which maiden modefty doth warrant, Friar. There is fome ftrange mifprifion in the Princes, Bene. Two of them have the very bent of honour, And if their wifdoms be mifled in this, The Practice of it lives in John the bastard, Whofe fpirits toil in frame of villanies. Leon. I know not: if they fpeak but truth of her, Nor fortune made fuch havock of my means, Friar. Paufe a while, And let my counsel sway you in this case. Your daughter here the Princes left for dead; (17) And publish it, that fhe is dead, indeed: Maintain a mourning oftentation, Leon. What fhall become of this? what will this do? That what we have we prize not to the worth, (18) (17) Your Daughter here the Princefs (left for dead) But how comes Here to ftart up a Princefs here? We have no intimation of her father being a Prince; and this is the first and only time that the is complimen'el with this dignity. The remotion of a fingle Jetter, and of the Perenthefis, will bring her to her own rank, and the place to its true meaning. i. e. Din Your Daughter bere the Princes left for dead; Pedro, Prince of Arragon; and his Baftard Brother who is like wife call'd a Prince. So in the other Paffages of this Play; To bun t'e erior that thefe Princes bold Against ber Maiden Honour. And again, There is fome frange Misprifion in these Princes. I thank you, Princes, for my Daughter's Death. ] Whether this be an imitawon't contend; but if not, it feems to me a very Whilf it was ours: tion, or no, fine paraphrafe on this paffage of Horace; Lib. III. Ode 24. Virtutem incolumem odimus, Sublatam ex oculis quærimus invidi. Whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and loft, And every lovely organ of her life Shall come apparel'd in more precious habit; Into the eye and profpect of his foul, Than when the liv'd indeed. Then fhall he mourn, If ever love had intereft in his liver, And wish, he had not fo accufed her; No, though he thought his accufation true: Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries. Should with your body. Leon. Being that I flow in grief, The fmalleft twine may lead me. 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 en dure. [Exeunt. Manent Manent Benedick and Beatrice. 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. 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 lov'd nothing fo well as you; but believe me not; and yet I lye not; I confefs nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am forry for my cousin. Bene. By my fword, Beatrice, thou lov'it 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 stay'd me in a happy hour; I was about to protest, I lov'd you. Bene. And do it with all thy heart. Beat. I love you with fo much of my heart, that none is left to protest. Bene. Come, bid me do any thing for thee. Beat. Kill Claudio. Bene. Ha! not for the wide world. Beat. You kill me to deny; farewel. Bene. Tarry, fweet Beatrice. Beat. I am gone, tho' I am here; there is no love in you; nay, I pray you, let me go. 4 Bene. Bene. Beatrice, Beat. In faith, I will go. Bene. We'll be friends firft. Beat. You dare eafier be friends with me, than fight with mine enemy. Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy? Beat. Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath flander'd, fcorn'd, difhonour'd my kinfwoman! O that I were a man! what bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then with publick accufation, uncover'd flander, unmitigated rancour―O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place. Bene. Hear me, Beatrice. Beat. Talk with a man out at a window? proper faying! Bene. Nay, but Beatrice. Beat. Sweet Hero! fhe is wrong'd, fhe is flander'd, fhe is undone. Bene. Beat Beat. Princes and Counts! furely, a princely teftimony, a goodly count-comfect, a sweet gallant, furely! O that I were a man for his fake! Or that I had any friend would be a man for my fake! but manhood is melted into curtefies, valour into compliment, and men are only turn'd into tongue, and trim ones too; he is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie, and fwears it; I cannot be a man with wifhing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving. Bene. Tarry, good Beatrice; by this hand I love thee. Beat. Ule it for my love fome other way than fwearing by it. Bene. Think you in your foul, the Count Claudio hath wrong'd Hero? Beat. Yea, as fure as I have a thought or a foul., Bene. Enough, I am engag'd, I will challenge him, I will kifs your hand, and fo leave you; by this hand, Claudio fhall render me a dear account; as you hear of me, fo think of me; go comfort your coufin; I must fay, the is dead, and fo farewel. [Exeunt. SCENE |