She knows the heat of a luxurious bed: Not to be married, Not knit my soul to an approved wanton. Leon. Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth, And made defeat of her virginity, Claud. I know what you would say; if I have known her, You'll say, she did embrace me as a husband, No, Leonato, I never tempted her with word too larget; Bashful sincerity, and comely love. Hero. And seem'd I ever otherwise to you? Claud. Out on thy 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 +? Leon. Sweet prince, why speak not you? What should I speak! I stand dishonour'd, that have gone about Leon. Are these things spoken? or do I but dream? are true. Bene. This looks not like a nuptial. Hero. Claud. Leonato, stand I here? True, O God! Is this the prince? Is this the prince's brother? *Lascivious. ↑ Licentious. Remote from the business in hand. Leon. All this is so; but what of this, my lord? Claud. 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. Leon. 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? Claud. To make you answer truly to your name. Hero. Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name With any just reproach? Claud. Marry, that can Hero; Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue. What man was he talk'd with you yesternight Hero. I talk'd with no man at that hour, my lord. nato, I am sorry you must hear; upon mine honour, D. John. Claud. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been, If half thy outward graces had been placed Too free of tongue. To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm, Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me? [Hero swoons. Beat. Why, how now, cousin? wherefore sink you down? D. John. Come, let us go: these things, come thus to light, Smother her spirits up. [Exeunt Don Pedro, Don John, and Claudio. 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 fairest cover for her shame, That may be wish'd for. Beat. Friar. Have comfort, lady. Leon. How now, cousin Hero? Dost thou look up? Friar. Yea; wherefore should she not? Leon. Wherefore? Why, doth not every earthly thing Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames, * Attractive. + Sullied. + Disposition of things. This shame derives itself from unknown loins? Hath drops too few to wash her clean again; Bene. Sir, sir, be patient: For my part, I am so attir'd in wonder, I know not what to say. Beat. O, on my soul, my cousin is belied! Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night? Beat. No, truly, not: although, until last night, I have this twelvemonth been her bed-fellow. Leon. Confirm'd, confirm'd! O, that is stronger made, Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron! For I have only been silent so long, Leon. Friar, it cannot be : Thou seest, that all the grace that she hath left, Is, that she will not add to her damnation Why seek'st thou then to cover with excuse Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accused 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, Friar. There is some strange misprision in the princes. Bene. 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. Leon. 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 havock of my means, Friar. Pause a while, And let my counsel sway you in this case. And publish it, that she is dead indeed: * Misconception. |