SCENE V.

Enter Borachio and Conrade.

Bora.

WHA

7HAT? Conrade

Watch. Peace, ftir not.

Bora. Conrade, I fay.

Conr. Here, Man, I am at thy elbow.

[Afide.

Bora. Mafs, and my elbow itch'd, I thought there would a fcab follow.

Conr. I will owe thee an answer for that, and now forward with thy tale.

Bora. Stand thee close then under this pent-house, for it drizzles rain, and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee.

Watch. Some Treason, mafters; yet ftand close.

Bora. Therefore know, I have earned of Don John a thousand ducats.

Conr. Is it poffible that any Villany should be fo dear?

Bora. Thou fhould'ft rather afk, if it were poffible any villain should be fo rich? for when rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will.

Conr. I wonder at it.

Bora. That fhews, thou art unconfirm'd; thou knoweft, that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak is nothing to a man.

Conr. Yes, it is apparel.

Bora. I mean the fashion.

Conr. Yes, the fashion is the fashion.

Bora. Tufh, I may as well fay, the fool's the Fool; but feeft thou not, what a deformed thief this fashion is?

Watch. I know that Deformed; he has been a vile thief these seven years; he goes up and down like a gentleman: I remember his name.

Bora. Didft thou not hear some body?

Conr.

Conr. No, 'twas the vane on the house.

Bora. Seeft thou not, I fay, what a deformed thief this fashion is? how giddily he turns about all the hot-bloods between fourteen and five and thirty, fometimes, fashioning them like Pharao's foldiers in the reachy Painting; fometimes, like the God Bel's priefts in the old church-window; fometimes, like the fhaven Hercules in the fmirch worm-eaten tapeftry, where his codpiece feems as maffy as his club.

Conr. All this I fee, and fee, that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man; but art not thou thyfelf giddy with the fashion too, that thou haft shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion?

Bora. Not fo neither; but know, that I have to night wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero's Gentlewoman, by the name of Hero; fhe leans me out at her mistress's chamber-window, bids me a thousand times good night-I tell this tale vilely-I should firft tell thee, how the Prince, Claudio, and my master, planted and placed, and poffeffed by my mafter Don John, faw a far off in the orchard this amiable encounter.

Conr. And thought they, Margaret was Hero?

Bora. Two of them did, the Prince and Claudio; but the devil my mafter knew, fhe was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, which firft poffeft them, partly by the dark night, which did deceive them, but chiefly by my villany, which did confirm any flander that Don John had made, away went Claudio enraged; fwore, he would meet her as he was ap-. pointed next morning at the Temple, and there before the whole Congregation fhame her with what he faw o'er night, and send her home again without a husband.

I Watch. We charge you in the Prince's name, ftand.

2 Watch. Call up the right mafter conftable; we have here recovered the most dangerous piece of lechery that ever was known in the common-wealth.

I Watch.

1-Watch. And one Deformed is one of them; I know him, he wears a lock.

Conr. Mafters, mafters,

2 Watch. You'll be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you.

Conr. Mafters,

1 Watch. Never speak; we charge you, let us obey you to go with us.

Bora. We are like to prove a goodly Commodity, being taken up of these men's bills.

Conr. A commodity in queftion, I warrant you: come, we'll obey you.

[Exeunt.

Hero's Apartment in Leonato's Houfe.

Enter Hero, Margaret and Urfula.

Hero. G defire her to rife.

OOD Urfula, wake my coufin Beatrice, and

ter.

Urfu. I will, lady.

Hero. And bid her come hither.

Urfu. Well.

Marg. Troth, I think, your other Rebato were bet

Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this.

Marg. By my troth, it's not fo good; and I warrant, your coufin will fay fo.

Hero. My coufin's a fool, and thou art another. I'll wear none but this.

Marg. I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair were a thought browner; and your gown's a most rare fashion, i'faith. I saw the Dutchefs of Milan's gown, that they praise fo.

Hero. O, that exceeds, they say.

Marg. By my troth, it's but a night-gown in refpect of yours; cloth of gold and cuts, and lac'd

with filver, set with pearls down-fleeves, fide-fleèves and skirts, round underborne with a blueish tinfel; but for a fine, quaint, graceful and excellent fashion, your's is worth ten on't.

Hero. God give me joy to wear it, for my heart is exceeding heavy!

Marg. 'Twill be heavier foon by the weight of a

man.

Hero. Fie upon thee, art not asham'd?

Marg. Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? is not marriage honourable in a beggar? is not your Lord honourable without marriage? I think, you would have me fay (faving your reverence) a huf band. If bad thinking do not wreft true speaking, I'll offend no body; is there any harm in the heavier for a Husband? none, I think, if it be the right Husband, and the right wife, otherwise 'tis light and not heavy; ask my lady Beatrice elfe, here fhe comes.

Hero.

G

SCENE VII.

Enter Beatrice.

OOD morrow, coz.

Beat. Good morrow, fweet Hero. Hero. Why, how now? do you speak in the fick

tune?

Beat. I am out of all other tune, methinks.

Marg. Clap us into Light o' love; that goes without a burden; do you fing it, and I'll dance it.

Beat. Yes, Light o' love with your heels; then if your husband have ftables enough, you'll look he ihall lack no barns.

Marg. O illegitimate conftruction! I fcorn that with my heels. Beat. 'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; 'tis time you were ready by my troth, I am exceeding ill; hey

ho!

Marg.

Marg. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband? Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H. Marg. Well, if you be not turn'd Turk, there's no more failing by the ftar.

Beat. What means the fool, trow?

Marg. Nothing I, but God fend every one their heart's defire!

Hero. These gloves the count fent me, they are an excellent perfume.

Beat. I am ftufft, cousin, I cannot smell.

Marg. A maid, and stufft! there's goodly catching of cold.

Beat. O, God help me, God help me, how long have you profest apprehension?

Marg. Ever fince you left it; doth not my wit become me rarely?

Beat. It is not feen enough, you should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am fick.

Marg. Get you fome of this diftill'd Carduus Benedictus, and lay it to your heart; it is the only thing for a qualm.

Hero. There thou prick'ft her with a thistle.

Beat. Benedidus? why Benedictus? you have fome moral in this Benedictus.

Marg. Moral? no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning, I meant plain holy-thiftle: you may think, perchance, that I think you are in love; nay, birlady, I am not fuch a fool to think what I lift; nor I lift not to think what I can; nor, indeed, I cannot think, if I would think my heart out with thinking, that you are in love, or that you will be in love, or that you can be in love: yet Benedick was such another, and now he is become a man; he swore, he would never marry; and yet now, in despight of his heart, he eats his meat without grudging; and how you may be converted, I know not; but, methinks, you look with your eyes as other women do.

Beat. What pace is this that thy tongue keeps ?

Marg.