Who hath, indeed, * like an illiberal villain,
Confefs'd the vile encounters they have had
A thousand times in fecret.

John. Fie, fie, they are not to be nam'd, my Lord, Not to be spoke of;

There is not chastity enough in language,

Without offence, to utter them: thus, pretty lady,
I am forry for thy much mifgovernment.

Claud. O Hero! what a Hero hadft thou been,
If half thy outward graces had been plac'd
About the thoughts and counsels of thy heart?
But fare thee well, moft foul, most fair! farewel
Thou pure impiety, and impious purity!
For thee I'll lock up all the gates
of love,
And on my eyelids fhall Conjecture hang,
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm;
And never shall it more be gracious.

Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me? Beat. Why, how now, coufin, wherefore fink you down?

John. Come, let us go; these things, come thus to light,

Smother her fpirits up.

[Exeunt D. Pedro, D. John and Claud.

SCENE

Bine. HOW doth the lady?

II.

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 wifh'd for.

Beat. How now, coufin Hero?

Friar. Have comfort, Lady.

Leon. Doft thou look up?

moft like a liberal villain,] We fhould read, like an illiberal vil

lain.

Leon.

Leon. Wherefore? why, doth not every earthly

thing

Cry flame upon her? could fhe here deny

The ftory that is printed in her blood?
Do not live, Hero, do not ope thine eyes:
For did I think, thou wouldst not quickly die,
Thought I, thy fpirits were stronger than thy fhames,
Myfelf would on the rereward of reproaches
Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but one?
Chid I for That at frugal nature's 'fraine?
I've one too much by thee. Why had I one?
Why ever waft thou lovely in my eyes?
Why had I not, with charitable hand,
Took up a beggar's iffue at my gates?
Who fmeered thus, and mir'd with infamy,
I might have said, no part of it is mine;
This fhame derives itself from unknown loins:
But mine, as mine I lov'd, as mine I prais'd,
As mine that I was proud on, mine fo much,
That I myself was to myself not mine,
Valuing of her; why, the,-O, fhe is fall'n
Into a pit of ink, that the wide fea

Hath drops too few to wash her clean again;
And falt too little, which may season give
To her foul tainted flefh !

Bene. Sir, Sir, be patient;

For my part, I am fo attir'd in wonder,
I know not what to say.

Beat. O, on my foul, my coufin is bely'd.

Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow laft night?
Beat. No, truly, not; altho' until laft night
I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.

Leon. Confirm'd, confirm'd! O, That is stronger made,

Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron. Would the two Princes lie? and Claudio lie? Who lov'd her fo, that, fpeaking of her foulnefs, Wafh'd it with tears? hence from her, let her die.

Friar. Hear me a little,

For I have only been filent so long,

And given way unto this course of fortune,
By noting of the lady. I have mark'd
A thousand blufhing apparitions

To start into her face; a thousand innocent fhames
In angel whiteness bear away those blushes;
And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire,
To burn the errors that these Princes hold
Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool,
Truft not my reading, nor my obfervations,
Which with experimental feal do warrant
The tenour of my book; truft not my age,
My reverence, calling, nor divinity,

If this fweet lady lie not guiltless here
Under fome biting error.

Leon. Friar, it cannot be;

Thou feeft, that all the grace, that she hath left,
Is, that he will not add to her damnation
A fin of perjury; fhe not denies it:

Why feek'ft thou then to cover with excufe
That, which appears in proper nakedness?

Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accus'd 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,
Let all my fins lack mercy! O my father,
Prove you that any man with me convers'd
At hours unmeet, or that I yefternight

Maintain'd the change of words with any creature,
Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death.

Friar. There is fome ftrange misprision in the

Princes.

Bene. Two of them have the very bent of honour, And if their wisdom be mif-led in this,

The Practice of it lives in John the baftard,
Whofe fpirits toil in frame of villanies.

Leon.

Leon. I know not: if they speak but truth of her, These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour, The proudeft of them fhall well hear of it.

Time hath not yet fo dry'd this blood of mine,
Nor age to eat up my invention,

Nor fortune made fuch havock of my means,
Nor my bad life reft me fo much of friends,
But they fhall find awak'd, in such a kind,
Both ftrength of limb, and policy of mind,
Ability in means, and choice of friends,
To quit me of them throughly.
Friar. Paufe a while,

And let my counfel fway you in this cafe.
Your daughter here the Princes' left for dead;
Let her awhile be fecretly kept in,

And publish it, that she is dead, indeed:
Maintain a mourning oftentation,
And on your family's old Monument
Hang mournful Epitaphs, and do all rites
That appertain unto a burial.

[do?

Leon. What fhall become of this? what will this
Friar. Marry, this. well carry'd, fhall on her behalf
Change flander to remorse; that is fome good:
But not for that dream I on this ftrange course,
But on this travel look for greater birth:
She dying, as it must be fo maintain'd,
Upon the inftant that fhe was accus'd
Shall be lamented, pity'd, and excus'd,
Of every hearer for it fo falls out,
That what we have we prize not to the worth,
Whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and loft,
Why, then we rack the value; then we find
The virtue that poffeffion would not fhew us
Whilft it was ours; fo will it fare with Claudio:
When he shall hear the dy'd upon his words,
Th' idea of her Life fhall fweetly creep

Into his study of imagination,
And every lovely organ of her life

H 4

Shall

Shall come apparel'd in more precious habit ;
More moving, delicate, and full of life,
Into the eye and prospect of his foul,

Than when the liv'd indeed. Then shall he mourn,
If ever love had interest in his liver,
And wish, he had not fo accufed her;
No, though he thought his accufation true:
Let this be fo, and doubt not, but fuccefs
Will fashion the event in better shape
Than I can lay it down in likelihood.
But if all Aim but this be levell'd falfe,
The fuppofition of the lady's death
Will quench the wonder of her infamy.
And, if it fort not well, you may conceal her,
As beft befits her wounded reputation,
In fome reclufive and religious life,

Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.
Bene. Signior Leonato, let the Friar advise you :
And though, you know, my inwardness and love
very much unto the Prince and Claudio,

Is

Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this

As fecretly and juftly as your foul

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 strain the cure. Come, lady, die to live; this wedding day, Perhaps, is but prolong'd: have patience and endure.

[Exeunt.

Bene.

L

Manent Benedick and Beatrice.

ADY 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.