and a lock hanging by it; and borrows money in God's name, the which he hath us'd fo long, and never paid, that now men grow hard-hearted, and will lend nothing for God's fake. Pray you, examine him upon that point.

Leon. I thank thee for thy care and honeft pains. Dogb. Your Worship speaks like a moft thankful and reverend youth; and I praise God for you. Leon. There's for thy pains.

Dogb. God fave the foundation!

Leon. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner; and I thank thee.

Dogb. I leave an errant knave with your Worship, which, I befeech your Worship, to correct yourself, for the example of others. God keep your Worship; I wish your Worship well: God reflore you to health; I humbly give you leave to depart; and if a merry meeting may be wish'd, God prohibit it. Come, neighbour. [Exeunt. Leon. Until to-morrow morning, Lords, farewel. Ant. Farewel, my Lords; we look for you to-mor

row.

Pedro. We will not fail.

Claud. To night I'll mourn with Hero.

Leon. Bring you thefe fellows on, we'll talk with Margaret,

How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.

SCENE

[Exeunt feverally.

VI.

Changes to Leonato's House.

Enter Benedick, and Margaret.

Bene. PRAY

RAY thee, fweet Miftrefs Margaret, deserve well at my hands, by helping me to the

fpeech of Beatrice.

cal Fafkions of that Time, the Men's wearing Rings in their Ears, and indulging a favourite Lock of Hair which was brought before, and tied with Ribbons, and called a Love-lock.

Marg.

Marg. Will you then write me a fonnet in praise of my beauty?

Bene. In fo high a ftyle, Margaret, that no man living fhall come over it; for, in most comely truth, thou deferveft it.

Marg. To have no Man come over me? why fhall I always keep above stairs?

Bene. Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's mouth, it catches.

Marg. And yours as blunt as the fencer's foils, which hit, but hurt not.

Bene. A moft manly wit, Margaret, it will not hurt a woman; and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice; I give thee the bucklers.

Marg. Give us the fwords; we have bucklers of

our own.

in

Bene. If you use them, Margaret, you muft put the pikes with a vice, and they are dangerous weapons for maids.

Marg. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who, I think, hath legs. [Exit Margaret. Bene. And therefore will come. [Sings.] The God of love, that fits above, and knows me, and knows me, how pitiful I deferve,-I mean, in finging; but in loving, Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the firft employer of pandars, and a whole book full of thefe quondam carpet-mongers, whofe names yet run fmoothly in the even road of a blank verfe; why, they were never fo truly turn'd over and over, as my poor felf, in love; marry, I cannot fhew it in rhime; I have try'd; I can find out no rhime to lady but baby, an innocent's rhime; for scoin, horn, a hard rhime; for school, fool, a babbling rhime; very ominous endings; no, I was not born under a rhiming planet, for I cannot woo in festival terms.

VOL. II.

I

SCENE

Sweet Beatrice, would'ft thou come when I call thee? Beat. Yea, Signior, and depart when you bid me. Bene. O, ftay but 'till then.

Beat. Then, is fpoken; fare you well now; and yet ere I go, let me go with that I came for, which is, with knowing what hath past between you and Claudio. Bene. Only foul words, and thereupon I will kifs thee.

Beat. Foul words are but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noifome; therefore I will depart unkift.

Bene. Thou haft frighted the word out of its right fense, fo forcible is thy wit; but, I muft tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge; and either I must fhortly hear from him, or I will subscribe him a coward; and I pray thee, now tell me, for which of my bad parts didft thou firft fall in love with me?

Beat. For them all together; which maintain'd fo politic a ftate of evil, that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them, but for which of my good parts did you firft fuffer love for me?

Bene. Suffer love! a good epithet: I do fuffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.

Beat. In fpight of your heart, I think; alas! poor heart, if you fpight it for my fake, I will fpight it for yours; for I will never love that, which my friend hates.

Bene. Thou and I are too wife to woo peaceably. Beat. It appears not in this confeffion; there's not one wife man among twenty that will praise himfelf.

Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that liv'd in the time of good neighbours; if a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall

live no longer in monuments, than the bells ring, and the widow weeps.

Beat. And how long is that, think you?

Bene. Queftion?-why, an hour in clamour, and a quarter in rheum; therefore it is most expedient for the wife, if Don worm (his confcience) find no impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself; so much for praifing myself; who, I myself will bear witness, is praise-worthy; and now tell me, how doth your Coufin?

Beat. Very ill.

Bene. And how do you?
Beat. Very ill too.

Bene. Serve God, love me, and mend; there will I leave you too, for here comes one in hafte.

Enter Urfula.

Urfu. Madam, you must come to your uncle; yonder's old coil at home; it is proved, my lady Hero hath been falfely accus'd; the Prince and Claudio mightily abus'd; and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone: will you come presently?

Beat. Will you go hear this news, Signior?

Bene. I will live in thy eyes, die in thy lap, and be bury'd in thy heart; and moreover I will go with thee to thy uncle. Exeunt.

Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and Attendants with tapers

Claud.

I

S this the monument of Leonato?

Attend. It is, my lord.

I 2

E PITAPH.

E P

ITAP H.

Done to death by flanderous tongues
Was the Hero, that here lies:
Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,
Gives her fame which never dies.
So the life, that dy'd with fhame,
Lives in death with glorious fame.
Hang thou there upon the tomb,
Praifing her when I am dumb.

Claud. Now mufic found, and fing your folemn

hymn.

SON G.

Pardon, Goddefs of the night,
Thofe that flew thy virgin knight;
For the which, with fongs of woe,
Round about her tomb they go.
Midnight, affift our moan;
Help us to figh and groan
Heavily, heavily:

Graves, yawn and yield your dead,
'Till death be uttered,

Heavily, heavily.

Claud. Now unto thy bones good night!

Yearly will I do this Right.

Pedro. Good morrow, mafters, put your torches out; The wolves have prey'd; and, look, the gentle day,

Before the wheels of Phabus, round about

Dapples the droufy eaft with spots of grey : Thanks to you all, and leave us; fare you well. Claud. Good morrow, mafters; each his feveral

way.

Pedro. Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds And then to Leonato's we will go.

Claue