All language subtitles for much-ado-about-nothing-yify-english

I learnin this letter
that Don Pedro

of Arragon comes
this day to Messina.

He is very near by this,
not three leagues off.

Have any gentlemen
been lost in this action?

But few of any sort,
and none of name.

A victory
is twice itself

when the achiever
brings home full numbers.

I find here that Don Pedro
hath bestowed much honor

upon a young
Florentine called Claudio.

Much deserved on his part

and equally remembered by Don Pedro,

he hath borne himself beyond
the promise of his age,

doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats
of a lion.

Rarh!

I pray you, is Signior Mountanto
returned from the wars or no?

I know none of that name, lady.

My cousin means
Signior Benedick of Padua.

O, he's returned

and as pleasant
as ever he was.

I pray you, how many hath he killed
and eaten in these wars?

But how many hath he killed?

For indeed I promised
to eat all of his killing.

Faith, niece, you tax
Signior Benedick too much,

but he'll be meet
with you, I doubt it not.

He hath done good service, lady, in these wars.

You had musty victual,
and he hath holp to eat it.

He is a very
valiant trencherman,

he hath
an excellent stomach.

And a good soldier too, lady.

And a good soldier
to a lady.

But what is he to a lord?

A lord to a lord,
a man to a man,

stuffed with all
honorable virtue.

It is so, indeed,

he is no less
than a stuffed man.

You must not, sir,
mistake my niece.

There is a kind of merry war betwixt
Signior Benedick and her.

They never meet but there's a skirmish
of wit between them.

Who is his companion now?
He hath every month a new sworn brother.

Is't possible?

Very easily possible.

He wears his faith
but as the fashion of his hat,

it ever changes
with the next block.

I see, lady, the gentleman
is not in your books.

No, and he were,
I would burn my study.

But, I pray you,
who is his companion?

Is there no young
squarer now that will

make a voyage
with him to the devil?

He is most in the company
of the right noble Claudio.

O, lord, he will hang upon him
like a disease.

He is sooner caught
than the pestilence,

and the taker
runs presently mad.

O, God help
the noble Claudio!

If he have caught
the Benedick,

it will cost him a thousand pound
ere he be cured.

Good Signior Leonato,

You are come to welcome
your trouble.

The fashion of the world
is to avoid cost,

and you encounter it.

Never came trouble to my house
in the likeness of your grace.

For trouble being gone,
comfort should remain.

But when you depart from me sorrow abides
and happiness takes his leave.

Hmm, you embrace
your charge too willingly.

I think
this is your daughter.

Her mother hath
many times told me so.

Were you in doubt,
sir, that you asked her?

Signior Benedick, no,
for then were you a child.

Truly, truly,
the lady fathers herself.

Be happy, lady, for you are
like an honorable father.

If Signior Leonato
be her father,

She would not have his head on
her shoulders for all Messina

as like him as she is.

I wonder that you would still be talking,
Signior Benedick.

Nobody marks you.

What, my dear Lady Disdain!
Are you yet living?

Is it possible
disdain should die

while she hath such meet food to feed
it as Signior Benedick?

Courtesy itself must convert to disdain,
if you come in her presence.

Then is courtesy a turncoat.

But it is certain I am loved of all ladies,
only you excepted,

and I would I could find it in my heart
that I had not a hard heart,

for, truly, I love none.

Dear happiness to women,
else would they

have been troubled
with a pernicious suitor.

I thank God and my cold blood,
I am of your humor for that.

I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow
than a man swear he loves me.

God keep your ladyship still
in that mind

so some gentleman or other shall 'scape
a predestinate scratched face.

Scratching could
not make it worse,

an 'twere such
a face as yours were.

Well, you are
a rare parrot-teacher.

Um, a bird of my tongue is better than
a beast of yours.

I would my horse
had the speed of your tongue,

and so good a continuer.

But keep in your way,
God's name, I have done.

You always end
with a jade's trick.

I know you of old.

Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato
hath invited you all.

I tell him we shall stay here
at the least the month,

and he heartily prays some occasion
may detain us longer.

Lady.

Let me bid you
welcome, my lord.

Being reconciled
with the prince your brother,

I owe you all duty.

I am not of many words,
but I thank you.

Please it your grace
lead on?

Your hand, Leonato.
We will go together.

Benedick, didst thou note the daughter
of Signior Leonato?

I noted her not,
but I looked on her.

Is she not a modest young lady?

Do you question me,
as an honest man should do,

for my simple true judgment,

or would you have me speak
after my custom,

as being a professed
tyrant to their sex?

No, I pray thee
speak in sober judgment.

Why, i' faith, methinks she is too low
for a high praise,

too brown for a fair praise,
too little for a great praise.

Only this commendation
I can afford her,

that were she
other than she is,

she were unhandsome,

and being no other than as she is,
I do not like her.

Thou thinkest I am in sport. I pray thee tell me
truly how thou likest her.

Would you buy her,
that you inquire after her?

Can the world
buy such a jewel?

Yea, and a case
to put it into.

But speak you
this with a sad brow?

In mine eye she is the sweetest lady
that ever I looked on.

I can see yet without spectacles
and I see no such matter.

There's her cousin, an she were not
possessed with a fury,

exceeds her
as much in beauty

as the first of May
doth the last of December.

But I hope you have no intent
to turn husband, have you?

I would scarce trust myself,

though I had
sworn the contrary,

if Hero would be my wife.

Is it come to this?

Shall I never see a bachelor
of three-score again?

Go ty i' faith, an thou wilt needs
thrust thy neck into a yoke,

wear the print of it and sigh
away Sundays.

What secret hath held you here,
that you followed not Leonato?

I would your grace
would constrain me to tell.

I charge
thee on thy allegiance.

O, on my allegiance?
Mark you this.

On my allegiance
he is in love.

With who? Now that
is your grace's part.

Mark you
how short his answer is.

With Hero,
Leonato's short daughter.

Amen, if you love her, for the lady is
very well worthy.

You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.

By my troth,
I speak my thought.

And, in faith,
my lord, I spoke mine.

And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord,
I spoke mine.

That I love her I feel.

And that she is worthy,
I know.

That I neither feel
how she should be loved

nor know
how she should be worthy

is the opinion that fire cannot
melt out of me.

I will die in it at the stake.

Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic
in the despite of beauty.

That a woman conceived me,
I give her thanks,

that she brought me up, I likewise give her
most humble thanks.

But that I will have a recheat
winded in my forehead,

or hang my bugle
from an invisible baldrick,

all women shall pardon me.

Because I will not do them the wrong
to mistrust any,

I will do myself
the right to trust none.

And the fine is, for the which
I may go the finer,

I shall see thee, ere I die,
look pale with love.

With anger,
with sickness,

or with hunger,
my lord, not with love.

Well, as time shall try.

"In time the savage
bull doth bear the yoke."

The savage bull may,

but if ever the sensible
Benedick bear it,

pluck off the bull's horns
and plant them in my forehead

and let me
be vilely painted,

and in such great letters
as they write,

"Here is good horse to hire,"

let them
signify under my sign,

"Here may you see Benedick
the married man."

Nay, if Cupid have not spent
all his quiver in Venice,

thou wilt quake
for this shortly.

I look for
an earthquake too, then.

Hath Leonato any son,
my lord?

No child but Hero,
she's his only heir.

Dost thou affect her,
Claudio?

O, my lord, when you went onward
on this ended action,

I look'd upon her
with a soldier's eye,

that liked,

but had a rougher
task in hand

than to drive liking
to the name of love.

and that war-thoughts
have left their places vacant,

in their rooms come thronging soft
and delicate desires,

all prompting
me how fair young Hero is,

saying, "I liked her
ere I went to wars."

Thou wilt be
like a lover presently

and tire the hearer
with a book of words.

If thou dost love
fair Hero, cherish it,

and I will break with her and with her father,
and thou shalt have her.

I know we shall have
reveling to-night. Hmm.

I will assume
thy part in some disguise

and tell fair
Hero I am Claudio,

and in her bosom
I'll unclasp my heart

and take her hearing
prisoner with the force

and strong encounter
of my amorous tale.

Then after to her
father will I break,

and the conclusion
is she shall be thine.

What the good-year,
my lord.

Why are you thus
out of measure sad?

There is no measure
in the occasion that breeds,

therefore the sadness
is without limit.

You should hear reason.

And when I have heard it,
what blessing brings it?

If not a present remedy,
at least a patient sufferance.

I cannot hide what I am.

I must be sad when I have cause
and smile at no man's jests,

eat when I have stomach
and wait for no man's leisure,

sleep when I am drowsy
and tend on no man's business,

laugh when I am merry
and claw no man in his humor.

Yea, but you must not make
the full show of

this till you may do it
without controlment.

You have of late stood out
against your brother,

and he hath ta'en you newly
into his grace,

where it is impossible
you should take true root

but by the fair weather
that you make yourself.

I had rather be a canker
in a hedge

than a rose in his grace,

and it better fits
my blood to be disdained

of all than
to fashion a carriage

to rob love from any.

In this, though I cannot be said
to be a flattering honest man,

it must not be denied but I am
a plain-dealing villain.

I am trusted with a muzzle
and enfranchised with a clog.

If I had my mouth,

I would bite.

Can you make no use
of your discontent?

I make all use of it,
for I use it only.

What news, Borachio?

I came yonder
from a great supper.

The prince your brother,

is royally entertained
by Leonato,

and I can give you intelligence
of an intended marriage.

Will it serve for any model
to build mischief on?

What is he for a fool that betroths himself
to unquietness?

Marry, it is your
brother's right hand.

Who?

The most exquisite Claudio?

Even he.

A proper squire.

And who, and who?
Which way looks he?

Marry, on Hero, the daughter
and heir of Leonato.

A very forward
March-chick.

I heard it agreed upon that the prince should
woo Hero for himself,

and having obtained her,
give her to Count Claudio.

Come, come,
let us thither.

This may prove food
to my displeasure.

That young start-up hath
all the glory of my overthrow.

If I can cross him in any way,
I bless myself every way.

You are both sure,
and will assist me?

To the death, my lord.

Was not Count John
here at supper?

I saw him not.

How tartly
that gentleman looks.

I never can see him but I am heart-burned
for an hour after.

He is of a very
melancholy disposition.

He were an excellent man that were made
just in the midway

between him and Benedick.

The one is too like an image
and says nothing,

the other too like my lady's eldest son,
evermore tattling.

My troth, niece, thou wilt never
get thee a husband,

if thou be so
shrewd of thy tongue.

O, for the which blessing I am on my knees
every morning and evening.

Lord, I could not endure a husband
with a beard on his face.

I had rather
lie in the woolen.

You may light upon a husband
that hath no beard.

What would I do with him?

Dress him in my apparel

and make him
my waiting gentlewoman?

He that hath a beard
is more than a youth,

and he that hath no beard
is less than a man,

and he that is more than
a youth is not for me,

and he that is less than a man,
I am not for him.

I trust you will be ruled
by your father.

Yes. Faith, it is my cousin's duty
to make curtsy and say,

"Father, as it please you."

And yet for all that, cousin,
let him be a handsome fellow,

or else make another curtsy

and say,
"Father, as it please me."

Well, niece, I hope to see you one day
fitted with a husband.

Not till God make men of some other
metal than earth.

Lady, will you walk
about with your friend?

Well, I would
you did like me.

So would not I, for your own sake,
for I have many ill-qualities.

Hmm. Which is one?

I say my prayers aloud.

I love you the better,
the hearers may cry, "Amen."

God, match me
with a good dancer.

Will you not
tell me who told you so?

No, you shall pardon me.

Nor will you
tell me who you are?

Not now.

That I was disdainful,

and that I had
my good wit

out of
the Hundred Merry Tales..

Well, this was
Signior Benedick that said so.

What's he?

I'm sure you know
him well enough.

Not I, believe me.

Did he never make you laugh?

I pray you, what is he?

Why, he is
the prince's jester.

A very dull fool,

only his gift is in devising
impossible slanders.

None but libertines
delight in him,

and his commendation
is not in his wit,

but in his villainy,

for he both pleases
men and angers them,

and then they laugh
at him and beat him.

I'm sure he's in the fleet.

I would he had boarded me.

When I know the gentleman,
I'll tell him what you say.

Do, do.

He'll but break a comparison or two on me,
which, peradventure not marked

and not laughed at,
sends him into melancholy,

and then there's
a partridge wing saved,

for the fool will eat no supper
that night.

We must
follow the leaders.

In every good thing.

Nay, if they lead to any ill,
I will leave them at the next turning.

Are not you
Signior Benedick?

You know me well,
I am he.

Signior, you are very near
my brother in his love.

He is enamored on Hero.

I pray you,
dissuade him from her.

She is no equal
for his birth.

You may do the part
of an honest man in it.

How know you he loves her?

I heard him
swear his affection.

So did I too, and he swore
he would marry her to-night.

Come, let us
to the banquet.

'Tis certain so,
the prince woos for himself.

Friendship is constant
in all other things

save in the offices
and affairs of love,

for beauty is a witch against whose charms
faith melteth into blood.

Count Claudio?

Yea, the same.

Come, go with me.
The prince hath got your Hero.

I wish him joy of her.

Did you think the prince
would have used you thus?

I pray you, leave me.

Ho! Now you strike
like the blind man.

'Twas the boy that stole your meat,
and you will beat the post.

If it will not be,
I'll leave you.

Alas, poor hurt fowl.

Now will he creep into sedges.

But that
my Lady Beatrice

should know me,
and not know me.

The prince's fool?

It may be I go under that title
because I am merry.

Yea, but so I am apt to do myself wrong,
I am not so reputed.

It is the base, though bitter,
disposition of Beatrice

that puts the world into her person
and so gives me out.

Well, I will be revenged
as I may.

Now, signior, where's the count?
Did you see him?

Troth, my lord, I found him as melancholy
as a lodge in a warren.

I told him,
and I think I told him true,

that your grace had got the good will
of this young lady here.

The Lady Beatrice
hath a quarrel to you.

The gentleman
that danced with her

told her she is much
wronged by you.

O, she misused me past the endurance
of a block!

She told me, not thinking
I had been myself,

that I was
the prince's jester.

That I was duller
than a great thaw,

huddling jest upon jest with
such impossible conveyance

that I stood like
a man at a mark,

with a whole
army shooting at me.

She speaks poniards,
and every word stabs.

If her breath were as terrible
as her terminations,

there would
be no living near her.

She would infect
to the north star.

I would not marry her,

though she were
endowed with all that

Adam had left him
before he transgressed.

Come, talk not of her.

I would to God some scholar
would conjure her.

For certainly, while she is here,
all disquiet, horror,

and perturbation follows her.

Look, here she comes.

Will your grace command me any service
to the world's end?

I will go on the slightest
errand now

to the Antipodes that you can
devise to send me on.

I will fetch
you a tooth-picker

from the furthest inch
of Asia,

bring you a hair off
the great Cham's beard,

do you any
embassage to the Pigmies

rather than hold three words' conference
with this harpy.

You have no employment for me?

None, but to desire
your good company.

O God, sir,
here is a dish I love not.

I cannot endure
my Lady Tongue.

Come, lady, come.

You have lost the heart
of Signior Benedick.

Indeed, my lord,

he lent it me awhile,
and I gave him use for it,

a double heart
for his single one.

Marry, once before he won it of me
with false dice,

therefore your grace may well say
I have lost it.

But you have put him down, lady,
you have put him down.

So I would not he should do me,
my lord,

lest I should prove
the mother of fools.

I have brought Count Claudio,
whom you sent me to seek.

Why, how now, Claudio!
Wherefore are you sad?

Not sad, my lord.
How then? Sick?

Neither, my lord.

The count is neither sad,
nor sick, nor merry, nor well,

but civil count,
civil as an orange,

and something
of that jealous complexion.

I' faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true,
though, I'll be sworn,

if he be so,
his conceit is false.

Here, Claudio,

I have wooed in thy name.
Fair Hero is won.

I have broke with her father,
and his good will obtained.

Name the day of marriage,
and God give thee joy!

Count, take of me my daughter
and with her my fortune.

His grace hath made the match
that all grace say "Amen" to it.

Speak, Count,
'tis your cue.

Silence is the perfectest
herald of joy.

I were but little happy,
if I could say how much.

Lady, as you are mine,
I am yours.

I give myself for you and dote
upon the exchange.

Speak, cousin, or, if you cannot,
stop his mouth with a kiss

and let him
not speak neither.

In faith, lady,
you have a merry heart.

Yea, my lord.
I thank it, poor fool,

it keeps me on
the windy side of care.

My cousin tells him in his ear
he is in her heart.

And so she doth, cousin.

Oh, good Lord,
for alliance!

Thus goes every one into the world but I,
and I am sunburnt.

I will sit in a corner and cry,
"Heigh-ho for a husband!"

Lady Beatrice,
I will get you one.

I'd rather have one
of your father's getting.

Hath your grace
ne'er a brother like you?

Your father got
excellent husbands,

if a maid could come by them.

Will you have me, lady?

No, my lord,

unless I might have
another for working-days.

Your grace is too
costly to wear every day.

But, I beseech
your grace, pardon me.

I was born to speak
all mirth and no matter.

Your silence most offends me,
to be merry best becomes you,

for, out of question,
you were born in a merry hour.

No, sure, my lord,
my mother cried,

but then a star danced,
and under that was I born.

Cousins,
God give you joy!

By my troth,
a pleasant-spirited lady.

There's little of the melancholy element
in her, my lord.

She is never sad but when she sleeps,
and not ever sad then,

for I have heard
my daughter say,

she hath often
dreamed of unhappiness

and waked
herself with laughing.

She cannot endure
to hear tell of a husband.

O, by no means.

She mocks all her
wooers out of suit.

She were an excellent
wife for Benedick.

O Lord, my lord, if they were but
a week married,

they would talk
themselves mad.

County Claudiy,
when mean you to go to church?

To-morrow, my lord.

Time goes on crutches
till love have all his rites.

Not till Monday, dear son,

which is hence
a just seven-night,

and a time too brief, too,

to have all things
answer my mind.

I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall
not go dully by us.

I will in the interim undertake
one of Hercules' labors,

which is, to bring Signior Benedick
and the Lady Beatrice

into a mountain of affection,
the one with the other.

I would fain have it a match,
and I doubt not but to fashion it,

if you three will
minister assistance.

My lord, I am for you,
though it cost me 10 nights' watchings.

And I, my lord.

And you too, gentle Hero?

I will do any
modest office, my lord,

to help my cousin
to a good husband.

Benedick is not the unhopefullest
husband that I know.

Thus far can I praise him,
he is of a noble strain,

of approved valor
and confirmed honesty.

I will teach you
how to humor your cousin,

that she shall fall
in love with Benedick,

and I,

with your two helps,
will so practice on Benedick that,

in despite of his quick wit
and his queasy stomach,

he shall fall in love
with Beatrice.

If we can do this,
Cupid is no longer an archer.

His glory shall be ours,
for we are the only love-gods.

It is so.

The Count Claudio shall marry
the daughter of Leonato.

Yea, my lord,
but I can cross it.

Any bar, any cross, any impediment
will be medicinable to me.

I am sick
in displeasure to him,

and whatsoever comes athwart
his affection

ranges evenly with mine.

How canst thou
thwart this marriage?

I think I told your lordship
a year since,

how much I am in
favor of Margaret,

the waiting
gentlewoman to Hero.

I remember.

I can, at any unseasonable
instant of the night,

appoint her to look out
at her lady's chamber window.

What life is in that, to be the death
of this marriage?

The poison of that
lies in you to temper.

Go you to the prince
your brother,

spare not to tell him that he hath
wronged his honor

in marrying
the renowned Claudio,

whose estimation
do you mightily hold up,

to a contaminated stale

such a one as Hero.

What proof shall
I make of that?

Proof enough
to misuse the prince,

to vex Claudio, to undo Hero
and kill Leonato.

Look you
for any other issue?

I do much wonder that one man,

seeing how much
another man is a fool

when he dedicates
his behaviors to love,

will, after he hath laughed
at such shallow follies in others,

become the argument
of his own scorn by falling in love.

And such a man is Claudio.

I have known
when there was no music

with him
but the drum and the fife,

now he had rather hear the tabor
and the pipe.

I have known when
he would have walked

10 mile a-foot
to see a good armor,

and now will he lie
10 nights awake,

carving the fashion
of a new doublet.

He was wont to speak plain
and to the purpose,

like an honest
man and a soldier.

Now is he turned orthography,
his words a very fantastical banquet,

just so many strange dishes.

May I be so converted
and see with these eyes?

I cannot tell, I think not.

I will not be sworn, but love may
transform me to an oyster.

But I'll take my oath on it,
till he have made an oyster of me,

he shall never
make me such a fool.

One woman is fair,
yet I am well.

Another is wise,
yet I am well.

Another virtuous,
yet I am well.

But till all graces
be in one woman,

one woman shall
not come in my grace.

Rich she shall be,
that's certain.

Wise, or I'll none.

Virtuous, or I'll never
cheapen her.

Fair, or I'll never look on her.
Mild, or come not near me.

Noble,
or not I for an angel.

Of good discourse,
an excellent musician,

and her hair
shall be of what color
it please God.

The prince
and Monsieur Love.

I will hide me
in the arbor.

Come,
shall we hear this music?

Yea, my good lord.

Come hither, Leonato.

What was it you
told me of to-day,

that your niece Beatrice was in love
with Signior Benedick?

I did never think that lady would
have loved any man.

No, nor I neither,

but most wonderful that she should so dote
on Signior Benedick,

whom she hath in all outward behaviors
seemed ever to abhor.

Is't possible?
Sits the wind in that corner?

By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell
what to think of it

but that she loves him
with an enraged affection.

It is past
the infinite of thought.

You amaze me.

I would have
thought her spirit was

invincible against all
assaults of affection.

I would have
sworn it had, my lord,

especially against Benedick.

Hath she made her affection known
to Benedick?

No, and swears she never will,
that is her torment.

'Tis true, indeed,
so your daughter says, "Shall I"

she says,
"that so oft encountered him

with scorn, write to him
that I love him?"

O, she railed at herself, that she
should be so immodest

to write to one that
she knew would flout her.

"I measure him,"
says she, "by my own spirit,

"for I should flout him,
if he writ to me.

"Yea,
though I love him, I should."

Then down upon
her knees she falls,

weeps, sobs,
beats her heart,

tears her hair,
prays, curses,

"O, sweet, Benedick!
God give me patience!"

I would she had bestowed
this dotage on me.

I would have daffed all other respects
and made her half myself.

I pray you, tell Benedick of it,
and hear what he will say.

Were it good, think you?

Hero thinks
surely she will die,

for she says she will
die if he love her not,

and she will die,
ere she make her love known,

and she will
die if he woo her,

rather than she will bate one breath
of her accustomed crossness.

She doth well.

If she should make
tender of her love

'tis very
possible he'll scorn it,

for the man, as you know all,
hath a contemptible spirit.

He is a very proper man.

He hath indeed
a good outward happiness.

Before God!
And, in my mind, very wise.

He doth indeed show some sparks
that are like wit.

Well, I'm sorry
for your niece.

I love Benedick well,
and I could wish

he would modestly
examine himself,

to see how much he is
unworthy so good a lady.

My lord,
will you walk?

Dinner is ready.

This can be no trick.
The conference was sadly borne.

They have the truth
of this from Hero.

Love me?

Why, it must be requited.

I hear how I am censured.

They say I will
bear myself proudly,

if I perceive
the love come from her.

They say too that she
will rather die

than give
any sign of affection.

I did never think to marry.

I must not seem proud.

Happy are they that hear their detractions
and can put them to mending.

They say the lady is fair,

'tis a truth,
I can bear them witness.

And virtuous,
'tis so, I cannot reprove it.

And wise,
but for loving me.

By my troth,
it is no addition to her wit,

nor no great
argument of her folly,

for I will be horribly
in love with her!

I may chance
have some odd quirks

and remnants
of wit broken on me,

because I have railed
so long against marriage.

But doth not
the appetite alter?

A man loves
the meat in his youth

that he cannot
endure in his age.

Shall quips and sentences and these paper
bullets of the brain

awe a man from the career
of his humor?

No, the world
must be peopled.

When I said
I would die a bachelor,

I did not think I should live
till I were married.

Here comes Beatrice.

By this day.
She's a fair lady.

I do spy some
marks of love in her.

Against my will I am sent to bid
you come in to dinner.

Fair Beatrice,
I thank you for your pains.

I took no more
pains for those thanks

than you take
pains to thank me.

If it had been painful,
I would not have come.

You take pleasure
then in the message?

Yea, signior,

just so much as you may take upon
a knife's point.

You have no stomach, signior.
Fare you well.

"Against my will I am sent to bid you
come in to dinner."

There's a double
meaning in that.

"I took no more
pains for those thanks

"than you took
pains to thank me."

That's as much as
to say, any pains

that I take for you
is as good as thanks.

If I do not take pity
of her, I am a villain.

If I do not love her,
I am a fool.

I will go get her picture.

No, truly, Ursula,
she is too disdainful.

I know her spirits
are as coy and wild

as haggerds of the rock.

But are you sure Benedick
loves Beatrice so entirely?

So says the prince
and my new-trothed lord.

And did they bid you
tell her of it, madam?

They did entreat me to acquaint her of it,
but I persuaded them,

if they loved Benedick,

to wish him
restle with affection,

and never to let
Beatrice know of it.

Why did you so?

Doth not the gentleman deserve
as full a fortunate a bed

as ever Beatrice
shall couch upon?

O, god of love!
I know he doth deserve

as much as may be
yielded to a man.

But nature never
framed a woman's heart

of prouder stuff
than that of Beatrice.

Disdain and scorn
ride sparkling in her eyes,

misprising what
they look on,

and her wit
values itself so highly

that to her all
matter else seems weak.

She cannot love, nor take no shape
nor project of affection,

she is so self-endeared.

Sure, I think so.

And therefore certainly it were not good
she knew his love,

lest she make sport at it.

No, rather
I will go to Benedick

and counsel him to fight against
his passion.

Truly, I'll devise some honest slanders
to stain my cousin with.

One doth not know how much an ill word may
empoison liking.

O, do not do your cousin
such a wrong.

She cannot be so much
without true judgment.

Having so swift
and excellent a wit,

as she is prized to have,

as to refuse so rare a gentleman
as Signior Benedick.

He is the only man of Italy.
Mmm.

Always excepted
my dear Claudio.

Come, go in. I'll show
thee some attires,

and have thy counsel which is the best
to furnish me to-morrow.

What fire is in my ears?

Can this be true?

Stand I condemn'd
for pride and scorn so much?

Contempt, farowell.

And maiden pride, adieu.

No glory lives
behind the back of such.

And, Benedick,

love on.

I will requite thee,

taming my wild heart
to thy loving hand.

If thou dost love,

my kindness shall incite thee

to bind our loves
up in a holy band.

For others say
thou dost deserve,

and I believe it
better than reportingly.

I do but stay till your marriage
be consummate,

and then go I toward Arragon.

I'll bring you thither, my lord,
if you'll vouchsafe me.

Nay, that would be
as great a soil

in the new gloss
of your marriage

as to show a child his new coat and forbid him
to wear it.

I will only be bold with Benedick
for his company,

for, from the crown
of his head

to the sole of his foot,
he is all mirth.

He hath twice or thrice
cut Cupid's bow-string

and the little hangman
dare not shoot at him.

Gallants,

I am not as I have been.

So say I,
methinks you are sadder.

I hope he be
in love.

Hang him truant!

There's no true
drop of blood in him,

to be truly
touched with love.

If he be sad,
he wants money.

I have the toothache.

What?
Sigh for the toothache?

Well, every one can master a grief
but he that has it.

If he be not in love
with some woman,

there is no
believing old signs.

Hath any man
seen him at the barber's?

No, but the barber's man
hath been seen with him,

and the old
ornament of his cheek

hath already
stuffed tennis-balls.

Nay, a'rubs himself
with civet.

Can you not smell
him out by that?

And when was he wont
to wash his face?

Indeed, that tells
a heavy tale for him.

Conclude,
conclude he is in love.

Old signior,
walk aside with me.

I have studied eight or nine wise words
that I would speak to you,

which these hobby-horses
must not hear.

For my life, to break with
him about Beatrice.

'Tis even so.

Hero and Margaret have
by this played their parts with Beatrice,

and then the two
bears will not

bite one another
when they meet.

My lord and brother,
God save you.

Good den, brother.

If your leisure served,
I would speak with you.

In private?

If it please you.

Yet Count Claudio may hear,
for what I would speak of concerns him.

What's the matter?

Means your lordship
to be married to-morrow?

You know he does.

I know not that
when he knows what I know.

If there be any impediment,
I pray you, discover it.

You may think
I love you not.

Let that appear hereafter,

and aim better at me by that
I now will manifest.

Why, what's the matter?

The lady is disloyal.

Who, Hero?

Even she,

Leonato's Hero, your Hero,
every man's Hero...

Disloyal?

The word is too good
to paint out her wickedness.

Think you of a worse title,
and I will fit her to it.

Wonder not till
further warrant.

Go but with me to-night, you shall see her
chamber-window entered,

even the night
before her wedding-day.

If you love her then

to-morrow wed her.

But it would better fit your honor
to change your mind.

May this be so?

I will not think it.

If you will follow me,
I will show you enough,

and when you have seen more
and heard more,

proceed accordingly.

Are you good men and true?

Yea, or else it were pity

but they should suffer salvation,
body and soul.

Give them their charge,
neighbor Dogberry.

First, who think you the most desertless
man to be constable?

Hugh Otecake,
sir, or George Seacole,

for they can write and read.

Come hither,
neighbor Seacole.

You are thought
here to be the most

senseless and fit man for the constable
of the watch,

therefore bear
you the lantern.

This is your charge.

You shall comprehend
all vagrom men.

You are to bid any man stand,
in the prince's name.

How if he will not stand?

Why, then, take no note of him,
but let him go,

and presently call
the rest of the watch together

and thank God
you are rid of a knave.

If he will not
stand when he is bidden,

he is none
of the prince's subjects.

True, and they are to meddle with none
but the prince's subjects.

Well, you are to call
at all the ale-houses,

and bid those that are drunk
get them to bed.

How if they will not?

Why, then, let them alone
till they are sober.

If they make you not
then the better answer,

you may say they are not
the men you took them for.

Well, sir...
If you meet a thief,

you may suspect him,
by virtue of your office,

to be no true man,

and, for such kind of men,

the less you meddle
or make with them,

why the more
is for your honesty.

If we know him
to be a thief,

shall we not lay
hands on him?

You may,

but I think
they that touch pitch

will be defiled.
The most peaceable way

for you,
if you do take a thief,

is to let him show himself

what he is and steal
out of your company.

You have been always called
a merciful man, partner.

Truly, I would not
hang a dog by my will,

much more a man
who hath any honesty in him.

If you hear a child
cry in the night,

you must call to the nurse
and bid her to still it.

How if the nurse be asleep
and will not hear us?

Why, then, depart in peace,
and let the child wake her with crying.

This is the end
of the charge.

If you meet the prince in the night,
you may stay him.

Nay, by'r our lady,
that I think he cannot.

Marry, not without
the prince be willing.

For, indeed, the watch
ought to offend no man,

and it is an offense
to stay a man against his will.

By'r lady,
I think it be so.

Well, masters, good night.

An there be any matter
of weight chances, call up me.

Adieu.

Be vigitant,
I beseech you.

Well, masters,
we hear our charge.

Let us go sit
upon the church-bench

till 2:00,
and then all to bed.

What Conrade!

Peace!

Stir not.

Conrade, I say!

Here, man,
I am at thy elbow.

Mass, and my elbow itched,

I thought there
would a scab follow.

I will owe thee an answer for that.
Now forward with thy tale.

Stand thee close, then,

and I will, like a true drunkard,
utter all to thee.

Some treason, masters.

Yet stand close.

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

Is it possible that any villainy
should be so dear?

I have to-night wooed Margaret,
the Lady Hero's gentlewoman,

by the name of Hero.

She leans me out at her mistress'
chamber-window,

bids me a thousand
times good night.

I tell this tale vilely.

I should first tell thee how
the prince and Claudio,

planted and placed
by my master Don John,

saw afar off in the orchard

this amiable encounter.

And thought
they Margaret was Hero?

Two of them did,
the prince and Claudio,

but the devil my master
knew she was Margaret,

and partly by his oaths

and partly by
the dark night,

but chiefly by my villainy,

away went Claudio enraged,

swore he would
meet her next morning

and there, before
the whole congregation,

shame her with what
he saw o'er night,

send her home again
without a husband.

We charge you,
in the prince's name, stand!

Call up the right
master constable.

We have here recovered the most
dangerous piece of lechery

that ever was known
in the commonwealth.

Masters. Masters...

Never speak.

We charge you let us obey you
to go with us.

Troth, I think your other
gown were better.

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

By my troth, 's not so good,
and I warrant your cousin will say so.

My cousin's a fool.
Thou art another.

I'll wear none but this.

Good morrow, coz.

Good morrow, sweet Hero.

Why how now? Do you speak
in the sick tune?

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

It is almost 5:00,
'tis time you were ready.

By my troth,
I am exceedingly ill.

Heigh-ho.

For a hawk, a horse,
or a husband?

These gloves
the count sent me,

they're an excellent perfume.

I am stuffed, cousin,
I cannot smell.

A maid, and stuffed!

There's goodly
catching of cold.

By my troth,
I am sick.

Get you some of this Carduus Benedictus,
and lay it to your heart.

It's the only
thing for a qualm.

Benedictus!

Why... Why Benedictus?

You have some moral
in this Benedictus.

Moral? No, by my troth,
I have no moral meaning.

I meant,
plain holy-thistle.

There thou prickest her
with a thistle.

Madam, withdraw.

The prince, the count.

Signior Benedick,
Don John,

and all the gallants
of the town

have come to fetch you
to church.

What would you with me,
honest neighbor?

Marry, sir, I would have some
confidence with you

that decerns you nearly.

Brief, I pray you, for you see, it is
a busy time with me.

Marry, this it is, sir.

Yes, in truth it is, sir.

What is it, my good friends?

Verges, sir, speaks
a little off the matter.

His wits are not so blunt as, God help,
I would desire they were,

but, in faith, honest as the skin
between his brows.

Yes, I thank God I am as honest
as any man living...

Comparisons are odorous.

Neighbors, you are tedious.

It pleases your worship
to say so, sir,

but we are the poor
duke's officers.

I would fain know
what you have to say.

Marry, sir,
our watch to-night,

excepting
your worship's presence,

ha' ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves
as any in Messina.

A good old man, sir, he will be talking.
God help us.

Well said, neighbor Verges.

An two men ride of a horse,
one must ride behind.

I must leave you.

A word, sir.

Our watch, sir, have indeed comprehended
two auspicious persons,

and we would have them this morning examined
before your worship.

Take their examination yourself
and bring it me.

I am now in great haste,
as it may appear unto you.

It shall be suffigance.

Drink some wine
ere you go.

Go, good partner, go.

We are now
to examination these men.

You come hither,
my lord, to marry this lady.

No.

To be married to her, Friar.
You come to marry her.

Lady, you come hither
to be married to this count.

I do.

If either of you know
any inward impediment

why you should
not be conjoined,

I urge you to utter
it upon your souls.

Know you any, Hero?

None, my lord.

Know you any, Count?

I dare make
his answer, none.

O, what men dare do!

What men may do.

What men daily do,
not knowing what they do.

How now!
Interjections?

Why, some may be
of laughing, as...

Stand thee by, Friar.

Father, by your leave,

will you with free
and unconstrained soul

give me this maid,
your daughter?

As freely, son,
as God did give her me.

And what have I
to give you back,

whose worth may counterpoise
this rich and precious gift?

Nothing, unless you
render her again.

Sweet prince, you learn me
noble thankfulness.

There, Leonato,
take her back again.

Give not this rotten
orange to your friend,

she is but the sign
and semblance of her honor.

Behold how like a maid
she blushes here!

Would you not swear, all you that see her,
that she were a maid

by these exterior shows?

But she is none.

She knows the heat
of a luxurious bed.

Her blush is guiltiness,
not modesty.

What do you mean, my lord?

Not to be married, not to knit my soul
to an approved wanton.

Dear my lord,
if you, in your own proof,

have vanquish'd the resistance
of her youth,

and made defeat
of her virginity...

I know what you would say.

If I have known her,
you will say

she did embrace
me as a husband,

and so extenuate
the 'forehand sin.

No, Leonato,

I never tempted her
with word too large,

but, as a brother
to his sister,

show'd her bashful sincerity
and comely love.

And seem'd I ever
otherwise to you?

Out on thee! 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.

Is my lord well,
that he doth speak so wide?

Sweet prince,
why speak not you?

What should I speak?

I stand dishonor'd,
that have gone about to

link my dear friend
to a common stale.

What man was he talk'd with you yesternight
out at your window

betwixt 12:00 and 1:00?

Now, if you are a maid,
answer to this.

I talk'd with no man
at that hour, my lord.

Why, then are you no maiden?

Leonato,
I'm sorry you must hear.

Upon mine honor, myself,
my brother and this grieved count

did see her, hear her,
at that hour last night

talk with a ruffian
at her chamber-window

who hath indeed,
most like a liberal villain,

confess'd the vile encounters they have had
a thousand times in secret.

Fie. Fie! They are not
to be named, my lord,

not to be spoke of.

There is not enough chastity in language
but offense to utter them.

Thus, pretty lady, I am sorry for thy
much misgovernment.

O Hero.

What a Hero hadst thou been,

if half thy outward graces

had been placed about thy thoughts
and counsels of thy heart!

But fare thee well,
most foul,

most fair.

Hath no man's dagger
here a point for me?

Why, how now, cousin?
Wherefore sink you down?

Come, let us go.

These things, come thus to light,
smother her spirits up.

How doth the lady?

Dead, I think.
Help, uncle!

O Hero! Why, Hero?

Signior Benedick.

O Fate! Take not away
thy heavy hand.

Death were the fairest cover for her shame
that may be wish'd for.

How now, cousin Hero?

Have comfort, lady.

Dost thou look up?

Yea, wherefore
should she not?

Wherefore!

Why, doth not every earthly thing
cry shame upon her?

Could she here deny the story that
is printed in her blood?

Do not live, Hero.
Do not ope thine eyes.

Grieved I,
I had but one?

Chid I for that
at frugal nature's frame?

O, one too much by thee!

Why ever wast thou one?

Why ever wast thou
lovely in my eyes?

Sir.

Sir, be patient.
For my own part,

I am attired in wonder
and know not what to say.

O, on my soul,
my cousin is belied!

Lady, were you her
bedfellow last night?

No, truly not,

although, until last night I have this twelvemonth
been her bedfellow.

Confirm'd. Confirm'd.

Would the two princes lie,
and Claudio lie,

who loved her so,
that, speaking of

her foulness,
wash'd it with tears?

Hence from her!
Let her die!

Lady. What man is he
you are accused of?

They know that do accuse me,
I know none.

If I know more
of any man alive

than that which maiden
modesty doth warrant,

then let all
my sins lack mercy.

My father, prove you
that any man with me conversed

at hours unmeet or if I
yesternight maintain'd

the change of words
with any creature,

refuse me, hate me,
torture me to death!

There is some strange misprision
in the princes.

Two of them have
the very bent of honor.

If their wisdoms
be misled in this,

the practice of it
lives in John the bastard,

whose spirits toil
in frame of villainies.

I know not.

But if they speak but truth,
these hands shall tear thee.

If they wrong her honor,

the proudest of them
shall well hear of it.

Pause awhile, and let my counsel
sway you in this case.

Your daughter here
the princes left for dead.

Let her be kept
awhile secretly inside,

and publish it
that she is dead indeed.

What shall
become of this?

When Claudio shall hear
that she has died upon his words,

the idea of her life
shall sweetly creep

into the study
of his imagination.

And every organ
of her lovely life

shall come apparell'd
in more precious habit,

more moving-gentle
and full of life,

into the eye
and prospect of his soul,

than when she lived indeed.

Then shall he mourn.

If ever love had
interest in his liver,

and wish he had
not so accused her,

no, though he thought
his accusation to be true.

Sir, Signior Leonato,
let the friar advise you.

Being that I flow in grief

the smallest
twine may lead me.

Come, lady.
Die to live.

This wedding-day
is but perhaps prolong'd.

Lady Beatrice, have you wept
all this while?

and I will weep
a while longer.

I will not desire that.

You have no reason,
I do it freely.

Surely I do believe
your fair cousin is wronged.

The man might deserve
of me who would right her.

Is there any way to
show such friendship?

A very even way,

but no such friend.

May a man do it?

It is a man's office,
but not yours.

I do love nothing
in the world so well as you.

Is not that strange?

As strange as
the thing I know not.

It were as possible
for me to say

I loved nothing
so much as you.

But believe me not,
and yet I lie not.

I confess nothing,
nor I deny nothing.

I am sorry for my cousin.

By my sword,
Beatrice, thou lovest me.

Do not swear, and eat it.

I will swear by
it that you love me

and I will make him eat it
that says I love not you.

Will you not eat your word?

With no sauce
that can be devised to it.

I protest I love thee.

Why, then,
God forgive me.

What offense,
sweet Beatrice?

You have stayed
me in a happy hour.

I was about
to protest that
I love you.

And do it with all thy heart.

I love you with so much of my heart
that none is left to protest.

Come, bid me do
any thing for thee.

Kill Claudio.

Not for the wide world.

You kill me to deny it.

Farewell.
Tarry.

Sweet Beatrice.

I am gone, though I am here.
There is no love in you.

Nay, I pray you, let me go.
Beatrice...

In faith, I will go.

We'll be friends first.

You dare easier be friends with me
than fight with my enemy.

Is Claudio thine enemy?

Is he not approved
in the height a villain,

that hath slandered, scorned,
dishonored my kinswoman?

O that I were a man!

What, bear her in hand
until they come to take hands,

and then
with public accusation,

uncovered slander,
unmitigated rancor...

O God, that I were a man!

I would eat his heart
in the market-place.

Hear me, Beatrice...

Talk with a man at a window.

O a proper saying.

Nay, but, Beatrice...

Sweet Hero.

She is wronged, she is slandered,
she is undone.

Beatrice.

Princes and counties.

A goodly count. O that I were
a man for his sake!

Or that I had any friend who would be
a man for my sake!

But manhood is melted into curtsies,
valor into compliment,

and men are only turned into tongues,
and trim ones too.

For he is now
as valiant as Hercules

who only tells
a lie and swears it!

I cannot be a man
with wishing,

therefore I will die
a woman with grieving.

By this hand,
I love thee.

Use it for my love some other way
than swearing by it.

Think you in your soul the Count Claudio
hath wronged Hero?

As sure as I have
thought or a soul.

Enough, I am engaged.

I will challenge him.

I will kiss your hand.

By this hand, Claudio shall render me
a dear account.

As you hear of me,

so think of me.

Go, comfort your cousin.

I must say she is dead.

And so, farewell.

What is your name, friend?

Borachio.

Pray, write down, Borachio.

Yours, sirrah?

My name is Conrade.

Masters,
do you serve God?

Yea, sir, we hope.

Write down, that they
hope they serve God.

And write God first,

for God defend but God should go
before such villains.

Masters,
it is proved already

that you are little better
than false knaves,

and will go near
to be thought so shortly.

How answer you
for yourselves?

Marry, sir,
we say we are none.

A marvelous witty fellow,
I assure you, but I will go about with her.

A word in your ear, sir.

I say to you,
you are false knaves.

Sir, I say to you
we are none.

Well, stand aside.

'Fore God,
they are both in a tale.

Have you writ down,
that they are none?

Master constable,
you go not the way to examine.

You must call forth the watch that
are their accusers.

Yea, marry,
that is the eftest way.

Let the watch come forth.

Masters, I charge you
in the prince's name

accuse these men.

This man said,
sir, that Don John,

the prince's brother,
was a villain.

Write down,
"Prince John a villain."

Why, that's flat perjury,
to call a prince's brother villain.

Master constable...

Pray thee,
fellow, peace.

I do not like thy look,
I promise thee.

What heard you him say else?

Marry, that he had received
a thousand ducats of Don John

for accusing
the Lady Hero wrongfully.

Flat burglary
as ever was committed.

Yea, by mass,
that it is!

What else, fellows?

And that Count Claudio did mean,
upon his words,

to disgrace Hero
before the whole assembly

and not marry her.

O villain.

Thou wilt be condemned
into everlasting redemption for this.

What else?

This is all.

And this is more, masters,
than you can deny.

Prince John is this morning
secretly stolen away,

Hero was in this manner accused,
in this very manner refused,

and upon this
grief suddenly died.

Master constable, let these men be bound,
and brought to Leonato.

I will go before and show him
their examination.

Come, let them
be opinioned.

Let them be
in the hands...

Off, coxcomb!

God's my life,
where's the sexton?

Let her write down
the prince's officer coxcomb.

Come, bind them.

Thou naughty varlet!

Away! You are an ass!

You are an ass.

Dost thou not
suspect my place?

Dost thou not
suspect my years?

O that she were here
to write me down an ass.

But, masters,
remember that I am an ass,

though it be not
written down,

yet forget not
that I am an ass.

Thou villain,
thou art full of piety,

as shall be proved
upon thee by good witness.

I am a wise fellow,
and, which is more, an officer,

and, which is more,
a householder,

and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh
as any is in Messina,

and one that
knows the law, go to.

And a rich
fellow enough, go to.

And a fellow
that hath had losses,

and one that hath two gowns and every thing
handsome about him!

O that I had been
writ down an ass!

Now, signior,
what news?

Good day, my lord.

We've been up and
down to seek thee,

for we are
high-proof melancholy

and would fain
have it beaten away.

Wilt thou use
thy wit?

It is in my scabbard,
shall I draw it?

Dost thou wear thy
wit by thy side?

Never any did so, though very many have been
beside their wit.

I will bid thee draw,

as we do the minstrels,
draw, to pleasure us.

As I'm an honest man,
he looks pale.

Art thou sick,
or angry?

What, courage, man!

What though care killed
a cat thou hast mettle in thee to kill care.

But when shall we set
the savage bull's horns

on the sensible
Benedick's head?

Yea, and text underneath,
"Here dwells Benedick the married man"?

Shall I speak
a word in your ear?

God bless me
from a challenge.

You are a villain.
I jest not.

I will make it
good how you dare,

with what you dare,
and when you dare.

Do me right, or I will
protest your cowardice.

Well, I will meet you,
so I may have good cheer.

My lord, for your
many courtesies, I thank you.

I must discontinue
your company.

Your brother the bastard
is fled from Messina.

You have among
you killed a sweet and innocent lady.

For my Lord Lackbeard,
there, he and I shall meet.

And, till then,
peace be with you.

Did he not say,
my brother was fled?

Officers, what offense
have these men done?

Marry, sir, they have
committed false report.

Moreover, they have
spoken untruths.

Secondarily,
they are slanders.

Sixth and lastly,
they have belied a lady.

Thirdly, they have
verified unjust things,

and, to conclude,
they are lying knaves.

This learned constable
is too cunning to be understood.

What's your offense?

Sweet Prince, let me go
no farther to mine answer.

Do you hear me,
and let this count kill me.

I have deceived
even your very eyes.

What your wisdoms
could not discover,

these shallow fools
have brought to light.

Who overheard me confessing
how your brother incensed me

to slander the Lady Hero,

how you saw me
court Margaret in Hero's garments,

how you disgraced her.

My villainy they
have upon record,

which I had rather seal
with my death than repeat over to my shame.

Runs not this speech like iron through
your blood?

I have drunk poison
whiles he utter'd it.

Come, bring away
the plaintiffs,

and, masters, do not forget
to specify,

when time and place shall serve,
that I am an ass.

Which is the villain?

Let me see his eyes, that, when I note
another man like him,

I may avoid him.
Which of these is he?

If you would know
your wronger, look on me.

Art thou the slave
that with thy breath

hast kill'd mine
innocent child?

Yea, even I alone.

No, not so, villain.

Here stann*k pair
of honorable men,

a third is fled,
that had a hand in it.

I thank you, Princes,
for my daughter's death.

Record it with thy
high and worthy deeds.

'Twas bravely done,
if you bethink you of it.

I know not how to pray your patience,
yet I must speak.

Choose your
revenge yourself,

impose on me what penance your invention
can lay upon my sin,

yet sinn'd I not
but in mistaking.

By my soul, nor I.

And to satisfy
this good old man,

I would bend under any heavy weight
that he'll enjoin me to.

I cannot bid you
bid my daughter live.

That were impossible.

But, I pray you both,

possess the people in Messina here
how innocent she died,

and if your love can labor
ought in sad invention,

hang her an epitaph
upon her tomb

and sing it to her bones.

Sing it to-night.

To-morrow morning
come you to my house,

for since you could not be my son-in-law,
be yet my nephew.

My brother hath a daughter,

almost the copy of
my child that's dead,

and she alone is
heir to both of us.

Give her the right
you should have given her cousin,

and so dies my revenge.

I do embrace your offer

and dispose for henceforth
of poor Claudio.

This naughty man shall face to face
be brought to Margaret,

who I believe was
pack'd in all this wrong,

hired to it by
your brother.

No.

By my soul, she was not,

nor knew not what she did
when she spoke to me.

But always hath been just and virtuous in
any thing I do know by her.

Moreover, sir.

Although it be not
under white and black,

this plaintiff here, the offender,
did call me ass.

I beseech you, let it be
remembered in her punishment.

I thank thee for thy
care and honest pains.

God keep your worship.
I humbly give you leave to depart,

and should a merry
meeting be wished,

God prohibit it.

Come, neighbor.

Until to-morrow morning,
lords, farewell.

We will not fail.

Bring you these
fellows on.

Pray thee, Mistress Margaret,
deserve well at my hands

by helping me to the speech
of Beatrice.

Will you then write me a sonnet in praise
of my beauty?

In so high a style, Margaret, that no man
living shall come over it,

for, in most comely
truth, thou deservest it.

To have no man
come over me.

Why, shall I always
keep below stairs?

Thy wit is as quick
as the greyhound's mouth,

it catches.

And yours as blunt
as the fencer's foils,

which hit, but hurt not.

A most manly wit, Margaret,
it will not hurt a woman.

So, I pray thee, call Beatrice.
I give thee bucklers.

Give us the swords,
we have bucklers of our own.

The god of love sits above

Knows me, and knows me

How pitiful I deserve...

I mean in singing.

But in loving, Leander
the good swimmer,

Troilus the first
employer of panders,

why, they were never
so truly turned over

and over as my
poor self in love.

Marry, I cannot show
it in rhyme, I have tried.

I can find out no rhyme
to "lady" but "baby,"

an innocent rhyme.
For "scorn," "horn,"

a hard rhyme.
For "school," "fool,"

a babbling rhyme.
Very ominous endings.

No, I was not born
under a rhyming planet.

Nor I cannot woo
in festival terms.

Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come
when I called thee?

Yea, signior, and depart
when you bid me.

O, stay but till then!

"Then" is spoken,
fare you well now.

And yet, ere I go.

Let me go with that I came,

which is, knowing what hath passed
between you and Claudio.

Only foul words, and thereupon I
will kiss thee.

Foul words is but foul wind,
and foul wind is but foul breath,

and foul breath is noisome,
therefore I will depart unkissed.

Thou hast frighted
the word out of his right sense,

so forcible is thy wit.

But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio
undergoes my challenge

and either I will
shortly hear from him,

or I will subscribe
him a coward.

And, I pray thee, now,

tell me for which
of my bad parts

didst thou first
fall in love with me?

For them all together,

which maintained so
politic a state of evil

that they would not admit any good part
to intermingle with them.

But for which of my good parts did you first
suffer love for me?

Suffer love!
A good epithet!

I do suffer love, indeed,

for I love thee
against my will.

In spite of
your heart, I think.

If you will spite it for my sake,
I will spite it for yours,

for I could never love
that which my friend hates.

Thou and I are too
wise to woo peaceably.

I pray thee, now tell me,
how doth your cousin?

Very ill.

And how do you?

Very ill, too.

Serve God,
love me, and mend.

Madam, you must
come to your uncle!

It is proved my Lady Hero
hath been falsely accused,

the prince and Claudio
mightily abused,

and Don John is the author of all,
who's fled and gone.

Will you come presently?

Will you come
hear this news, signior?

I will live in thy heart,

die in thy lap, and be buried
in thy eyes,

and, moreover,
I will go with thee.

Did I not tell you
she was innocent?

So are the prince
and Claudio,

who accused her upon the error
that you heard debated.

But Margaret was in some fault for this,
although against her will,

as it appears in the true course
of all the question.

Well.

I am glad that all
things sort so well.

Friar, I must entreat
your pains, I think.

To do what, signior?

To bind me, or undo me,
one of them.

Signior Leonato,
truth it is, good sir,

your niece regards me
with an eye of favor.

That eye my daughter
lent her 'tis most true.

And I do with an eye
of love requite her.

The sight whereof
I think you had from me,

from Claudio, and the prince.

But what's your will?

Your answer, sir,
is enigmatical.

For my will, my will is your good will
may stand with ours

in this day to be conjoin'd in the state
of honorable marriage.

In which, dear Friar,
I shall entreat your pains.

Good morrow to
this fair assembly.

Good morrow, Prince.
Good morrow, Claudio.

We here attend you.

Are you yet determined to-day to marry with my
brother's daughter?

I'll hold my mind,
were she an Ethiope.

Come forth.

Here's the friar. Ready.

Which is the lady
I must seize upon?

This same is she,

and I do give you her.

Why, then she's mine.

Sweet, let me
see your face.

No, that you
shall not,

till you take her hand before this friar
and swear to marry her.

Give me your hand.

Before this holy friar,

I am your husband,
if you like of me.

And when I lived,
I was your other wife.

And when you loved,
you were my other husband.

Another Hero!

Nothing certainer.

One Hero died defiled,
but I do live,

and surely as I live,

I am a maid.

The former Hero?
Hero that is dead?

She died, my lord, but whiles
her slander lived.

All this amazement can I qualify.

When after that
the holy rites are ended,

I'll tell you largely
of fair Hero's death.

Meantime let wonder
seem familiar,

and to the chapel
let us presently.

Soft and fair, friar.

Which is Beatrice?

I answer to
that name.

What is your will?

Do not you love me?

Why, no,

no more than reason.

Why, then your uncle
and the prince and Claudio

have been deceived.
They swore you did.

Do not you love me?

Troth, no, no more
than reason.

Why, then my cousin Margaret
and Ursula are much deceived,

for they did swear
you did.

They swore you were
almost sick for me.

Well, they swore
that you were well-nigh dead for me.

'Tis no such matter.

Then you do not love me?

No,

truly, but in
friendly recompense.

I am sure you
love the gentleman.

And I'll be sworn upon
it that he loves her,

for here's a paper
written in his hand,

a halting sonnet of
his own pure brain,

fashion'd to Beatrice.

And here's another writ
in my cousin's hand,

stolen from her pocket, containing her
affection unto Benedick.

A miracle.

Here's our own hands
against our hearts.

Come, I'll have thee,

but, by this light,
I take thee for pity.

O, I would not deny you,

but, by this good day,
I yield upon great persuasion

and partly to save your life, for I was told you
were in a consumption.

Peace. I will stop
your mouth.

How dost thou,
Benedick the married man?

I'll tell thee
what, Prince,

a college of wit-crackers
cannot flout me out of my humor.

Thinkest thou I care for a satire
or an epigram?

No, since I do
purpose to marry,

I will think nothing
to any purpose

that the world
can say against it,

and therefore
never flout at me

for what I have
said against it,

for man is a giddy thing,

and this is my conclusion.

My lord.

Your brother John
is ta'en in flight,

and brought with armed
men back to Messina.

Think not on him
till to-morrow.

I'll devise thee
brave punishments for him.

Let's dance ere
we are married,

that it may lighten our
hearts and our wives' heels.

We'll have
dancing afterward.

First, upon my word.
Therefore, play, music.

Prince, thou art sad.

Get thee a wife,
get thee a wife.