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

Beat. And how long is that, think you?

Bene. Question?-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; fo much for praifing myself; who, I myself will bear witness, is praife-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.


Changes to a CHURCH.

Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and Attendants with tapers

Claud. Attend. It is, my lord.

Is this the monument of Leonato?

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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 shame,
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



Pardon, Goddess 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 drousy east with spots of grey: Thanks to you all, and leave us; fare you well. Claud. Good morrow, mafters; each his feveral


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


Claud. And Hymen now with luckier issue speed's, Than this, for whom we render'd up this woe!


Changes to Leonato's Houfe.


Enter Leonato, Benedick, Margaret, Urfula, Antonio,

Friar, and Hero.

ID I tell


fhe was innocent ?

Dentare The Prince and Claudio, who

accus'd her,

Upon the error that you heard debated.
But Margaret was in fome fault for this;
Although against her will, as it appears,
In the true courfe of all the question.

Ant. Well; I am glad, that all things fort fo well. Bene. And so am I, being else by faith enforc'd To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.

Leon. Well, Daughter, and you gentlewomen all, Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves. And when I fend for you, come hither mask'd: The Prince and Claudio promis'd by this hour To vifit me; you know your office, brother, You must be father to your brother's daughter, And give her to young Claudio. [Exeunt Ladies. Ant. Which I will do with confirm'd countenance. Bene. Friar, I must intreat your pains, I think. Friar. To do what, Signior?

Bene. To bind me, or undo me, one of them: Signior Leonato, truth it is, good Signior, Your neice regards me with an eye of favour. Leon. That eye my daughter lent her, 'tis moft


Bene. And I do with an eye of love requite her. Leon. The fight whereof, I think, you had from me, From Claudio and the Prince; but what's your will?

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Bene. Your anfwer, Sir, is enigmatical;
But for my will, my will is, your good will
May ftand with ours, this day to be conjoin'd
I' th' ftate of honourable marriage;

In which, good Friar, I fhall defire your help..
Leon. My heart is with your liking.
Friar. And my help.



Enter Don Pedro and Claudio, with Attendants.
OOD morrow to this fair affembly.
Leon. Good morrow, Prince; good mor-
row, Claudio,


We here attend you; are you yet determin'd

To day to marry with my brother's daughter?
Claud. I'll hold my mind, were fhe an Ethiope.
Leon. Call her forth, brother, here's the Friar ready.
[Exit Antonio.

Pedro. Good morrow, Benedick; why, what's the matter,

That you have fuch a February-face,

So full of froft, of ftorm and cloudinefs?

Claud. I think, he thinks upon the favage bull: Tufh, fear not, man, we'll tip thy horns with gold, And fo all Europe fhall rejoice at thee;

As once Europa did at lufty Jove,

When he would play the noble beaft in love..

Bene. Bull Jove, Sir, had an amiable low,

And fome fuch ftrange bull leapt your father's cow; And got a calf, in that fame noble feat,

Much like to you; for you have just his bleat.


Enter Antonio, with Hero, Beatrice, Margaret, and



Urfula, mask'd.

OR this I owe you; here come other recknings.

Which is the lady I must seize upon?


Ant. This fame is fhe, and I do give you her. Claud. Why, then fhe's mine; Sweet, let me fee your face.

Leon. No, that you fhall not, 'till you take her hand

Before this Friar, and swear to marry her.

Claud. Give me your hand; before this holy Friar, I am your husband if you like of me.

Hero. And when I liv'd, I was your other wife.

And when you lov'd, you were my

Claud. Another Hero?

Hero. Nothing certainer.


other husband.

One Hero dy'd defil'd, but I do live;.
And, furely, as I live, I am a maid.

Pedro. The former Hero! Hero, that is dead!
Leon. She dy'd, my lord, but whiles her flander


Friar. All this amazement can I qualify. When, after that the holy rites are ended, I'll tell thee largely of fair Hero's death: Mean time let wonder feem familiar,

And to the chapel let us prefently.

Bene. Soft and fair, friar.

Which is Beatrice?

Beat. I answer to that name; what is your will? Bene. Do not you love me?

Beat. Why, no, no more than reason.

Bene. Why, then your Uncle, and the Prince, and Claudio, have been deceiv'd; they swore, you did. Beat. Do not you love me?

Bene. Troth, no, no more than reason.

Beat. Why, then my Coufin, Margaret and Urfula, Have been deceiv'd; for they did fwear, you did. Bene. They fwore, you were almost fick for me. Beat. They fwore, you were well-nigh dead for me. Bene. 'Tis no matter; then you do not love me? Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompence.

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