HERO

My cousin means Signior Benedicke of Padua. He is of a very melancholy disposition. So, you walk softly, and look sweetly, and say no thing, I am yours for the walk, and especially when I walk a way. I may say so when I please. When I Like your favour, for God defend the lute should be Like the case. Why then your visor should be thatched. I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband. Good Margaret run thee to the parlour, There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice, Proposing with the prince and Claudio, Whisper her ear and tell her I and Vrsley, Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse Is all of her, say that thou over-heardst us, And bid her steal into the pleached bowere Where honey-suckles ripened by the sun, Forbid the sun to enter: Like favourites, Made proud by princes, that advance their pride, Against that power that bred it, there will she hide her, To listen our propose, this is thy office, Bear thee well in it, and leave us alone. Now Ursula, when Beatrice does come, As we do trace this alley up and down, Our talk must only be of Benedicke, When I do name him let it be thy partly, To praise him more than ever man did merit My talk to thee must be how Benedicke, Is sick in love with Beatrice: of this matter, Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made, That only wounds by hearsay: now begin, For look where Beatrice Like a Lapwing runs Close by the ground, to hear our conference. Then go we near her that her ear lose nothing, Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it: No truly Ursula, she is too disdainful, I know her spirits are as coy and wild, As haggerds of the rock. So says the prince, and my new trothed Lord. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it, But I persuaded them, if they lou'de Benedicke, To wish him wrestle with affection, And never to let Beatrice know of it. Oh God of love! I know he does deserve, As much as may be yielded to a man: But nature never framed a woman's heart, Of prouder stuff then that of Beatrice: Disdain and Scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, Misprising what they look on, and her wit Valves it self 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. Why you speak truth, I never yet saw man, How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured. But she would spell him backward: if fair faced, She would swear the gentleman should be her sister: If black, why Nature drawing of and antique, Made a foul blot: if tall, a lance ill headed: If low, and agot very vildly cut: If speaking why a vane blown with all winds: If silent, why a block moved with none: So turns she every man the wrong side out, And never gives to Truth and Virtue, that Which simpleness and merit purchases. No not to be so odd, and from all fashions, As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable, But who dare tell her so? if I should speak, She would mock me into air, Oh she would laugh me Out of my self press me to death with wit, Therefore let Benedicke Like covered fire, Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly: It were a better death, then die with mocks, Which is as bade as die with tickling. No rather I will go to Benedicke, And counsel him to fight against his passion, And truly isle devise some honest slanders, To stain my cousin with, one does not know, How much and ill word may impoison liking. He is the only man of Italy, Always excepted my deer Claudio. Indeed he hath and excellent good name. Why every day to morrow, come go in, I'll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel, Which is the best to furnish me to morrow. If it prove so, then loving goes by haps, Some Cupid kills with arrows some with traps. Good Ursula wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire her to rise. And bid her come hither. No pray thee good Meg, isle wear this. My cousin's a fool, and thou art another, isle wear none but this. Oh that exceeds they say. God give me joy to wear it, for my heart is exceed king heavy. Fie upon thee, art not ashamed? Good morrow coze. Why how now? do you speak in the sick tune? These gloves the Count sent me, they are and excel lent perfume. There thou prickest her with a thissel. Help to dress me good coze, good Meg, good Ur sula. I do. None my lord. And seemed I ever otherwise to you? Is my Lord well that he does speak so wide? True, Oh God! Oh God defend me how am I beset, What kind of catechising call you this? Is it not Hero, who can blot that name With any joust reproach? I talked with no man at that hour my lord, They know that do accuse me, I know none, If I know more of any man alive Then that which maiden modesty does warrant, Let all my sins lack mercy, Oh my father, Prove you that any man with me conversed, At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight Maintained the change of words with any creature, Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death. And when I lived I was your other wife, And when you loved, you were my other husband. Nothing certainer. One Hero died defiled, but I do live, And surely as I live, I am a maid. And heres another, Writ in my cousins hand, stolen from her pocket, Containing her affection unto Benedicke.