To burn the errors that thefe Princes hold
Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool,
Truft not my reading, nor my observations,
Which with experimental feal doth warrant
The tenor 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 she will not add to her damnation
A fin of perjury; fhe not denies it:

Why feeks thou then to cover with excuse
That, which appears in proper nakedness?

Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accus'd of? Hero. They know, that do accufe me; I know none: If I know more of any man alive,

Than that which maiden modefty 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 mifprifion in the Princes, Bene. Two of them have the very bent of honour, And if their wifdoms be mifled in this,

The Practice of it lives in John the bastard,

Whofe fpirits toil in frame of villanies.

Leon. I know not: if they fpeak but truth of her,
Thefe hands fhall tear her; if they wrong her honour,
The proudeft of them shall well hear of it.
Time hath not yet fo dry'd this blood of mine,
Nor age fo 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 fuch 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 counsel sway you in this case.

Your daughter here the Princes left for dead; (17)
Let her a while be secretly kept in,

And publish it, that fhe is dead, indeed:

Maintain a mourning oftentation,
And on your family's old Monument
Eang mournful Epitaphs, and do all rites
That appertain unto a burial.

Leon. What fhall become of this? what will this do?
Friar. Marry, this, well carry'd, fhall on her behalf
Change flander to remorfe; 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 so 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, (18)

(17) Your Daughter here the Princefs (left for dead) But how comes Here to ftart up a Princefs here? We have no intimation of her father being a Prince; and this is the first and only time that the is complimen'el with this dignity. The remotion of a fingle Jetter, and of the Perenthefis, will bring her to her own rank, and the place to its true meaning.

i. e. Din

Your Daughter bere the Princes left for dead;

Pedro, Prince of Arragon; and his Baftard Brother who is like wife call'd a Prince. So in the other Paffages of this Play; To bun t'e erior that thefe Princes bold

Against ber Maiden Honour.

And again,

There is fome frange Misprifion in these Princes.
And again,

I thank you, Princes, for my Daughter's Death.
(18) That, what we have, we prize not to the Worth,
Wbiles que enjoy it; but being lack'd and loft,
Why, then we rack the Value; then we find
The Virtue that Poffeffion would not fer us

] Whether this be an imitawon't contend; but if not, it feems to me a very

Whilf it was ours:

tion, or no,

fine paraphrafe on this paffage of Horace; Lib. III. Ode 24.

Virtutem incolumem odimus,

Sublatam ex oculis quærimus invidi.

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 fhall hear fhe dy'd upon his words,
Th' idea of her Life fhall fweetly creep
Into his ftudy of imagination,

And every lovely organ of her life

Shall come apparel'd in more precious habit;
More moving, delicate, and full of life,

Into the eye and profpect of his foul,

Than when the liv'd indeed. Then fhall he mourn,

If ever love had intereft 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 reiigious 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
Is very much unto the Prince and Claudio,
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 ftrain the cure.

Come, lady, die to live; this wedding day,

Perhaps, is but prolong'd: have patience and en

dure.

[Exeunt.

Manent

Manent Benedick and Beatrice.

Bene. Lady 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. Surely, I do believe, your fair coufin is wrong'd. Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserve of me, that would right her!

Bene. Is there any way to fhew fuch friendship?
Beat. A very even way, but no fuch friend.
Bene. May a man do it?

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

Bene. I do love nothing in the world fo well as you; is not that strange?

Beat. As ftrange as the thing I know not; it were as poffible for me to fay, I lov'd nothing fo well as you; but believe me not; and yet I lye not; I confefs nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am forry for my cousin. Bene. By my fword, Beatrice, thou lov'it me. Beat. Do not fwear by it, and eat it.

Bene. I will fwear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat it, that fays, I love not you. Beat. Will you not eat your word?

Bene. With no fauce that can be devis'd to it; I proteft, I love thee.

Beat. Why then, God forgive me.

Bene. What offence, fweet Beatrice?

Beat. You have stay'd me in a happy hour; I was

about to protest, I lov'd you.

Bene. And do it with all thy heart.

Beat. I love you with fo much of my heart, that

none is left to protest.

Bene. Come, bid me do any thing for thee.

Beat. Kill Claudio.

Bene. Ha! not for the wide world.

Beat. You kill me to deny; farewel.

Bene. Tarry, fweet Beatrice.

Beat. I am gone, tho' I am here; there is no love

in you; nay, I pray you, let me go.

4

Bene.

Bene. Beatrice,

Beat. In faith, I will go.

Bene. We'll be friends firft.

Beat. You dare eafier be friends with me, than fight with mine enemy.

Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy?

Beat. Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath flander'd, fcorn'd, difhonour'd my kinfwoman! O that I were a man! what bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then with publick accufation, uncover'd flander, unmitigated rancour―O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place. Bene. Hear me, Beatrice.

Beat. Talk with a man out at a window?

proper faying!

Bene. Nay, but Beatrice.

Beat. Sweet Hero! fhe is wrong'd, fhe is flander'd, fhe is undone.

Bene. Beat

Beat. Princes and Counts! furely, a princely teftimony, a goodly count-comfect, a sweet gallant, furely! O that I were a man for his fake! Or that I had any friend would be a man for my fake! but manhood is melted into curtefies, valour into compliment, and men are only turn'd into tongue, and trim ones too; he is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie, and fwears it; I cannot be a man with wifhing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.

Bene. Tarry, good Beatrice; by this hand I love thee. Beat. Ule it for my love fome other way than fwearing by it.

Bene. Think you in your foul, the Count Claudio hath wrong'd Hero?

Beat. Yea, as fure as I have a thought or a foul., Bene. Enough, I am engag'd, I will challenge him, I will kifs your hand, and fo leave you; by this hand, Claudio fhall render me a dear account; as you hear of me, fo think of me; go comfort your coufin; I must fay, the is dead, and fo farewel.

[Exeunt.

SCENE