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HERO: 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 an antic,
Made a foul blot. If tall, a lance ill headed;
If low, an agate very vilely 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 purchaseth.
URSULA: Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.
HERO: 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, O, she would laugh me
Out of myself, press me to death with wit.
Therefore let Benedick, like covered fire,
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly.
It were a better death than die with mocks,
Which is as bad as die with tickling.
URSULA: Yet tell her of it, hear what she will say.
HERO: No. Rather I will go to Benedick
And counsel him to fight against his passion.
And truly, I’ll devise some honest slanders
To stain my cousin with. One doth not know
How much an ill word may empoison liking.
URSULA: 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 Signor Benedick.
HERO: He is the only man of Italy,
Always excepted my dear Claudio.
URSULA: I pray you be not angry with me, madam,
Speaking my fancy. Signor Benedick,
For shape, for bearing, argument, and valour
Goes foremost in report through Italy.
HERO: Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.
URSULA: His excellence did earn it ere he had it.
When are you married, madam?
HERO: Why, every day, tomorrow. Come, go in.
I’ll show thee some attires and have thy counsel
Which is the best to furnish me tomorrow.
URSULA [
aside]: She’s limed, I warrant you. We have caught
her, madam.
HERO [
aside]: If it prove so, then loving goes by haps.
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
Exeunt [HERO
and URSULA]
BEATRICE [
coming forward]: What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much?
William Shakespeare,
Much Ado About Nothing (W. W. Norton, 2008)