Much Ado About Nothing, Act 2, Scene 1

Was not Count John here at supper?

Wasn't Count John here at supper?

I saw him not.

I didn't see him.

How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heart-burned an hour after.

How sour that gentleman looks! I can never see him without getting heartburn an hour afterwards.

He is of a very melancholy disposition.

He has a very melancholy nature.

He were an excellent man that were made just in the mid-way between him and Benedick: the one is too like an image, and says nothing; and the other too like my lady’s eldest son, evermore tattling.

The perfect man would be one made exactly halfway between him and Benedick: the one is too much like a statue, and says nothing; and the other too much like my lady's eldest son, chattering all the time.

Then half Signior Benedick’s tongue in Count John’s mouth, and half Count John’s melancholy in Signior Benedick’s face—

So, half of Signior Benedick's tongue in Count John's mouth, and half of Count John's melancholy in Signior Benedick's face—

With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world if a’ could get her good will.

With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and enough money in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world—if he could get her consent.

By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.

Honestly, niece, you'll never get yourself a husband if you're so sharp-tongued.

In faith, she’s too curst.

Truly, she's too bad-tempered.

Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen God’s sending that way; for it is said, ‘God sends a curst cow short horns;’ but to a cow too curst he sends none.

Too bad-tempered is more than bad-tempered: that way I'll reduce what God sends me; because it's said, 'God sends a bad-tempered cow short horns'—but to a cow that's too bad-tempered he sends none at all.

So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns?

So, by being too bad-tempered, God will send you no horns?

Just, if he send me no husband; for the which blessing I am at him upon 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 woollen.

Exactly, if he sends me no husband; and for that blessing I'm on my knees to him every morning and evening. Lord! I couldn't put up with a husband with a beard on his face: I'd rather sleep in rough wool blankets.

You may light on a husband that hath no beard.

You might happen on a husband who has no beard.

What should 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: therefore I will even take sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and lead his apes into hell.

What would I do with him? Dress him in my clothes and make him my lady's maid? A man with a beard is more than a boy, and a man with no beard is less than a man; and the one who is more than a boy isn't for me; and as for the one who is less than a man, I'm not for him. So I'll just take sixpence as a down payment from the bear-keeper, and lead his apes into hell.

Well then, go you into hell?

Well then, you'll go into hell?

No; but to the gate; and there will the Devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and say, ‘Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven; here’s no place for you maids.’ So deliver I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the heavens: he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long.

No, only as far as the gate; and there the Devil will meet me, like an old cuckold with horns on his head, and say, 'Off with you to heaven, Beatrice, off to heaven; there's no room for you virgins here.' So I hand over my apes and go off to Saint Peter for heaven; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there we live as merry as the day is long.

[To Hero.] Well, niece, I trust you will be ruled by your father.

[To Hero.] Well, niece, I trust you'll be guided by your father.

Yes, faith; it is my cousin’s duty to make curtsy, and say, ‘Father, as it please you:’— but yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and say, ‘Father, as it please me.’

Yes, certainly; it's my cousin's duty to curtsy and say, 'Father, as you please'—but even so, cousin, make sure he's a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy and say, 'Father, as I please.'

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

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

Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered with a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I’ll none: Adam’s sons are my brethren; and truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.

Not until God makes men out of some material other than earth. Wouldn't it upset a woman to be ruled over by a lump of boastful dust? To give an account of her life to a clod of stubborn clay? No, uncle, I'll have none of it. Adam's sons are my brothers, and truly, I think it's a sin to marry within my own family.

Daughter, remember what I told you: if the Prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer.

Daughter, remember what I told you: if the Prince does ask you in that way, you know your answer.

The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in good time: if the Prince be too important, tell him there is measure in everything, and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero: wooing, wedding, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinquepace: the first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes Repentance, and with his bad legs, falls into the cinquepace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave.

The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you're not courted in the right time. If the Prince presses too hard, tell him there's a proper measure in everything, and dance your answer out that way. Because listen to me, Hero: courting, wedding, and regretting are like a Scotch jig, a stately dance, and a cinquepace. The first wooing is hot and hurried, like a Scotch jig, and just as wild; the wedding is well-mannered and modest, like a stately measure, full of dignity and tradition; and then comes Repentance, and with his bad legs he falls into the cinquepace faster and faster, until he sinks into his grave.

Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.

Cousin, you see things extremely sharply.

I have a good eye, uncle: I can see a church by daylight.

I have good eyesight, uncle: I can see a church in daylight.

The revellers are entering, brother: make good room.

The masked dancers are coming in, brother. Clear plenty of space.

Lady, will you walk about with your friend?

Lady, will you take a turn around the room with the man who admires you?

So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing, I am yours for the walk; and especially when I walk away.

As long as you walk gently, look pleasant and say nothing, I'm yours for the walk—and especially when I walk away.

With me in your company?

With me in your company?

I may say so, when I please.

I may say so, when I choose to.

And when please you to say so?

And when will you choose to say so?

When I like your favour; for God defend the lute should be like the case!

When I like your face; because God forbid the lute should look like its case!

My visor is Philemon’s roof; within the house is Jove.

My mask is Philemon's roof; inside the house is Jove.

Why, then, your visor should be thatch’d.

Why then, your mask ought to be thatched.

Speak low, if you speak love.

Speak quietly, if you're speaking of love.

Well, I would you did like me.

Well, I wish you liked me.

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

I don't wish that, for your own sake; because I have many bad qualities.

Which is one?

Name one.

I say my prayers aloud.

I say my prayers out loud.

I love you the better; the hearers may cry Amen.

I like you all the better for it; the people listening can say Amen.

God match me with a good dancer!

God pair me off with a good dancer!

Amen.

Amen.

And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is done! Answer, clerk.

And God keep him out of my sight once the dance is over! Answer, clerk.

No more words: the clerk is answered.

No more words: the clerk has answered.

I know you well enough: you are Signior Antonio.

I know perfectly well who you are: you're Signior Antonio.

At a word, I am not.

In a word, I'm not.

I know you by the waggling of your head.

I know you by the way you waggle your head.

To tell you true, I counterfeit him.

To tell you the truth, I'm imitating him.

You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were the very man. Here’s his dry hand up and down: you are he, you are he.

You could never do him so badly-well unless you were the man himself. Here's his dry hand, exactly: you're he, you're he.

At a word, I am not.

In a word, I'm not.

Come, come; do you think I do not know you by your excellent wit? Can virtue hide itself? Go to, mum, you are he: graces will appear, and there’s an end.

Come on, come on; do you think I don't know you by your excellent wit? Can goodness hide itself? Enough of that, be quiet, you're he. Fine qualities will show themselves, and that's that.

Will you not tell me who told you so?

Won't you tell me who told you that?

No, you shall pardon me.

No, you'll have to excuse me.

Nor will you not tell me who you are?

And you won't tell me who you are either?

Not now.

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.

That I was scornful, and that I got my good jokes out of the 'Hundred Merry Tales.' Well, it was Signior Benedick who said that.

What’s he?

Who's he?

I am sure you know him well enough.

I'm sure you know him well enough.

Not I, believe me.

Not I, believe me.

Did he never make you laugh?

Has he never made you laugh?

I pray you, what is he?

Please tell me, who 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 the 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 am sure he is in the fleet: I would he had boarded me!

Why, he is the Prince's jester: a very dull fool; his only talent is in inventing outrageous slanders. Nobody but loose-living men enjoy him, and what they praise isn't his wit but his nastiness; because he both pleases men and makes them angry, and then they laugh at him and hit him. I'm sure he's somewhere in this fleet of dancers: I wish he had come alongside and boarded me!

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

When I meet 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 or not laughed at, strikes him into melancholy; and then there’s a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no supper that night. [Music within.] We must follow the leaders.

Do, do. He'll only crack a comparison or two at my expense; and if nobody notices it or laughs at it, that plunges him into gloom — and then a partridge wing is saved, because the fool will eat no supper that night. [Music within.] We must follow the leading couples.

In every good thing.

In everything good.

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

No — if they lead into anything bad, I'll leave them at the next turn.

Sure my brother is amorous on Hero, and hath withdrawn her father to break with him about it. The ladies follow her and but one visor remains.

My brother is certainly in love with Hero, and he has taken her father aside to discuss it with him. The ladies have gone after her, and only one mask is left.

And that is Claudio: I know him by his bearing.

And that is Claudio: I recognise him by the way he carries himself.

Are you not Signior Benedick?

Aren't you Signior Benedick?

You know me well; I am he.

You know me well; I am he.

Signior, you are very near my brother in his love: he is enamoured 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.

Signior, you are very close to my brother in his love. He is in love with Hero. Please, talk him out of her; she is not a match for his rank. You would be acting like an honest man to do it.

How know you he loves her?

How do you know he loves her?

I heard him swear his affection.

I heard him swear his love for her.

So did I too; and he swore he would marry her tonight.

So did I; and he swore he would marry her tonight.

Come, let us to the banquet.

Come, let's go to the banquet.

Thus answer I in name of Benedick, But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio. ’Tis certain so; the Prince wooss for himself. Friendship is constant in all other things Save in the office and affairs of love: Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues; Let every eye negotiate for itself And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch Against whose charms faith melteth into blood. This is an accident of hourly proof, Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero!

So I answer in Benedick's name, but I hear this bad news with Claudio's ears. It's certainly true; the Prince is wooing for himself. Friendship holds firm in every other matter except in the business and affairs of love. So let all hearts in love use their own tongues; let every eye bargain for itself and trust no go-between, because beauty is a witch, and against her spells loyalty melts into passion. This is something proved every hour, and I didn't suspect it. So goodbye, Hero!

Count Claudio?

Count Claudio?

Yea, the same.

Yes, the same.

Come, will you go with me?

Come, will you come with me?

Whither?

Where?

Even to the next willow, about your own business, Count. What fashion will you wear the garland of? About your neck, like a usurer’s chain? or under your arm, like a lieutenant’s scarf? You must wear it one way, for the Prince hath got your Hero.

Just to the nearest willow tree, on your own business, Count. How will you wear the garland? Around your neck, like a moneylender's chain? Or under your arm, like a lieutenant's sash? You have to wear it one way or the other, because the Prince has won your Hero.

I wish him joy of her.

I wish him joy of her.

Why, that’s spoken like an honest drovier: so they sell bullocks. But did you think the Prince would have served you thus?

Well, that's spoken like an honest cattle-dealer: that's how they sell bullocks. But did you think the Prince would treat you like this?

I pray you, leave me.

Please, leave me alone.

Ho! now you strike like the blind man: ’twas the boy that stole your meat, and you’ll beat the post.

Ha! Now you're hitting out like the blind man: it was the boy who stole your meat, and you're going to beat the post.

If it will not be, I’ll leave you.

If you won't go, 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! Ha! 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’ll be revenged as I may.

Poor wounded bird. Now he'll crawl off into the reeds. But that my Lady Beatrice should know who I am and not know me! The Prince's fool! Ha! Maybe I'm given that name because I'm cheerful. Yes, but that way I'm ready to do myself an injustice; I'm not thought of like that. It's Beatrice's low though sharp temper that makes her speak as if she were the whole world, and so describes me that way. Well, I'll get my revenge however I can.

Now, signior, where’s the Count? Did you see him?

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

Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame. I found him here 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; and I offered him my company to a willow tree, either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped.

Honestly, my lord, I've played the part of Lady Fame. I found him here, as gloomy as a gamekeeper's hut in a rabbit warren. I told him — and I think I told him the truth — that your Grace had won this young lady's affection; and I offered to go with him to a willow tree, either to make him a garland, since he's been abandoned, or to tie him up a bundle of twigs, since he deserves a whipping.

To be whipped! What’s his fault?

A whipping! What's his offence?

The flat transgression of a school-boy, who, being overjoy’d with finding a bird’s nest, shows it his companion, and he steals it.

The plain blunder of a schoolboy who, being overjoyed at finding a bird's nest, shows it to his friend, and the friend steals it.

Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The transgression is in the stealer.

Will you turn an act of trust into an offence? The offence belongs to the thief.

Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made, and the garland too; for the garland he might have worn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stolen his bird’s nest.

Still, it wouldn't have been a bad thing to have made the rod, and the garland too; because the garland he could have worn himself, and the rod he could have handed to you, since, as I understand it, you have stolen his bird's nest.

I will but teach them to sing, and restore them to the owner.

I'll only teach the birds to sing, and then give them back to their owner.

If their singing answer your saying, by my faith, you say honestly.

If their singing matches what you say, then, honestly, you're speaking honourably.

The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you: the gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you.

The Lady Beatrice has a complaint against you: the gentleman who danced with her told her that you wrong her badly.

O! she misused me past the endurance of a block: an oak but with one green leaf on it would have answered her: my very visor began to assume life and scold with her. 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 upon me, 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 were 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: she would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of her; you shall find her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God some scholar would conjure her, for certainly, while she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose because they would go thither; so indeed, all disquiet, horror and perturbation follow her.

Oh! She abused me more than a block of wood could bear. An oak with only one green leaf left on it would have answered her back; my very mask began to come alive and quarrel with her. She told me, not realising it was me, that I was the Prince's jester, that I was duller than a great thaw; piling joke upon joke at me with such unbelievable speed that I stood there like a man set up as a target with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks daggers, and every word stabs. If her breath were as dreadful as her words, there would be no living near her; she would poison everything as far as the north star. I wouldn't marry her, even if she came with everything Adam still owned before he sinned. She would have made Hercules turn the roasting spit for her — yes, and split his club to feed the fire as well. Come, don't talk about her; you'll find she's the hellish Ate in nice clothes. I wish to God some scholar would exorcise her, because certainly, while she's here, a man can live as peacefully in hell as in a holy place, and people sin deliberately so they can go there. Truly, all unrest, horror and disturbance follow her about.

Look! here she comes.

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 toothpicker now from the furthest inch of Asia; bring you the length of Prester John’s foot; fetch you a hair off the Great Cham’s beard; do you any embassage to the Pygmies, rather than hold three words’ conference with this harpy. You have no employment for me?

Will your Grace send me on any errand to the end of the world? I'll go on the most trivial errand now to the other side of the earth that you can think up for me; I'll fetch you a toothpick from the furthest corner of Asia; bring you the measurement of Prester John's foot; fetch you a hair from the Great Cham's beard; carry out any mission to the Pygmies for you, rather than have a three-word conversation with this harpy. Have you no job for me?

None, but to desire your good company.

None, except to ask for your pleasant company.

O God, sir, here’s a dish I love not: I cannot endure my Lady Tongue.

Oh God, sir, here's a dish I don't like: I can't stand my Lady Tongue.

Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick.

Come, lady, come; you have lost Signior Benedick's heart.

Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave him use for it, a double heart for a single one: marry, once before he won it of me with false dice, therefore your Grace may well say I have lost it.

Indeed, my lord, he lent it to me for a while, and I paid him interest on it, two hearts for his one. But, mind you, once before he won it from me with loaded dice, so your Grace may well say I have lost it.

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

You have beaten him down, lady, you have beaten 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.

I wouldn't want him to lay me down, my lord, in case I turned out to be the mother of fools. I've brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to look for.

Why, how now, Count! wherefore are you sad?

Well, what's this, Count! Why are you sad?

Not sad, my lord.

I'm not sad, my lord.

How then? Sick?

What then? Ill?

Neither, my lord.

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.

The Count is neither sad, nor ill, nor cheerful, nor well; but a civil Count — civil like a Seville orange, and with something of that jealous yellow colouring.

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, and 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!

Honestly, lady, I think your description is right; though I'd swear that if he is like that, his idea is mistaken. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in your name, and fair Hero is won. I have spoken to her father, and got his consent. Name the wedding day, and God give you joy!

Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes: his Grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen to it!

Count, take my daughter from me, and with her my fortune too. His Grace has made the match, and may all grace say Amen to it!

Speak, Count, ’tis your cue.

Speak, Count, it's 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 away myself for you and dote upon the exchange.

Silence is the most perfect announcer of joy: I would be only a little happy if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours. I give myself away for you, and I'm delighted with the trade.

Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak neither.

Speak, cousin; or if you can't, shut his mouth with a kiss and don't let him speak either.

In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.

Honestly, lady, you have a cheerful heart.

Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart.

Yes, my lord; and I'm grateful to it, poor fool, it keeps to the windward side of trouble. My cousin is telling him in his ear that he is in her heart.

And so she doth, cousin.

And so she is, cousin.

Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes everyone to the world but I, and I am sunburnt. I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!

Good Lord, we're related now! So everyone gets matched and married except me, and I'm left weather-beaten. I may as well sit in a corner and cry, "Oh, for a husband!"

Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.

Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.

I would 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.

I'd rather have one your father had fathered. Has your Grace no brother like yourself? Your father produced excellent husbands, if a young woman could get hold of them.

Will you have me, lady?

Will you have me, my 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.

No, my lord, unless I could have another one for working days: your Grace is too expensive to wear every day. But please, your Grace, forgive me; I was born to speak nothing but jokes and no substance.

Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you; for out of question, you were born in a merry hour.

Your silence is what offends me most, and being merry suits you best; for without question, you were born in a merry hour.

No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born. Cousins, God give you joy!

No, certainly not, my lord, my mother was crying; but even so there was a star dancing, and I was born under that. Cousins, God give you joy!

Niece, will you look to those things I told you of?

Niece, will you see to those things I told you about?

I cry you mercy, uncle. By your Grace’s pardon.

I beg your pardon, uncle. With your Grace's permission.

By my troth, a pleasant spirited lady.

Honestly, she's a lady of a delightful spirit.

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.

There's very little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad except when she's asleep; and not even sad then, for I have heard my daughter say that she has often dreamed of something unhappy and woken herself up laughing.

She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.

She can't bear to hear a husband mentioned.

O! by no means: she mocks all her wooers out of suit.

Oh, not at all: she mocks all the men who court her until they give up the suit.

She were an excellent wife for Benedick.

She would make an excellent wife for Benedick.

O Lord! my lord, if they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad.

Oh Lord, my lord, if they were married for even a week, they would talk each other mad.

Count Claudio, when mean you to go to church?

Count Claudio, when do you intend to go to church?

Tomorrow, my lord. Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.

Tomorrow, my lord. Time walks on crutches until love has had all its rites.

Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just seven-night; and a time too brief too, to have all things answer my mind.

Not until Monday, my dear son, which is exactly a week from now; and that's too short a time, too, to get everything arranged the way I want it.

Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing; but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go dully by us. I will in the interim undertake one of Hercules’ labours, 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 but minister such assistance as I shall give you direction.

Come, you shake your head at such a long wait; but I promise you, Claudio, the time won't pass dully for us. In the meantime I will take on one of Hercules' labours, which is to bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection for each other. I would dearly like it to be a match; and I have no doubt I can shape it, if you three will just supply the help I give you directions for.

My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten nights’ watchings.

My lord, I'm with you, even if it costs me ten nights of staying awake.

And I, my lord.

And I am too, my lord.

And you too, gentle Hero?

And you too, gentle Hero?

I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband.

I will perform any proper service, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband.

And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband that I know. Thus far can I praise him; he is of a noble strain, of approved valour, and confirmed honesty. I will teach you how to humour your cousin, that she shall fall in love with Benedick; and I, with your two helps, will so practise 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. Go in with me, and I will tell you my drift.

And Benedick is not the least promising husband I know of. This much I can praise him for: he comes of a noble line, his courage has been proved, and his honesty is established. I will teach you how to work on your cousin, so that she falls in love with Benedick; and I, with the two of you helping, will work on Benedick so that, in spite of his quick wit and his squeamish stomach, he will fall in love with Beatrice. If we can manage this, Cupid is an archer no longer: his glory will be ours, for we will be the only love-gods. Come inside with me, and I'll tell you my plan.