Much Ado About Nothing, Act 2, Scene 3

Boy!

Boy!

Signior?

Sir?

In my chamber window lies a book; bring it hither to me in the orchard.

There's a book lying in my bedroom window; bring it to me here in the orchard.

I am here already, sir.

I'm here already, sir.

I know that; but I would have thee hence, and here again.

I know that; but I want you to go away and come back here again.

I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love: and such a man is Claudio. I have known, when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe: I have known when he would have walked ten mile afoot to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned orthography; his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted, and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster; but I’ll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that’s certain; wise, or I’ll none; virtuous, or I’ll never cheapen her; fair, or I’ll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha! the Prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour.

I really do wonder that a man who sees what a fool another man becomes when he devotes his whole behaviour to love should, after laughing at such shallow follies in other people, become the target of his own scorn by falling in love himself. And Claudio is exactly such a man. I have known the time when the only music for him was the drum and the fife; and now he'd rather hear the tabor and the pipe. I have known the time when he would have walked ten miles on foot to see a fine suit of armour; and now he'll lie awake ten nights designing the cut of a new doublet. He used to speak plainly and to the point, like an honest man and a soldier; and now he's turned into a writer of fine phrases; his words are a fantastical banquet, nothing but strange dishes. Could I be so changed, while I still see with these eyes? I can't say; I don't think so. I won't swear that love couldn't turn me into an oyster; but I'll take my oath on this — until he's made an oyster of me, he'll never make me such a fool. One woman is beautiful, yet I am fine; another is clever, yet I am fine; another is virtuous, yet I am fine; but until all the graces are gathered in one woman, no woman will find favour with me. She must be rich, that's certain; clever, or I'll have none of her; virtuous, or I'll never bargain for her; beautiful, or I'll never look at her; gentle, or she shouldn't come near me; noble, or I wouldn't take her for an angel; a good talker, an excellent musician, and her hair can be whatever colour God pleases. Ha! The Prince and Monsieur Love! I'll hide myself in the arbour.

Come, shall we hear this music?

Come, shall we hear this music?

Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is, As hush’d on purpose to grace harmony!

Yes, my good lord. How still the evening is, as though it had gone quiet on purpose to set off the music!

See you where Benedick hath hid himself?

Do you see where Benedick has hidden himself?

O! very well, my lord: the music ended, We’ll fit the kid-fox with a penny-worth.

Oh, perfectly well, my lord. When the music is over, we'll give the young fox his money's worth.

Come, Balthasar, we’ll hear that song again.

Come, Balthasar, we'll hear that song again.

O! good my lord, tax not so bad a voice To slander music any more than once.

Oh, my good lord, don't make so bad a voice slander music more than once.

It is the witness still of excellency, To put a strange face on his own perfection. I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.

It's always the sign of real excellence to pretend not to recognise your own perfection. Please, sing, and don't make me beg any longer.

Because you talk of wooing, I will sing; Since many a wooer doth commence his suit To her he thinks not worthy; yet he wooes; Yet will he swear he loves.

Since you speak of begging and wooing, I will sing; for many a wooer begins his courtship of a woman he thinks unworthy, and yet he woos her, and yet he'll swear he loves her.

Nay, pray thee come; Or if thou wilt hold longer argument, Do it in notes.

No, please, come along; or if you want to argue any longer, do it in musical notes.

Note this before my notes; There’s not a note of mine that’s worth the noting.

Note this before my notes: there isn't a note of mine worth noticing.

Why these are very crotchets that he speaks; Notes, notes, forsooth, and nothing!

Why, these are nothing but quarter-notes he's talking in — notes, notes, indeed, and nothing!

Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it not strange that sheep’s guts should hale souls out of men’s bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when all’s done.

Now, heavenly music! Now his soul is carried away! Isn't it strange that sheep's guts should have the power to pull souls out of men's bodies? Well, give me a hunting horn for my money, when all's said and done.

BALTHASAR [sings.] Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never. Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.

BALTHASAR [sings.] Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more; men were always deceivers, one foot in the sea and one on the shore, never constant to any one thing. So don't sigh like that, but let them go, and be cheerful and pretty, turning all your sounds of grief into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo Of dumps so dull and heavy; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy. Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more songs, sing no more of sorrows so dull and heavy; men's deceit was always this way, ever since the first summer put out leaves. So don't sigh like that, but let them go, and be cheerful and pretty, turning all your sounds of grief into Hey nonny, nonny.

By my troth, a good song.

Honestly, that's a good song.

And an ill singer, my lord.

And a bad singer, my lord.

Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough for a shift.

Ha, no, no, truly; you sing well enough to get by.

[Aside] And he had been a dog that should have howled thus, they would have hanged him; and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had as lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague could have come after it.

[Aside] If he had been a dog that howled like that, they would have hanged him; and I pray to God his terrible voice isn't a sign of trouble coming. I'd just as happily have heard the night-raven, whatever plague might have followed it.

Yea, marry; dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray thee, get us some excellent music, for tomorrow night we would have it at the Lady Hero’s chamber window.

Yes, indeed. Do you hear, Balthasar? Please, get us some excellent music, because tomorrow night we want it played at the Lady Hero's bedroom window.

The best I can, my lord.

The best I can manage, my lord.

Do so: farewell.

Do that. Goodbye.

Come hither, Leonato: what was it you told me of today, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?

Come here, Leonato. What was it you told me today — that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?

O! ay:—[Aside to Don Pedro] Stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits. I did never think that lady would have loved any man.

Oh, yes. [Aside to Don Pedro] Creep on, creep on; the bird is sitting still. I never thought that lady would have loved any man.

No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours seemed ever to abhor.

No, nor did I; but the most amazing thing is that she should be so infatuated with Signior Benedick, whom in all her outward behaviour she has always seemed to loathe.

[Aside] Is’t possible? Sits the wind in that corner?

[Aside] Is it possible? Is that the direction the wind is blowing from?

By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it but that she loves him with an enraged affection: it is past the infinite of thought.

Honestly, my lord, I don't know what to make of it, except that she loves him with a furious passion. It's beyond anything thought can reach.

Maybe she doth but counterfeit.

Maybe she's only pretending.

Faith, like enough.

Honestly, that's likely enough.

O God! counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it.

Oh God! Pretending! There was never a counterfeit of passion that came so close to the real life of passion as she shows it.

Why, what effects of passion shows she?

Why, what signs of passion does she show?

[Aside] Bait the hook well: this fish will bite.

[Aside] Bait the hook well: this fish will bite.

What effects, my lord? She will sit you; [To Claudio] You heard my daughter tell you how.

What signs, my lord? She'll sit — [To Claudio] you heard my daughter tell you how.

She did, indeed.

She did, indeed.

How, how, I pray you? You amaze me: I would have thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection.

How, how, please tell me? You astonish me. I would have thought her spirit was unconquerable against every attack of love.

I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially against Benedick.

I would have sworn it was, my lord; especially against Benedick.

[Aside] I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot, sure, hide itself in such reverence.

[Aside] I'd think this was a trick, except that the white-bearded fellow is the one saying it. Surely trickery can't hide itself behind such respectability.

[Aside] He hath ta’en the infection: hold it up.

[Aside] He's caught the infection. Keep it going.

Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?

Has she let Benedick know how she feels?

No; and swears she never will: that’s her torment.

No; and she swears she never will. That's her torment.

’Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says: ‘Shall I,’ says she, ‘that have so oft encountered him with scorn, write to him that I love him?’

It's true, indeed; that's what your daughter says. 'Shall I,' she says, 'who have so often met him with scorn, write to him that I love him?'

This says she now when she is beginning to write to him; for she’ll be up twenty times a night, and there will she sit in her smock till she have writ a sheet of paper: my daughter tells us all.

She says this just as she's starting to write to him; because she'll be up twenty times a night, and she'll sit there in her nightgown until she's covered a whole sheet of paper. My daughter tells us everything.

Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your daughter told us of.

Now that you mention a sheet of paper, I remember a good joke your daughter told us about.

O! when she had writ it, and was reading it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet?

Oh! How, when she'd written it and was reading it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet?

That.

That's the one.

O! she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence; railed at herself, that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her: ‘I measure him,’ says she, ‘by my own spirit; for I should flout him, if he writ to me; yea, though I love him, I should.’

Oh! She tore the letter into a thousand tiny pieces, and scolded herself for being so immodest as to write to a man she knew would mock her. 'I judge him,' she says, 'by my own nature; because I would mock him if he wrote to me — yes, even though I love him, I would.'

Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses; ‘O sweet Benedick! God give me patience!’

Then she drops down on her knees, weeps, sobs, beats her breast, tears her hair, prays, curses: 'Oh sweet Benedick! God give me patience!'

She doth indeed; my daughter says so; and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her, that my daughter is sometimes afeard she will do a desperate outrage to herself. It is very true.

She does indeed; my daughter says so. And the frenzy has overwhelmed her so much that my daughter is sometimes afraid she'll do some desperate violence to herself. It's perfectly true.

It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will not discover it.

It would be a good thing if Benedick heard about it from someone else, since she won't reveal it.

To what end? he would make but a sport of it and torment the poor lady worse.

What for? He'd only make a joke of it and torment the poor lady even worse.

And he should, it were an alms to hang him. She’s an excellent sweet lady, and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous.

If he did, it would be an act of charity to hang him. She's an excellent, sweet lady, and beyond all doubt she is virtuous.

And she is exceeding wise.

And she is extremely clever.

In everything but in loving Benedick.

In everything except in loving Benedick.

O! my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian.

Oh, my lord, with wisdom and passion fighting in so delicate a body, the odds are ten to one that passion wins. I'm sorry for her, and I have good reason to be, since I'm her uncle and her guardian.

I would she had bestowed this dotage on me; I would have daffed all other respects and made her half myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear what he will say.

I wish she'd lavished this infatuation on me; I'd have thrown aside every other consideration and made her half of myself. Please, tell Benedick about it, and hear what he'll say.

Were it good, think you?

Would that be a good idea, do you think?

Hero thinks surely she will die; for she says she will die if he love her not, and she will die ere she make her love known, and she will die if he woo her, rather than she will bate one breath of her accustomed crossness.

Hero is certain she'll die of it; for she says she'll die if he doesn't love her, and she'll die before she lets her love be known, and she'll die if he courts her, rather than give up one breath of her usual contrariness.

She doth well: if she should make tender of her love, ’tis very possible he’ll scorn it; for the man,—as you know all,—hath a contemptible spirit.

She's right to do it: if she offered her love to him, it's very likely he'd sneer at it; for the man—as you all know—has a scornful spirit.

He is a very proper man.

He's a very fine-looking man.

He hath indeed a good outward happiness.

He does indeed have a good outward appearance.

’Fore God, and in my mind, very wise.

Before God, and in my opinion, very wise.

He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit.

He does indeed give off some sparks that resemble wit.

And I take him to be valiant.

And I consider him brave.

As Hector, I assure you: and in the managing of quarrels you may say he is wise; for either he avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes them with a most Christian-like fear.

As brave as Hector, I assure you: and in the handling of quarrels you may call him wise; for either he avoids them with great good judgement, or takes them on with a most Christian-like fear.

If he do fear God, a’ must necessarily keep peace: if he break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling.

If he does fear God, he must necessarily keep the peace: if he breaks the peace, he ought to go into a quarrel with fear and trembling.

And so will he do; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek Benedick and tell him of her love?

And that's what he'll do; for the man does fear God, however much it doesn't look like it from some of the broad jokes he makes. Well, I'm sorry for your niece. Shall we go and find Benedick and tell him about her love?

Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it out with good counsel.

Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it out with good advice.

Nay, that’s impossible: she may wear her heart out first.

No, that's impossible: she may wear her heart out first.

Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter: let it cool the while. I love Benedick well, and I could wish he would modestly examine himself, to see how much he is unworthy so good a lady.

Well, we'll hear more about it from your daughter: let it cool in the meantime. I'm very fond of Benedick, and I could wish he would examine himself modestly, to see how completely he is unworthy of such a good lady.

My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready.

My lord, will you come along? Dinner is ready.

[Aside] If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation.

[Aside] If he doesn't become besotted with her after this, I'll never trust what I expect again.

[Aside] Let there be the same net spread for her; and that must your daughter and her gentlewoman carry. The sport will be, when they hold one an opinion of another’s dotage, and no such matter: that’s the scene that I would see, which will be merely a dumb show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner.

[Aside] Let the same net be spread for her; and your daughter and her waiting-woman must manage that. The fun will be when each of them believes the other is in love, and there's nothing in it: that's the scene I'd like to see, which will be nothing but a silent play. Let's send her to call him in to dinner.

[Advancing from the arbour.] This can be no trick: the conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady: it seems her affections have their full bent. Love me? why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured: they say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her; they say too that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. I did never think to marry: I must not seem proud: happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair: ’tis a truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous: ’tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving me: by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage; but doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humour? No; the world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day! she’s a fair lady: I do spy some marks of love in her.

[Coming forward from the arbour.] This can't be a trick: the conversation was carried on seriously. They have the truth of it from Hero. They seem to pity the lady: it seems her feelings are bent as far as they can go. Love me? Why, it must be returned. I hear how people judge me: they say I'll behave proudly if I see that the love comes from her; they say too that she'd rather die than give any sign of affection. I never meant to marry: I mustn't seem proud: lucky are those who hear themselves criticised and can set the faults right. They say the lady is beautiful: that's true, I can testify to it; and virtuous: that's so, I can't deny it; and wise, except in loving me: honestly, that's no credit to her intelligence, nor any great proof of her foolishness, for I'm going to be terribly in love with her. I may possibly have some strange jokes and leftover scraps of wit thrown at me, because I've railed against marriage for so long; but doesn't a person's appetite change? A man loves in his youth the food he can't stand in his old age. Shall taunts and maxims and these paper bullets of the brain frighten a man out of following his own inclination? No; the world must be populated. When I said I would die a bachelor, I didn't think I would live until I was married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day, she's a beautiful lady: I do detect some signs of love in her.

Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.

Against my will I've been sent to tell you to come in to dinner.

Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.

Beautiful Beatrice, I thank you for your trouble.

I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would not have come.

I took no more trouble to earn those thanks than you take trouble to thank me: if it had been troublesome, I wouldn't have come.

You take pleasure then in the message?

So you take pleasure in the errand?

Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife’s point, and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior: fare you well.

Yes, just as much as you could pick up on a knife's point and choke a jackdaw with. You have no appetite, sir: goodbye.

Ha! ‘Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner,’ there’s a double meaning in that. ‘I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me,’ that’s as much as to say, Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture.

Ha! 'Against my will I've been sent to tell you to come in to dinner'—there's a double meaning in that. 'I took no more trouble to earn those thanks than you took trouble to thank me'—that amounts to saying, Any trouble I take for you is as easy as saying thanks. If I don't take pity on her, I'm a villain; if I don't love her, I'm a Jew. I'll go and get her portrait.