Much Ado About Nothing, Act 3, Scene 1

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 Ursala Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse Is all of her; say that thou overheard’st us, And bid her steal into the pleached bower, Where honey-suckles, ripen’d 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.

Good Margaret, run to the parlour. There you'll find my cousin Beatrice talking with the Prince and Claudio. Whisper in her ear and tell her that Ursala and I are walking in the orchard, and that our whole conversation is about her. Say that you overheard us, and tell her to slip into the shaded arbour, where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, shut the sun out — like favourites, made proud by princes, who turn their pride against the very power that created it. There she can hide herself and listen to what we say. That's your task. Do it well, and leave us alone.

I’ll make her come, I warrant you, presently.

I'll get her to come, I promise you, at once.

Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come, As we do trace this alley up and down, Our talk must only be of Benedick: When I do name him, let it be thy part To praise him more than ever man did merit. My talk to thee must be how Benedick Is sick in love with Beatrice: of this matter Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made, That only wounds by hearsay.

Now, Ursula, when Beatrice comes, while we walk up and down this path, our talk must be only about Benedick. When I name him, your part is to praise him more than any man ever deserved. What I say to you must be how Benedick is sick with love for Beatrice. This is the stuff little Cupid's cunning arrow is made of, the one that wounds only by rumour.

Now begin; For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs Close by the ground, to hear our conference.

Now begin. Look where Beatrice runs low along the ground, like a lapwing, to hear our conversation.

The pleasant’st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, And greedily devour the treacherous bait: So angle we for Beatrice; who even now Is couched in the woodbine coverture. Fear you not my part of the dialogue.

The most enjoyable kind of fishing is to watch the fish cut through the silver stream with her golden fins and greedily swallow the treacherous bait. That's how we're fishing for Beatrice, who is right now crouching in the shelter of the honeysuckle. Don't worry about my part of the conversation.

Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.

Then let's go closer to her, so her ear misses none of the falsely sweet bait we're laying for it.

No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful; I know her spirits are as coy and wild As haggards of the rock.

No, truly, Ursula, she's too scornful. I know her spirit is as shy and wild as a wild hawk of the cliffs.

But are you sure That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?

But are you sure that Benedick loves Beatrice so completely?

So says the Prince, and my new-trothed lord.

So the Prince says, and so does my newly betrothed lord.

And did they bid you tell her of it, madam?

And did they tell you to let her know about it, madam?

They did entreat me to acquaint her of it; But I persuaded them, if they lov’d Benedick, To wish him wrestle with affection, And never to let Beatrice know of it.

They begged me to inform her of it. But I convinced them that, if they loved Benedick, they should want him to struggle against his feelings and never let Beatrice know about it.

Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman Deserve as full as fortunate a bed As ever Beatrice shall couch upon?

Why did you do that? Doesn't the gentleman deserve as complete and fortunate a marriage bed as any Beatrice will ever lie in?

O god of love! I know he doth deserve As much as may be yielded to a man; But Nature never fram’d a woman’s heart Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice; Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, Misprising what they look on, and her wit Values itself 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-endear’d.

Oh, god of love! I know he deserves as much as can be granted to any man. But Nature never made a woman's heart out of prouder material than Beatrice's. Disdain and scorn flash in her eyes, undervaluing whatever they look at, and her cleverness rates itself so highly that to her everything else seems worthless. She cannot love, nor can she form any idea or plan of affection, she's so in love with herself.

Sure I think so; And therefore certainly it were not good She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.

I'm sure you're right. And so it certainly wouldn't be good for her to know about his love, in case she made a joke of it.

Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man, How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur’d, But she would spell him backward: if fair-fac’d, She would swear the gentleman should be her sister; If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antick, 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.

Why, you speak the truth. I've never yet seen a man, however wise, however noble, young, however handsomely made, that she wouldn't read backwards. If he's fair-faced, she'd swear the gentleman ought to be her sister; if dark, that Nature, sketching a grotesque figure, made an ugly blot; if tall, a badly tipped spear; if short, a gemstone very badly carved; if talkative, a weathervane blown by every wind; if quiet, a lump that nothing moves. So she turns every man inside out, and never gives truth and virtue what plainness and merit have earned.

Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.

Surely, surely, such fault-finding is not admirable.

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 cover’d fire, Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly: It were a better death than die with mocks, Which is as bad as die with tickling.

No; to be so strange and so far outside all normal ways, as Beatrice is, can't be admirable. But who dares tell her so? If I spoke up, she would mock me into thin air. Oh, she would laugh me out of my own self, crush me to death with her wit. So let Benedick, like a banked fire, burn himself away in sighs and waste from the inside. That would be a better death than dying of mockery, which is as bad as being tickled to death.

Yet tell her of it: hear what she will say.

Still, tell her about it. Hear what she says.

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.

No; I'd rather go to Benedick and advise him to fight against his passion. And truly, I'll invent some harmless lies to blacken my cousin with. No one knows how much a single bad word can poison affection.

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 priz’d to have,—as to refuse So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.

Oh, don't do your cousin such a wrong. She can't be so completely lacking in real judgment — having as quick and excellent a mind as she's reputed to have — as to turn down so fine a gentleman as Signior Benedick.

He is the only man of Italy, Always excepted my dear Claudio.

He's the finest man in Italy — my dear Claudio always excepted.

I pray you, be not angry with me, madam, Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick, For shape, for bearing, argument and valour, Goes foremost in report through Italy.

Please don't be angry with me, madam, for saying what I think: Signior Benedick, for figure, for bearing, conversation and courage, ranks first in reputation throughout Italy.

Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.

Indeed, he has an excellent reputation.

His excellence did earn it, ere he had it. When are you married, madam?

His excellence earned it before he had it. When are you getting married, madam?

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.

Why, tomorrow, and every day after. Come, let's go in. I'll show you some dresses, and I want your advice on which is the best to wear tomorrow.

She’s lim’d, I warrant you, We have caught her, madam.

She's stuck fast, I promise you. We've caught her, madam.

If it prove so, then loving goes by haps: Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

If it turns out that way, then loving is a matter of chance. Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

[Advancing.] What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much? Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu! No glory lives behind the back of such. And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee, Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand: If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee To bind our loves up in a holy band; For others say thou dost deserve, and I Believe it better than reportingly.

[Coming forward.] Why are my ears burning? Can this be true? Am I so condemned for pride and scorn? Contempt, goodbye! And goodbye, maidenly pride! No honour survives behind the back of anyone like that. And, Benedick, keep loving; I'll repay you, taming my wild heart to your loving hand. If you do love me, my gentleness will encourage you to tie our loves together in a holy bond. For others say you deserve it, and I believe it on better grounds than rumour.