Much Ado About Nothing, Act 4, Scene 1

Come, Friar Francis, be brief: only to the plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their particular duties afterwards.

Come, Friar Francis, keep it short: just the simple marriage ceremony, and you can list their particular duties afterwards.

You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady?

You come here, my lord, to marry this lady?

No.

No.

To be married to her, friar; you come to marry her.

To be married to her, friar; you come to be married to her.

Lady, you come hither to be married to this Count?

Lady, you come here to be married to this Count?

I do.

I do.

If either of you know any inward impediment, why you should not be conjoined, I charge you, on your souls, to utter it.

If either of you knows any secret obstacle to your being joined together, I order you, on your souls, to say it.

Know you any, Hero?

Do you know of any, Hero?

None, my lord.

None, my lord.

Know you any, Count?

Do you know of any, Count?

I dare make his answer; none.

I'll dare to answer for him: none.

O! what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do!

Oh, the things men dare to do! The things men are capable of doing! The things men do every day, without knowing what they are doing!

How now! Interjections? Why then, some be of laughing, as ah! ha! he!

What's this? Exclamations? Well then, some express laughter, like "ah! ha! he!"

Stand thee by, Friar. Father, by your leave: Will you with free and unconstrained soul Give me this maid, your daughter?

Stand aside, Friar. Father, with your permission: will you, with a free and unforced heart, give me this young woman, your daughter?

As freely, son, as God did give her me.

As freely, son, as God gave her to me.

And what have I to give you back whose worth May counterpoise this rich and precious gift?

And what do I have to give you in return that is valuable enough to balance this rich and precious gift?

Nothing, unless you render her again.

Nothing, unless you give her back.

Sweet Prince, you learn me noble thankfulness. There, Leonato, take her back again: Give not this rotten orange to your friend; She’s but the sign and semblance of her honour. Behold! how like a maid she blushes here. O! what authority and show of truth Can cunning sin cover itself withal. Comes not that blood as modest evidence To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear, All you that see her, that she were a maid, By these exterior shows? But she is none: She knows the heat of a luxurious bed; Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.

Sweet Prince, you are teaching me a noble way to show thanks. There, Leonato, take her back again. Don't give this rotten orange to your friend; she is only the outward sign and appearance of honour. Look how she blushes here, exactly like a virgin! Oh, what a convincing air of authority and truth clever sin can hide itself behind! Doesn't that rush of blood look like modest proof, testifying to plain virtue? Wouldn't all of you who see her swear she was a virgin, judging by these outward appearances? But she is no virgin: she knows the heat of a lustful bed. Her blush is guilt, not modesty.

What do you mean, my lord?

What do you mean, my lord?

Not to be married, Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton.

I mean not to be married, not to tie my soul to a proven whore.

Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof, Have vanquish’d the resistance of her youth, And made defeat of her virginity,—

My dear lord, if you yourself, by your own trial of her, have overcome the resistance of her youth and taken her virginity—

I know what you would say: if I have known her, You will say she did embrace me as a husband, And so extenuate the forehand sin: No, Leonato, I never tempted her with word too large; But as a brother to his sister show’d Bashful sincerity and comely love.

I know what you are about to say: if I have slept with her, you will say she gave herself to me as a husband, and so make light of the sin committed beforehand. No, Leonato, I never tempted her with a single improper word, but showed her, as a brother does his sister, shy honesty and decent affection.

And seem’d I ever otherwise to you?

And did I ever seem anything else to you?

Out on thee! Seeming! I will write against it: You seem to me as Dian in her orb, As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown; But you are more intemperate in your blood Than Venus, or those pamper’d animals That rage in savage sensuality.

Curse you! Seeming! I will write a book attacking it. To me you seemed like Diana in her sphere, as chaste as a bud before it opens; but in your blood you are wilder than Venus, or those overfed animals that rave in brutish lust.

Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?

Is my lord well, that he talks so far off the mark?

Sweet Prince, why speak not you?

Sweet Prince, why don't you speak?

What should I speak? I stand dishonour’d, that have gone about To link my dear friend to a common stale.

What should I say? I am disgraced, having worked to tie my dear friend to a common prostitute.

Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?

Are these things really being said, or am I only dreaming?

Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.

Sir, they are being said, and these things are true.

This looks not like a nuptial.

This doesn't look like a wedding.

True! O God!

True! Oh God!

Leonato, stand I here? Is this the Prince? Is this the Prince’s brother? Is this face Hero’s? Are our eyes our own?

Leonato, am I standing here? Is this the Prince? Is this the Prince's brother? Is this face Hero's? Are our eyes our own?

All this is so; but what of this, my lord?

All of that is so; but what of it, my lord?

Let me but move one question to your daughter, And by that fatherly and kindly power That you have in her, bid her answer truly.

Just let me put one question to your daughter, and by that natural power a father has over her, tell her to answer truthfully.

I charge thee do so, as thou art my child.

I order you to do so, as you are my child.

O, God defend me! how am I beset! What kind of catechizing call you this?

Oh, God protect me! How I am surrounded! What kind of questioning do you call this?

To make you answer truly to your name.

Questioning to make you answer truthfully to your own name.

Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name With any just reproach?

Isn't it Hero? Who can stain that name with any deserved accusation?

Marry, that can Hero: Hero itself can blot out Hero’s virtue. What man was he talk’d with you yesternight Out at your window, betwixt twelve and one? Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.

Why, Hero can. Hero herself can blot out Hero's virtue. Who was the man who talked with you last night out of your window, between twelve and one? Now, if you are a virgin, answer that.

I talk’d with no man at that hour, my lord.

I talked with no man at that hour, my lord.

Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato, I am sorry you must hear: upon my honour, Myself, my brother, and this grieved Count, Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night, Talk with a ruffian at her chamber window; Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain, Confess’d the vile encounters they have had A thousand times in secret.

Why then, you are no virgin. Leonato, I am sorry you have to hear this: on my honour, I myself, my brother, and this grieving Count saw her and heard her at that hour last night talking with a lowlife at her bedroom window. He has indeed, like the shameless scoundrel he is, confessed the filthy meetings they have had a thousand times in secret.

Fie, fie! they are not to be nam’d, my lord, Not to be spoke of; There is not chastity enough in language Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady, I am sorry for thy much misgovernment.

Shame, shame! They mustn't be named, my lord, they mustn't be spoken of; there aren't clean enough words in the language to say them without giving offence. So, pretty lady, I am sorry for your terrible misconduct.

O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been, If half thy outward graces had been plac’d About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart! But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell, Thou pure impiety, and impious purity! For thee I’ll lock up all the gates of love, And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang, To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm, And never shall it more be gracious.

Oh Hero! What a Hero you would have been, if half your outward graces had belonged to your thoughts and the plans of your heart! But goodbye, foulest and fairest of women! Goodbye, you unholy purity and pure unholiness! For your sake I will lock all the gates of love, and suspicion will hang on my eyelids, turning all beauty into thoughts of harm, and beauty will never seem lovely to me again.

Hath no man’s dagger here a point for me?

Has no man's dagger here a point for me?

Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you down?

What's this, cousin! Why are you sinking down?

Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light, Smother her spirits up.

Come, let's go. These things, brought to light like this, have choked the life out of her.

How doth the lady?

How is the lady?

Dead, I think! Help, uncle! Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar!

Dead, I think! Help, uncle! Hero! Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar!

O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand: Death is the fairest cover for her shame That may be wish’d for.

Oh Fate! Don't lift your heavy hand away: death is the best covering for her shame that anyone could wish for.

How now, cousin Hero?

How are you, cousin Hero?

Have comfort, lady.

Take comfort, lady.

Dost thou look up?

Are you opening your eyes?

Yea; wherefore should she not?

Yes; why shouldn't she?

Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly thing Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny The story that is printed in her blood? Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes; For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die, Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames, Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches, Strike at thy life. Griev’d I, I had but one? Chid I for that at frugal Nature’s frame? O! one too much by thee. Why had I one? Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes? Why had I not with charitable hand Took up a beggar’s issue at my gates, Who smirched thus, and mir’d with infamy, I might have said, ‘No part of it is mine; This shame derives itself from unknown loins?’ But mine, and mine I lov’d, and mine I prais’d, And mine that I was proud on, mine so much That I myself was to myself not mine, Valuing of her; why, she—O! she is fallen Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again, And salt too little which may season give To her foul tainted flesh.

Why shouldn't she! Why, doesn't every single thing on earth cry shame on her? Could she stand here and deny the story that is written in the blood of her blushes? Don't live, Hero; don't open your eyes. Because if I thought you wouldn't die quickly, if I thought your spirit was stronger than your disgrace, I would myself, on top of all these reproaches, strike at your life. Did I grieve that I had only one child? Did I complain about that, about Nature's stingy design? Oh, one was one too many, because it was you. Why did I have even one? Why were you ever lovely in my eyes? Why didn't I charitably pick up a beggar's child at my gates, so that when it was smeared and muddied with disgrace like this, I could have said, "None of this is mine; this shame comes from parents I never knew"? But she was mine, and I loved her as mine, and praised her as mine, and was proud of her as mine, so much mine that I did not belong to myself, I valued her so highly. And now she — oh, she has fallen into a pit of ink, and the wide sea has too few drops to wash her clean again, and too little salt to preserve her foully rotted flesh.

Sir, sir, be patient. For my part, I am so attir’d in wonder, I know not what to say.

Sir, sir, be patient. As for me, I am so dressed in amazement that I don't know what to say.

O! on my soul, my cousin is belied!

Oh! On my soul, my cousin has been lied about!

Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?

Lady, did you share her bed last night?

No, truly, not; although, until last night, I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.

No, truly, I didn't; though for the past year, until last night, I have always shared her bed.

Confirm’d, confirm’d! O! that is stronger made, Which was before barr’d up with ribs of iron. Would the two princes lie? and Claudio lie, Who lov’d her so, that, speaking of her foulness, Wash’d it with tears? Hence from her! let her die.

Confirmed, confirmed! Oh, that makes the case stronger, and it was already shut tight with iron bars. Would the two princes lie? And would Claudio lie, who loved her so much that, when he spoke of her filthiness, he washed his words with tears? Get away from her! Let her die.

Hear me a little; For I have only been silent so long, And given way unto this course of fortune, By noting of the lady: I have mark’d A thousand blushing apparitions To start into her face; a thousand innocent shames In angel whiteness bear away those blushes; And in her eye there hath appear’d a fire, To burn the errors that these princes hold Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool; Trust not my reading nor my observations, Which with experimental seal doth warrant The tenure of my book; trust not my age, My reverence, calling, nor divinity, If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here Under some biting error.

Listen to me a moment. I have only kept silent this long, and let this turn of events run on, because I have been watching the lady. I have noticed a thousand blushes flare up in her face, and a thousand innocent embarrassments in angelic whiteness drive those blushes away; and in her eye a fire has appeared, ready to burn up the false charges these princes bring against her maiden truth. Call me a fool; put no trust in my learning or my observations, which by the seal of experience back up the substance of what I have read; put no trust in my age, my standing, my profession, or my priesthood, if this sweet lady is not lying here innocent, under some cruel mistake.

Friar, it cannot be. Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left Is that she will not add to her damnation A sin of perjury: she not denies it. Why seek’st thou then to cover with excuse That which appears in proper nakedness?

Friar, it cannot be. You see that the only grace she has left is that she will not add the sin of perjury to her damnation: she does not deny it. Why do you try to cover with excuses something that shows itself completely naked?

Lady, what man is he you are accus’d of?

Lady, who is the man you are accused of being with?

They know that do accuse me, I know none; If I know more of any man alive Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant, Let all my sins lack mercy! O, my father! Prove you that any man with me convers’d At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight Maintain’d the change of words with any creature, Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death.

The ones who accuse me know; I know none. If I know any more of any living man than a girl's modesty allows, let all my sins go without mercy! Oh, my father! Prove that any man talked with me at improper hours, or that last night I exchanged words with any living creature, and reject me, hate me, torture me to death.

There is some strange misprision in the princes.

There is some strange mistake on the princes' part.

Two of them have the very bent of honour; And if their wisdoms be misled in this, The practice of it lives in John the bastard, Whose spirits toil in frame of villainies.

Two of them have the truest inclination to honour; and if their good sense has been misled in this, the trick behind it belongs to John the bastard, whose spirit works hard at constructing villainies.

I know not. If they speak but truth of her, These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour, The proudest of them shall well hear of it. Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, Nor age so eat up my invention, Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends, But they shall find, awak’d in such a kind, Both strength of limb and policy of mind, Ability in means and choice of friends, To quit me of them throughly.

I do not know. If they speak nothing but the truth about her, these hands will tear her apart; if they wrong her honour, the proudest of them will certainly hear about it. Time has not yet dried up this blood of mine, nor has age eaten up my inventiveness, nor has fortune wrecked my wealth so badly, nor has a bad life stripped me of so many friends, that they will not find, when I am roused in such a cause, both strength of limb and cunning of mind, the power of money and the pick of friends, enough to pay them back in full.

Pause awhile, And let my counsel sway you in this case. Your daughter here the princes left for dead; Let her awhile be secretly kept in, And publish it that she is dead indeed: Maintain a mourning ostentation; And on your family’s old monument Hang mournful epitaphs and do all rites That appertain unto a burial.

Wait a while, and let my advice guide you in this case. The princes left your daughter here for dead; let her be kept hidden away for a time, and announce that she really is dead. Keep up a public show of mourning, and on your family's old tomb hang mournful epitaphs and perform all the ceremonies that belong to a burial.

What shall become of this? What will this do?

What will come of this? What will this accomplish?

Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf Change slander to remorse; that is some good. But not for that dream I on this strange course, But on this travail look for greater birth. She dying, as it must be so maintain’d, Upon the instant that she was accus’d, Shall be lamented, pitied and excus’d Of every hearer; for it so falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack’d and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio: When he shall hear she died upon his words, The idea of her life shall sweetly creep Into his study of imagination, And every lovely organ of her life Shall come apparell’d in more precious habit, More moving, delicate, and full of life Into the eye and prospect of his soul, Than when she liv’d indeed: then shall he mourn,— If ever love had interest in his liver,— And wish he had not so accused her, No, though he thought his accusation true. Let this be so, and doubt not but success Will fashion the event in better shape Than I can lay it down in likelihood. But if all aim but this be levell’d false, The supposition of the lady’s death Will quench the wonder of her infamy: And if it sort not well, you may conceal her,— As best befits her wounded reputation,— In some reclusive and religious life, Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.

Well, if this is managed properly, it will, for her sake, change slander into pity; that is some good. But that is not why I dream up this strange course; I look for a greater birth from this labour. Her dying — since it must be maintained that she did — at the very moment she was accused, will be mourned, pitied and excused by everyone who hears it. For it so happens that we do not value what we have at its true worth while we enjoy it, but once it is missing and lost, then we exaggerate its value, then we discover the worth that owning it would not show us while it was ours. So it will go with Claudio: when he hears she died because of his words, the thought of her living self will creep sweetly into his imagination, and every lovely feature of her living body will appear dressed in richer clothing, more moving, more delicate, and more full of life, to the eye and view of his soul, than when she was actually alive. Then he will grieve — if ever love had any hold on his heart — and wish he had not accused her so, even though he believed his accusation was true. Let this be done, and have no fear that the outcome will shape events better than I can set them out as probabilities. But even if everything but this one aim is aimed wrongly, the belief that the lady is dead will put out the scandal of her disgrace. And if it does not turn out well, you can hide her away — as best suits her wounded reputation — in some secluded, religious life, out of reach of all eyes, tongues, minds and injuries.

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 secretly and justly as your soul Should with your body.

Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you. And though you know my closeness and affection are very much for the Prince and Claudio, still, on my honour, I will handle this as secretly and as fairly as your soul would deal with your body.

Being that I flow in grief, The smallest twine may lead me.

Since I am drowning in grief, the thinnest thread can lead me.

’Tis well consented: presently away; For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure. Come, lady, die to live: this wedding day Perhaps is but prolong’d: have patience and endure.

That is well agreed. Away at once, for strange wounds need strangely forced cures. Come, lady, die so that you may live. This wedding day is only postponed, perhaps. Be patient and bear it.

Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?

Lady Beatrice, have you been crying all this time?

Yea, and I will weep a while longer.

Yes, and I will cry a while longer.

I will not desire that.

I will not wish for that.

You have no reason; I do it freely.

You have no reason to; I do it of my own free will.

Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.

I truly do believe your lovely cousin has been wronged.

Ah! how much might the man deserve of me that would right her.

Ah! How much the man would deserve from me who would set her right.

Is there any way to show such friendship?

Is there any way to show such friendship?

A very even way, but no such friend.

A perfectly straightforward way, but no such friend.

May a man do it?

Can a man do it?

It is a man’s office, but not yours.

It is a man's job, but not yours.

I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?

I love nothing in the world as much as I love you. Is that not strange?

As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you; but believe me not, and yet I lie not; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin.

As strange as something I know nothing about. It would be just as possible for me to say I loved nothing as much as you; but do not believe me, and yet I am not lying. I admit nothing, and I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin.

By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.

By my sword, Beatrice, you love me.

Do not swear by it, and eat it.

Do not swear by it and then have to swallow it.

I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you.

I will swear by it that you love me, and I will make the man swallow it who says I do not love you.

Will you not eat your word?

Will you not take back your word?

With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee.

Not with any sauce that could be invented for it. I declare that I love you.

Why then, God forgive me!

Why then, God forgive me!

What offence, sweet Beatrice?

Forgive what offence, sweet Beatrice?

You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to protest I loved you.

You stopped me at a lucky moment: I was just about to declare that I loved you.

And do it with all thy heart.

Then do it, with all your heart.

I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.

I love you with so much of my heart that there is none left over to declare it with.

Come, bid me do anything for thee.

Come, tell me to do anything for you.

Kill Claudio.

Kill Claudio.

Ha! not for the wide world.

Ha! Not for the whole wide world.

You kill me to deny it. Farewell.

You kill me by refusing. Goodbye.

Tarry, sweet Beatrice.

Wait, sweet Beatrice.

I am gone, though I am here: there is no love in you: nay, I pray you, let me go.

I am gone, even though I am standing here. There is no love in you. No, please, let me go.

Beatrice,—

Beatrice—

In faith, I will go.

Truly, I am going.

We’ll be friends first.

Let us be friends first.

You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy.

You find it easier to be friends with me than to fight my enemy.

Is Claudio thine enemy?

Is Claudio your enemy?

Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O! that I were a man. What! bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour,—O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place.

Has he not proved himself a villain of the highest degree, having slandered, mocked and dishonoured my kinswoman? Oh, if only I were a man! What! To lead her along until they come to join hands, and then, with a public accusation, open slander, unrestrained spite — oh God, if only I were a man! I would eat his heart in the marketplace.

Hear me, Beatrice,—

Listen to me, Beatrice—

Talk with a man out at a window! a proper saying!

Talking with a man out of a window! A fine story!

Nay, but Beatrice,—

No, but Beatrice—

Sweet Hero! she is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone.

Sweet Hero! She is wronged, she is slandered, she is ruined.

Beat—

Beat—

Princes and Counties! Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly Count Comfect; a sweet gallant, surely! O! that I were a man for his sake, or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into curtsies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.

Princes and Counts! A princely piece of testimony, certainly — a fine Count Sugarplum; a sweet gentleman, no doubt! Oh, if only I were a man for his sake, or if I had any friend who would be a man for my sake! But manhood has melted away into bows and courtesies, courage into flattery, and men have turned into nothing but tongue, and stylish tongues at that. A man is as brave as Hercules now if he only tells a lie and swears to it. I cannot become a man by wishing, so I will die a woman from grieving.

Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.

Wait, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love you.

Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.

Use that hand for love of me in some other way than swearing by it.

Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero?

Do you believe in your soul that Count Claudio has wronged Hero?

Yea, as sure is I have a thought or a soul.

Yes, as surely as I have a thought or a soul.

Enough! I am engaged, I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin: I must say she is dead; and so, farewell.

That is enough! I am committed; I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand and then leave you. By this hand, Claudio will pay me dearly for this. Judge me by what you hear of me. Go and comfort your cousin. I must say that she is dead. And so, goodbye.