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 go through 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 so that he may marry her to you.

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 of any secret obstacle to your being joined together, I order you, on your souls, to say so.

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 can do! 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? Interjections? Well then, some of them 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 could be worth as much as this rich and precious gift?

Nothing, unless you render her again.

Nothing, unless you give her back again.

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 kind of gratitude. There, Leonato, take her back again. Don't give this rotten orange to your friend; she is only the outward sign and appearance of her honour. Look! how she blushes here just like a virgin. Oh, what an air of authority and show of truth cunning sin can cover itself with! Doesn't that blood come rising as modest proof to testify to plain virtue? Wouldn't you all swear, all of you who see her, that she was a virgin, judging by these outward shows? But she is nothing of the kind: 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're going to say: if I have slept with her, you'll say she gave herself to me as if to a husband, and so excuse the sin committed beforehand. No, Leonato, I never tempted her with a single improper word; instead, like a brother to his sister, I showed shy sincerity and decent love.

And seem’d I ever otherwise to you?

And did I ever seem anything other than that 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.

A curse on you! Seeming! I'll write a denunciation of it. You seem to me like Dian in her sphere, as chaste as the bud before it opens; but your blood is more uncontrolled than Venus's, or than those overfed animals that rage in savage lust.

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

Is my lord well, that he speaks so far from the truth?

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 stand here dishonoured, for having tried 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 fatherly and natural authority you have 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 blame?

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 at 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 did see her and hear her at that hour last night talking with a lowlife at her bedroom window; and he, like the shameless villain he is, has indeed 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 are not to be named, my lord, not to be spoken of; language isn't decent enough to describe them without giving offence. And so, pretty lady, I am sorry for your very bad behaviour.

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 been given to your thoughts and the counsels of your heart! But goodbye, most foul, most fair! Goodbye, you pure wickedness and wicked purity! For your sake I'll lock up all the gates of love, and suspicion will hang on my eyelids, turning all beauty into thoughts of harm, and it will never be 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?

Why, 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, now that they've come to light, are smothering 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, please! 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 take away your heavy hand. Death is the best covering for her shame that anyone could wish for.

How now, cousin Hero?

What's this, 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 earthly thing cry shame on her? Could she stand here and deny the story that is printed in the blood of her face? Don't live, Hero; don't open your eyes. Because if I thought you wouldn't quickly die, if I thought your spirit was stronger than your shame, I would myself, coming after all these reproaches, strike at your life. Did I grieve that I had only one child? Did I complain about that, blaming stingy Nature's design? Oh, one is one too many because of you. Why did I have even one? Why were you ever lovely in my eyes? Why didn't I charitably take in some beggar's child at my gates, so that, when it was smeared like this and dragged through the mud of disgrace, I could have said, 'No part of this is mine; this shame comes from parents I never knew'? But she was mine, and mine that I loved, and mine that I praised, and mine that I was proud of, so much mine that I did not belong to myself, so highly did I value her. Why, 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 foul, tainted 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. For my part, I am so clothed in amazement that I don't know what to say.

O! on my soul, my cousin is belied!

Oh! On my soul, my cousin is being 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, honestly, I didn't; though until last night I had shared her bed for the past twelve months.

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, the case is made even stronger, which was already barred up with ribs of iron. 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? 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. The only reason I have stayed silent so long and let this course of events run on is that I have been watching the lady. I have noticed a thousand blushes come rushing into her face; a thousand innocent modest feelings sweeping those blushes away in an angelic whiteness; and in her eye there has appeared a fire to burn up the false beliefs these princes hold against her virgin truth. Call me a fool; put no trust in my learning or my observations, which with the seal of experience guarantee the substance of my studies; put no trust in my age, my standing, my office, or my theology, if this sweet lady does not lie here guiltless 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 so. 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 then do you try to cover with excuses something that stands there in its own nakedness?

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

Lady, who is the man you are accused 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 of no one. If I know any more of any living man than what a girl's modesty allows, let none of my sins be forgiven! 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 then 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 are honour itself; and if their good sense has been misled in this, the scheming behind it belongs to John the bastard, whose spirit labours 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 are speaking only the truth about her, these hands will tear her apart; if they are wronging her honour, the proudest of them will hear about it from me. Time has not yet dried up this blood of mine, nor has age eaten away my inventiveness, nor has fortune wrecked my resources, nor has my bad living stripped me of so many friends, that they will not find, once I am roused in such a cause, both strength of limb and cunning of mind, wealth of means and a choice 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 matter. 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 an outward 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 good will it do?

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 well managed it will turn slander into remorse on her behalf; that is some good. But that is not why I dream of this strange course; I look for a greater birth from this labour. Once she is dead — as it must be maintained — at the very instant she was accused, she will be lamented, pitied and excused by everyone who hears of it. For it happens like this: what we have we do not value at its true worth while we enjoy it, but once it is missing and lost, then we stretch its value high, then we discover the worth that possession would not show us while it was ours. So it will be with Claudio: when he hears that she died at his words, the thought of her life will creep sweetly into the workings of his imagination, and every lovely feature of her living self will come dressed in richer clothing, more moving, more delicate, and more full of life, before the eye and view of his soul than when she was actually alive. Then he will mourn — if love ever had any hold on his liver — and wish he had not accused her so, even though he believed his accusation was true. Let this be done, and have no doubt that the outcome will shape events into a better form than I can set out as merely likely. But even if everything else we aim at misses the mark, 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 injured reputation — in some secluded religious life, out of the 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 how close I am and how much I love the Prince and Claudio, still, on my honour, I will handle this as secretly and honestly as your soul would deal with your body.

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

Since I am overflowing with 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: let us go at once. For strange illnesses call for strangely forced cures. Come, lady, die so that you may live: this wedding day is perhaps only postponed. Be patient and endure.

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 go on crying a while longer.

I will not desire that.

I would not want 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: isn't that 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 don't believe me, and yet I am not lying either; 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.

Don't swear by it and then have to eat 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 eat it who says I do not love you.

Will you not eat your word?

Won't you eat your word?

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

Not with any sauce anyone could invent 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 just the right moment: I was 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 already 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.

We'll 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.

Hasn't he proved himself a villain of the worst kind, who has slandered, scorned and dishonoured my cousin? 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 market-place.

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 thing to say!

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! Truly, a princely piece of evidence, a fine Count Candy; 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 polite bows, courage into compliments, and men have turned into nothing but tongue — and elegant tongues at that. Nowadays anyone is as brave as Hercules who merely tells a lie and swears to it. I cannot become a man by wishing, so I will die a woman with 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 it 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's enough! I am committed; I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and leave you like that. By this hand, Claudio will pay me a heavy reckoning. Judge me by what you hear of me. Go and comfort your cousin: I have to say that she is dead. And so, goodbye.