Much Ado About Nothing, Act 5, Scene 2

Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice.

Please, sweet Mistress Margaret, earn my thanks by helping me get a word with Beatrice.

Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty?

Will you write me a sonnet praising my beauty, then?

In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it; for, in most comely truth, thou deservest it.

In such a lofty style, Margaret, that no man alive will get over it; for, in all becoming truth, you deserve it.

To have no man come over me! why, shall I always keep below stairs?

To have no man come over me! Why, must I always stay down below stairs?

Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound’s mouth; it catches.

Your wit is as quick as a greyhound's mouth; it snaps things up.

And yours as blunt as the fencer’s foils, which hit, but hurt not.

And yours is as blunt as a fencer's practice sword, which hits but does no harm.

A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt a woman: and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice. I give thee the bucklers.

A very manly wit, Margaret; it won't hurt a woman. And so, please, go call Beatrice. I hand over my shield to you.

Give us the swords, we have bucklers of our own.

Give us the swords — we have shields of our own.

If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons for maids.

If you use them, Margaret, you must screw the spikes into the shields with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons for unmarried girls.

Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs.

Well, I'll call Beatrice to you; she has legs, I think.

And therefore will come.

And so she will come.

The god of love, That sits above, And knows me, and knows me, How pitiful I deserve,—

The god of love, who sits above, and knows me, and knows me, how pitifully I deserve—

I mean, in singing: but in loving, Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and a whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned over and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I cannot show it in rime; I have tried: I can find out no rime to ‘lady’ but ‘baby’, an innocent rime; for ‘scorn,’ ‘horn’, a hard rime; for ‘school’, ‘fool’, a babbling rime; very ominous endings: no, I was not born under a riming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms.

I mean, pitiful at singing. But at loving: Leander the fine swimmer, Troilus the first man to hire go-betweens, and a whole book full of these one-time ladies' men, whose names still run smoothly along the level road of a line of blank verse — why, none of them was ever so thoroughly tumbled over and over as my poor self is in love. Truly, I can't express it in rhyme. I've tried. I can find no rhyme for "lady" but "baby", a childish rhyme; for "scorn", "horn", a harsh rhyme; for "school", "fool", a silly rhyme — all very unlucky endings. No, I wasn't born under a rhyming planet, and I can't court anyone in holiday language.

Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee?

Sweet Beatrice, did you really come just because I called you?

Yea, signior; and depart when you bid me.

Yes, sir; and I'll leave when you tell me to.

O, stay but till then!

Oh, stay only until "then"!

‘Then’ is spoken; fare you well now: and yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for; which is, with knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio.

"Then" has now been said; goodbye. And yet, before I go, let me leave with what I came for, which is knowing what has happened between you and Claudio.

Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee.

Only foul words; and on that note I'll kiss you.

Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed.

Foul words are nothing but foul wind, and foul wind is nothing but foul breath, and foul breath stinks; so I'll leave without being kissed.

Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge, and either I must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe him a coward. And, I pray thee now, tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?

You've frightened the word right out of its proper meaning — your wit is that powerful. But I must tell you plainly: Claudio has received my challenge, and either I must hear from him soon or I'll declare him a coward. And now please tell me: which of my bad qualities made you first fall in love with me?

For them all together; which maintained so politic a state of evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?

All of them together; they keep such a cunningly governed kingdom of wickedness that they won't let a single good quality mix in with them. But which of my good qualities made you first suffer love for me?

‘Suffer love,’ a good epithet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.

"Suffer love" — a good way to put it! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love you against my will.

In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor heart! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates.

In spite of your heart, I suppose. Poor heart! If you treat it spitefully for my sake, I'll treat it spitefully for yours; for I'll never love what my friend hates.

Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

You and I are too clever to court each other peacefully.

It appears not in this confession: there’s not one wise man among twenty that will praise himself.

That doesn't show in this admission of yours: there isn't one clever man in twenty who will praise himself.

An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived in the time of good neighbours. If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps.

That's an old, old saying, Beatrice, from the days when neighbours were good to one another. If a man doesn't put up his own tomb before he dies these days, he'll be remembered no longer than the funeral bell rings and the widow cries.

And how long is that think you?

And how long is that, do you think?

Question: why, an hour in clamour and a quarter in rheum: therefore is it most expedient for the wise,—if Don Worm, his conscience, find no impediment to the contrary,—to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy. And now tell me, how doth your cousin?

A good question: why, an hour of loud mourning and a quarter of an hour of tears. So it's best for a wise man — if Don Worm, his conscience, raises no objection — to be the trumpeter of his own virtues, as I am of mine. So much for praising myself, who, as I myself will testify, is worth praising. And now tell me, how is your cousin?

Very ill.

Very unwell.

And how do you?

And how are you?

Very ill too.

Very unwell too.

Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste.

Serve God, love me, and get better. I'll leave you there too, for here comes someone in a hurry.

Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder’s old coil at home: it is proved, my Lady Hero hath been falsely accused, the Prince and Claudio mightily abused; and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone. Will you come presently?

Madam, you must come to your uncle. There's a huge commotion over at the house: it's been proved that my Lady Hero was falsely accused, and that the Prince and Claudio were badly deceived; and Don John is behind it all, and he has run away and gone. Will you come right now?

Will you go hear this news, signior?

Will you come and hear this news, sir?

I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes; and moreover I will go with thee to thy uncle’s.

I'll live in your heart, die in your lap, and be buried in your eyes; and what's more, I'll go with you to your uncle's.