Hero. I talk'd with no man at that hour, my Lord. Pedro. Why, then you are no maiden. Leonato, I am forry, you must hear; upon mine Honour, Myfelf, my Brother, and this grieved Count Did fee her, hear her, at that hour last night Talk with a ruffian at her chamber-window; Who hath, indeed, most like a liberal villain, Confefs'd the vile encounters they have had A thousand times in fecret. John. Fie, fie, they are not to be nam'd, my Lord, Not to be spoken of; There is not chastity enough in language, Without offence, to utter them: thus, pretty lady, Claud. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been, For thee I'll lock up all the gates Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me? Beat. Why, how now, Coulin, wherefore fink you down? John. Come, let us go; these things come thus to light, Smother her spirits up. [Exe. D. Pedro, D. John and Claud. Bene. How doth the lady? Beat. Dead, I think; help, uncle. Hero! why Hero! uncle! Signior Benedick! friar! That may be wish'd for. Beat. How now, coufin Hero? Friar. Have comfort, Lady. Leon. Doft thou look up! ? Friar. Yea, wherefore fhould fhe not? Leon. Wherefore? why, doth not every earthly thing Cry fhame upon her? could fhe here deny The ftory that is printed in her blood? C 5 Do Do not live, Hero, do not ope thine eyes: Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but one? ? Chid I for That at frugal nature's frame? Hath drops too few to wash her clean again; Dene. Sir, Sir, be patient; For my part, I am fo attir'd in wonder, I know not what to fay. Beat. O, on my foul, my coufin is bely'd. Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night? Leon. Confirm'd, confirm'd! O, that is ftronger made, For I have only been filent fo long, And given way unto this courfe of fortune, By noting of the lady. I have mark'd A thoufand blushing apparitions To fart into her face; a thousand innocent fhames And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire, To To burn the errors that thefe Princes hold Leon. Friar, it cannot be; Thou feeft, that all the grace that the hath left, A fin of perjury; fhe not denies it: Why feeks thou then to cover with excufe That, which appears in proper nakedness ? Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accus'd of? Hero. They know, that do accufe me; I know none: If I know more of any man alive, Than that which maiden modefty doth warrant, Let all my fins lack mercy. O my father, Prove you that any man with me convers'd At hours unmeet, or that I yefternight Maintain'd the change of words with any creature, Friar. There is fome strange misprifion in the Princes, And if their wifdoms be misled in this, The Practice of it lives in John the baftard, Whofe fpirits toil in frame of villanies. Leon. I know not: if they speak but truth of her, Thefe hands fhall tear her; if they wrong her honour, The proudeft of them fhall well hear of it. Time hath not yet fo dry'd this blood of mine, Nor age fo eat up my invention, Nor fortune made fuch havock of my means, Friar. Paufe a while, And let my counsel sway you in this cafe. Your daughter here the Princes left for dead; (17) And publish it, that fhe is dead, indeed: Leon. What fhall become of this? what will this do? That what we have we prize not to the worth, (18) (17) Your Daughter here the Princefs (left for dead) But how comes Hero to start up a Princess here? We have no intimation of her father being a Prince; and this is the first and only time that the is complimented with this dignity. The remotion of a fingle letter, and of the Perenthefis, will bring her to her own rank, and the place to its true meaning. Your Daughter bere the Princes left for dead; i. e. Don Pedro, Prince of Arragon; and his Baftard Brother who is likewife call'd a Prince. So in the other Paffages of this Play; To burn the error that thefe Princes bold Against ber Maiden Honour. And again, There is fome frange Mifprifion in these Princes. I thank you, Princes, for my Daughter's Death. (18) That, what we have, we prize not to the Worth, Why, then we rack the Value; then we find -] Whether this be an imita tion, or no, I won't cortend; but if not, it seems to me a very ne paraphrafe on this paffage of Horace; Lib. III. Ode 24. Virtutem incolumem odimus, Whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and loft, And every lovely organ of her life Shall come apparel'd in more precious habit; Into the eye and profpect of his foul, Than when she liv'd indeed. Then fhall he mourn, If ever love had interest in his liver, And wish, he had not fo accused her; No, though he thought his accufation true: Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries. Should with your body. Leon. Being that I flow in grief, The fmalleft twine may lead me. Friar. 'Tis well contented, presently away; For to ftrange fores, ftrangely they strain the cure. Come, lady, die to live; this wedding day, Perhaps, is but prolong'd: have patience and en dure. [Exeunt. Manent |