I do but stay till your marriage be consummate
I do but stay till your marriage be consummate,
and then go I toward Aragon.
I’ll bring you thither, my lord, if you’ll vouchsafe me.
Well, everyone can master a grief but he that has it.
Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new
gloss of your marriage as to show a child his new
coat and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold
with Benedick for his company, for from the crown
of his head to the sole of his foot he is all mirth. He
hath twice or thrice cut Cupid’s bowstring, and the
little hangman dare not shoot at him. He hath a
heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the
clapper, for what his heart thinks, his tongue speaks.
Gallants, I am not as I have been.
So say I. Methinks you are sadder.
I hope he be in love.
Hang him, truant! There’s no true drop of
blood in him to be truly touched with love. If he be
sad, he wants money.
I have the toothache.
You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards.
What, sigh for the toothache?
Where is but a humor or a worm.
Well, everyone can master a grief but he
that has it.
Yet say I, he is in love.
There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless
it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises, as to
be a Dutchman today, a Frenchman tomorrow, or
in the shape of two countries at once, as a German
from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard
from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a
fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no
fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is.
If he be not in love with some woman, there
is no believing old signs. He brushes his hat o’
mornings. What should that bode?
Hath any man seen him at the barber’s?
No, but the barber’s man hath been seen
with him, and the old ornament of his cheek hath
already stuffed tennis balls.
Indeed he looks younger than he did, by the
loss of a beard.
Nay, he rubs himself with civet. Can you smell
him out by that?
That’s as much as to say, the sweet youth’s in love.
The greatest note of it is his melancholy.
And when was he wont to wash his face?
Yea, or to paint himself? For the which I hear
what they say of him.
Nay, but his jesting spirit, which is now crept
into a lute string and now governed by stops—
Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude,
conclude, he is in love.
Nay, but I know who loves him.
That would I know, too. I warrant, one that
knows him not.
Yes, and his ill conditions; and, in despite of
all, dies for him.
She shall be buried with her face upwards.
Yet is this no charm for the toothache.—
Old signior, walk aside with me. I have studied eight
or nine wise words to speak to you, which these
hobby-horses must not hear.
Benedick and Leonato exit.
For my life, to break with him about Beatrice!
’Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this
played their parts with Beatrice, and then the two
bears will not bite one another when they meet.