I have brought Count Claudio
I have brought Count Claudio, whom you
sent me to seek.
Why, how now, count, wherefore are you sad?
Not sad, my lord.
How then, sick?
No, sure, my lord, my mother cried, but then there
was a star danced, and under that was I born.
Neither, my lord.
The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry,
nor well, but civil count, civil as an orange, and
something of that jealous complexion.
I’ faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true,
though I’ll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is
false.—Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name,
and fair Hero is won. I have broke with her father
and his goodwill obtained. Name the day of marriage,
and God give thee joy.
Count, take of me my daughter, and with her
my fortunes. His Grace hath made the match, and
all grace say “Amen” to it.
Speak, count, ’tis your cue.
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy. I were
but little happy if I could say how much.—Lady, as
you are mine, I am yours. I give away myself for you
and dote upon the exchange.
Speak, cousin, or, if you cannot, stop his
mouth with a kiss and let not him speak neither.
In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.
Yea, my lord. I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on
the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear
that he is in her heart.
And so she doth, cousin.
Good Lord for alliance! Thus goes everyone
to the world but I, and I am sunburnt. I may sit in a
corner and cry “Heigh-ho for a husband!”
Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.
I would rather have one of your father’s
getting. Hath your Grace ne’er a brother like you?
Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could
come by them.
Will you have me, lady?
No, my lord, unless I might have another for
working days. Your Grace is too costly to wear
every day. But I beseech your Grace pardon me. I
was born to speak all mirth and no matter.
Your silence most offends me, and to be merry
best becomes you, for out o’ question you were
born in a merry hour.
No, sure, my lord, my mother cried, but then
there was a star danced, and under that was I
born.—Cousins, God give you joy!
Niece, will you look to those things I told you of?
I cry you mercy, uncle.—By your Grace’s
By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.
There’s little of the melancholy element in her,
my lord. She is never sad but when she sleeps,
and not ever sad then, for I have heard my daughter
say she hath often dreamt of unhappiness and
waked herself with laughing.
She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.
O, by no means. She mocks all her wooers
out of suit.
She were an excellent wife for Benedick.
O Lord, my lord, if they were but a week
married, they would talk themselves mad.