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I have brought Count Claudio

Beatrice
I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.
Prince
Why, how now, count, wherefore are you sad?
Claudio
Not sad, my lord.
Prince
How then, sick?

No, sure, my lord, my mother cried, but then there
was a star danced, and under that was I born.

Claudio
Neither, my lord.
Beatrice
The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry,
nor well, but civil count, civil as an orange, and
something of that jealous complexion.
Prince
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.
Leonato
Count, take of me my daughter, and with her
my fortunes. His Grace hath made the match, and
all grace say “Amen” to it.
Beatrice
Speak, count, ’tis your cue.
Claudio
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.
Beatrice
Speak, cousin, or, if you cannot, stop his
mouth with a kiss and let not him speak neither.
Prince
In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.
Beatrice
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.
Claudio
And so she doth, cousin.
Beatrice
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!”
Prince
Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.
Beatrice
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.
Prince
Will you have me, lady?
Beatrice
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.
Prince
Your silence most offends me, and to be merry
best becomes you, for out o’ question you were
born in a merry hour.
Beatrice
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!

Source:
Act 2
Scene 1
Line 281

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