See, see, here comes the man we went to seek
See, see, here comes the man we went to seek.
Now, signior, what news?
Benedick, to Prince
Good day, my lord.
Welcome, signior. You are almost come to
part almost a fray.
In a false quarrel there is no true valor
We had like to have had our two noses
snapped off with two old men without teeth.
Leonato and his brother. What think’st thou?
Had we fought, I doubt we should have been too
young for them.
In a false quarrel there is no true valor. I came
to seek you both.
We have been up and down to seek thee, for we
are high-proof melancholy and would fain have
it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy wit?
It is in my scabbard. Shall I draw it?
Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side?
Never any did so, though very many have been
beside their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do
the minstrels: draw to pleasure us.
As I am an honest man, he looks pale.—Art thou
sick, or angry?
Claudio, to Benedick
What, courage, man! What though care killed a cat?
Thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.
Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, an you charge
it against me. I pray you, choose another subject.
Claudio, to Prince
Nay, then, give him another staff. This last was broke ’cross.
By this light, he changes more and more. I think he
be angry indeed.
If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle.
Shall I speak a word in your ear?
God bless me from a challenge!
Benedick, aside to Claudio
You are a villain. I jest not. I will make it good
how you dare, with what you dare, and when you
dare. Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice.
You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall
fall heavy on you. Let me hear from you.
Well, I will meet you, so I may have good cheer.
What, a feast, a feast?
I’ faith, I thank him. He hath bid me to a calf’s head
and a capon, the which if I do not carve most curiously,
say my knife’s naught. Shall I not find a woodcock too?
Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily.
I’ll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the
other day. I said thou hadst a fine wit. “True,” said
she, “a fine little one.” “No,” said I, “a great wit.”
“Right,” says she, “a great gross one.” “Nay,” said I,
“a good wit.” “Just,” said she, “it hurts nobody.”
“Nay,” said I, “the gentleman is wise.” “Certain,”
said she, “a wise gentleman.” “Nay,” said I, “he
hath the tongues.” “That I believe,” said she, “for he
swore a thing to me on Monday night which he
forswore on Tuesday morning; there’s a double
tongue, there’s two tongues.” Thus did she an hour
together transshape thy particular virtues. Yet at
last she concluded with a sigh, thou wast the
proper’st man in Italy.
For the which she wept heartily and said she
Yea, that she did. But yet for all that, an if she
did not hate him deadly, she would love him
dearly. The old man’s daughter told us all.
All, all. And, moreover, God saw him when
he was hid in the garden.
But when shall we set the savage bull’s horns
on the sensible Benedick’s head?
Yea, and text underneath: “Here dwells Benedick,
the married man”?
Fare you well, boy. You know my mind. I will leave
you now to your gossip-like humor. You break jests
as braggarts do their blades, which, God be thanked,
hurt not.—My lord, for your many courtesies I thank
you. I must discontinue your company. Your brother
the Bastard is fled from Messina. You have among
you killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord
Lackbeard there, he and I shall meet, and till then
peace be with him.
He is in earnest.
In most profound earnest, and, I’ll warrant you,
for the love of Beatrice.
And hath challenged thee?
What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his
doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!
He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an ape
a doctor to such a man.