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Good Margaret, run thee to the parlor; There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice Proposing with the prince and Claudio: Whisper her ear and tell her, I and Ursula Walk in the orchard and our whole discourse Is all of her; say that thou overheard’st us; And bid her steal into the pleached bower, Where honeysuckles, ripen’d by the sun, Forbid the sun to enter, like favourites, Made proud by princes, that advance their pride Against that power that bred it: there will she hide her, To listen our purpose. This is thy office; Bear thee well in it and leave us alone.
Good Margaret, go to the living room; There you’ll find my cousin Beatrice Talking with the prince and Claudio: Whisper in her ear and tell her that Ursula and I Are walking in the orchard and everything we talk about Is about her; say that you overheard us; And tell her to sneak into the shaded arbour, Where the honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, Keep the sun from getting in, like favourites, Made proud by princes, who boost their pride Against the power that created it: there she’ll hide, To listen to our plan. This is your job; Do it well and leave us alone.
I’ll make her come, I warrant you, presently.
I’ll make her come, I promise, right away.
Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come, As we do trace this alley up and down, Our talk must only be of Benedick. When I do name him, let it be thy part To praise him more than ever man did merit: My talk to thee must be how Benedick Is sick in love with Beatrice. Of this matter Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made, That only wounds by hearsay.
Now, Ursula, when Beatrice comes, As we walk up and down this path, Our conversation must be all about Benedick. When I mention his name, you should praise him More than anyone ever deserved: My talk to you must be about how Benedick Is madly in love with Beatrice. This matter Is little Cupid’s clever arrow, That only wounds through gossip.
Now begin; For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs Close by the ground, to hear our conference.
Now let’s begin; For look, here comes Beatrice, like a bird, Running close to the ground, to overhear us.
The pleasant’st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, And greedily devour the treacherous bait: So angle we for Beatrice; who even now Is couched in the woodbine coverture. Fear you not my part of the dialogue.
The best kind of fishing is watching the fish Cut through the silver stream with their golden fins, And greedily devour the tempting bait: So we’ll fish for Beatrice; who right now Is hiding in the honeysuckle cover. Don’t worry about my part of the conversation.
Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.
Then let’s go near her, so her ear doesn’t miss Any of the sweet lies we’re feeding it.
No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful; I know her spirits are as coy and wild As haggerds of the rock.
No, really, Ursula, she’s too proud; I know her heart is as shy and wild As birds of prey on the cliffs.
But are you sure That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?
But are you sure That Benedick loves Beatrice so completely?
So says the prince and my new-trothed lord.
The prince and my newly promised husband both say so.
And did they bid you tell her of it, madam?
And did they ask you to tell her this, madam?
They did entreat me to acquaint her of it; But I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick, To wish him wrestle with affection, And never to let Beatrice know of it.
They asked me to tell her about it; But I convinced them, if they really liked Benedick, To encourage him to fight his feelings, And never let Beatrice know about it.
Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman Deserve as full as fortunate a bed As ever Beatrice shall couch upon?
Why did you do that? Doesn’t the man Deserve as good a bed as Beatrice will ever have?
O god of love! I know he doth deserve As much as may be yielded to a man: But Nature never framed a woman’s heart Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice; Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, Misprising what they look on, and her wit Values itself so highly that to her All matter else seems weak: she cannot love, Nor take no shape nor project of affection, She is so self-endeared.
Oh, god of love! I know he deserves As much as any man can get: But Nature never made a woman’s heart Out of prouder stuff than Beatrice’s; Disdain and scorn sparkle in her eyes, She looks down on everything, and her wit Makes her think she’s better than anyone else: She can’t love, Nor feel any affection, because she’s so self-absorbed.
Sure, I think so; And therefore certainly it were not good She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.
Sure, I think you’re right; And so it would be best If she didn’t know about his love, or she’d just laugh at it.
Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man, How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured, But she would spell him backward: if fair-faced, She would swear the gentleman should be her sister; If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antique, Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed; If low, an agate very vilely cut; If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds; If silent, why, a block moved with none. So turns she every man the wrong side out And never gives to truth and virtue that Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.
Well, you’re right. I’ve never seen a man, No matter how wise, noble, young, or handsome, That she didn’t criticize: if he was handsome, She’d say he looked like her sister; If dark, she’d say that Nature made a mistake, If tall, she’d say he was awkward; If short, she’d say he was poorly made; If he spoke, she’d say he was a fool; If he was quiet, she’d call him boring. She turns every man inside out And never gives credit to truth or virtue, The things that simple people and good character deserve.
Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.
Sure, sure, that kind of criticism is not admirable.
No, not to be so odd and from all fashions As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable: But who dare tell her so? If I should speak, She would mock me into air; O, she would laugh me Out of myself, press me to death with wit. Therefore let Benedick, like cover’d fire, Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly: It were a better death than die with mocks, Which is as bad as die with tickling.
No, it’s not good to be so odd and different Like Beatrice is, but who would dare tell her that? If I said it, She’d mock me until I disappear; she’d laugh me Out of my own sense, smother me with her cleverness. So let Benedick, like a smoldering fire, Fade away in sighs, suffer quietly: It’s a better death than being mocked, Which is as bad as dying from tickling.
Yet tell her of it: hear what she will say.
But you should tell her about it: see what she says.
No; rather I will go to Benedick And counsel him to fight against his passion. And, truly, I’ll devise some honest slanders To stain my cousin with: one doth not know How much an ill word may empoison liking.
No; instead, I’ll go to Benedick And advise him to fight his feelings. And really, I’ll come up with some harmless lies To make my cousin look bad: you never know How much a bad rumor can spoil a good feeling.
O, do not do your cousin such a wrong. She cannot be so much without true judgment-- Having so swift and excellent a wit As she is prized to have--as to refuse So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.
Oh, don’t do your cousin such a wrong. She’s not so lacking in judgment— With such a quick and brilliant mind As she’s said to have—that she would refuse A man as wonderful as Signior Benedick.
He is the only man of Italy. Always excepted my dear Claudio.
He is the best man in Italy. Except, of course, my dear Claudio.
I pray you, be not angry with me, madam, Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick, For shape, for bearing, argument and valour, Goes foremost in report through Italy.
Please, don’t be angry with me, madam, For speaking my mind: Signior Benedick, In terms of appearance, manners, intelligence, and courage, Has the highest reputation in Italy.
Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.
Yes, he does have an excellent reputation.
His excellence did earn it, ere he had it. When are you married, madam?
He earned that reputation before he even had it. When are you getting married, madam?
Why, every day, to-morrow. Come, go in: I’ll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.
Why, every day, tomorrow. Come, let’s go inside: I’ll show you some dresses, and get your advice On which one looks best for tomorrow.
She’s limed, I warrant you: we have caught her, madam.
She’s hooked, I’m sure: we’ve caught her, madam.
If it proves so, then loving goes by haps: Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
If this turns out to be true, then love happens by chance: Some people fall in love by fate, others by tricks.
[Coming forward] What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much? Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu! No glory lives behind the back of such. And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee, Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand: If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee To bind our loves up in a holy band; For others say thou dost deserve, and I Believe it better than reportingly.
[Coming forward] What’s going on with my ears? Could this be true? Am I really condemned for being proud and scornful? Goodbye, contempt! and goodbye, maiden pride! No glory stays with someone who acts like that. And, Benedick, keep loving; I’ll repay you, Taming my wild heart to your loving hands: If you love me, my kindness will encourage you To join our hearts in a holy bond; Because others say you deserve me, and I Believe that more than the gossip says.