Love's Labour's Lost (version 2) - Free Audiobook

000 Scene III. Leonato’s orchard.

MAAN II. 3 Enter Benedick.

001 Bene. Boy!

Enter Boy.

Boy. Signior?

Bene. In my chamber-window lies a book: bring it hither to me in the orchard.

005 Boy. I am here already, sir.

Bene. I know that; but I would have thee hence, and 007 here again. [Exit Boy.] I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at such 010 shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love: and such a man is Claudio. I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe: I have known when he would have walked ten mile a-foot 015 to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; 018 and now is he turned orthography; his words are a very fantastical banquet,—just so many strange dishes. May I 020 be so converted, and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not be sworn but love may transform me 022 to an oyster; but I’ll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am 025 well; another virtuous, yet I am well: but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. 027 Rich she shall be, that’s certain; wise, or I’ll none; virtuous, or I’ll never cheapen her; fair, or I’ll never look on 029 her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an 030 angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha! the prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour. [Withdraws.

033 Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato.

D. Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music?

Claud. Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is,

035 As hush’d on purpose to grace harmony!

D. Pedro. See you where Benedick hath hid himself?

Claud. O, very well, my lord: the music ended,

038 We’ll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth.

Enter Balthasar with Music.

D. Pedro. Come, Balthasar, we’ll hear that song again.

040 Balth. O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice

041 To slander music any more than once.

D. Pedro. It is the witness still of excellency

To put a strange face on his own perfection.

I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.

045 Balth. Because you talk of wooing, I will sing;

Since many a wooer doth commence his suit

To her he thinks not worthy, yet he wooes,

Yet will he swear he loves.

D. Pedro.

Nay, pray thee, come;

Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument,

Do it in notes.

Balth.

050 Note this before my notes;

There’s not a note of mine that’s worth the noting.

D. Pedro. Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks;

053 Note, notes, forsooth, and nothing. [Air.

Bene. Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it 055 not strange that sheeps’ guts should hale souls out of men’s bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when all’s done.

The Song.

Balth.

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,

Men were deceivers ever,

One foot in sea and one on shore,

060 To one thing constant never:

Then sigh not so, but let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny,

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into Hey nonny, nonny.

065 Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,

066 Of dumps so dull and heavy;

067 The fraud of men was ever so,

068 Since summer first was leavy:

Then sigh not so, &c.

070 D. Pedro. By my troth, a good song.

Balth. And an ill singer, my lord.

072 D. Pedro. Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough for a shift.

074 Bene. An he had been a dog that should have howled 075 thus, they would have hanged him: and I pray God his 076 bad voice bode no mischief. I had as lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague could have come after it.

D. Pedro. Yea, marry, dost thou hear, Balthasar? I 079 pray thee, get us some excellent music; for to-morrow night 080 we would have it at the Lady Hero’s chamber-window.

Balth. The best I can, my lord.

082 D. Pedro. Do so: farewell. [Exit Balthasar.] Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of to-day, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior 085 Benedick?

Claud. O, ay: stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits. I did never think that lady would have loved any man.

Leon. No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all 090 outward behaviours seemed ever to abhor.

Bene. Is’t possible? Sits the wind in that corner?

Leon. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to 093 think of it, but that she loves him with an enraged affection; 094 it is past the infinite of thought.

095 D. Pedro. May be she doth but counterfeit.

Claud. Faith, like enough.

Leon. O God, counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it.

D. Pedro. Why, what effects of passion shows she?

100 Claud. Bait the hook well; this fish will bite.

Leon. What effects, my lord? She will sit you, you 102 heard my daughter tell you how.

Claud. She did, indeed.

D. Pedro. How, how, I pray you? You amaze me: I 105 would have thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection.

Leon. I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially against Benedick.

Bene. I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded 110 fellow speaks it: knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.

Claud. He hath ta’en the infection: hold it up.

D. Pedro. Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?

115 Leon. No; and swears she never will: that’s her torment.

Claud. ’Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says: ‘Shall I,’ says she, ‘that have so oft encountered him with scorn, 120 write to him that I love him?’

Leon. This says she now when she is beginning to write to him; for she’ll be up twenty times a night; and there will she sit in her smock till she have writ a sheet of 124 paper: my daughter tells us all.

125 Claud. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember 126 a pretty jest your daughter told us of.

127 Leon. O, when she had writ it, and was reading it 128 over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet?

Claud. That.

130 Leon. O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence; railed at herself, that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her; ‘I measure him,’ 133 says she, ‘by my own spirit; for I should flout him, if he writ to me; yea, though I love him, I should.’

135 Claud. Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, 136 sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses; ‘O sweet Benedick! God give me patience!’

Leon. She doth indeed; my daughter says so: and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her, that my daughter is 140 sometime afeard she will do a desperate outrage to herself: it is very true.

D. Pedro. It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will not discover it.

144 Claud. To what end? He would make but a sport of 145 it, and torment the poor lady worse.

146 D. Pedro. An he should, it were an alms to hang him. She’s an excellent sweet lady; and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous.

Claud. And she is exceeding wise.

150 D. Pedro. In every thing but in loving Benedick.

Leon. O, my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian.

155 D. Pedro. I would she had bestowed this dotage on 156 me: I would have daffed all other respects, and made her half myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear what 158 a’ will say.

Leon. Were it good, think you?

160 Claud. Hero thinks surely she will die; for she says she will die, if he love her not; and she will die, ere she make her love known; and she will die, if he woo her, rather than she will bate one breath of her accustomed crossness.

D. Pedro. She doth well: if she should make tender of 165 her love, ’tis very possible he’ll scorn it; for the man, as 166 you know all, hath a contemptible spirit.

Claud. He is a very proper man.

D. Pedro. He hath indeed a good outward happiness.

169 Claud. Before God! and in my mind, very wise.

170 D. Pedro. He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit.

172 Claud. And I take him to be valiant.

D. Pedro. As Hector, I assure you: and in the managing 174 of quarrels you may say he is wise; for either he avoids 175 them with great discretion, or undertakes them with a most Christian-like fear.

177 Leon. If he do fear God, a’ must necessarily keep peace: if he break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling.

180 D. Pedro. And so will he do; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go 183 seek Benedick, and tell him of her love?

184 Claud. Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it out 185 with good counsel.

Leon. Nay, that’s impossible: she may wear her heart out first.

D. Pedro. Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter: let it cool the while. I love Benedick well; and 190 I could wish he would modestly examine himself, to see 191 how much he is unworthy so good a lady.

Leon. My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready.

Claud. If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation.

195 D. Pedro. Let there be the same net spread for her; 196 and that must your daughter and her gentlewomen carry. 197 The sport will be, when they hold one an opinion of another’s dotage, and no such matter: that’s the scene that I would see, which will be merely a dumb-show. Let us send 200 her to call him in to dinner. [Exeunt Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato.

201 Bene. [Coming forward] This can be no trick: the conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady: it seems her affections 204 have their full bent. Love me! why, it must be requited. 205 I hear how I am censured: they say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her; they say too that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. I did never think to marry: I must not seem proud: happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to 210 mending. They say the lady is fair,—’tis a truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous,—’tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving me,—by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for I 214 will be horribly in love with her. I may chance have some 215 odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage: but doth not the appetite 217 alter? a man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career 220 of his humour? No, the world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day! she’s a fair lady: I do spy some marks of love in her.

Enter Beatrice.

224 Beat. Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to 225 dinner.

Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.

Beat. I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would not have come.

230 Bene. You take pleasure, then, in the message?

Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a 232 knife’s point, and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior: fare you well. [Exit.

Bene. Ha! ‘Against my will I am sent to bid you come 235 in to dinner;’ there’s a double meaning in that. ‘I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me;’ that’s as much as to say, Any pains that I take for 238 you is as easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get 240 her picture. [Exit.