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 honey-suckles, ripen'd by the sun, "Forbid the sun to enter;-like favourites, "Made proud by princes, that advance their

pride

10

"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.

Marg. I'll make her come, I warrant you, presently.

[Exit. Hero. 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 hear-say. Now begin.

Enter BEATRICE, behind.

For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs
Close by the ground, to hear our conference.
Urs. The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish
Cut with her golden oars the silver stream,
And greedily devour the treacherous bait :

20

So angle we for Beatrice; who even now
Is couched in the woodbine coverture:
Fear you not my part of the dialogue.

30

Hero. Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing

Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.

[They advance to the bower.

No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful;
I know, her spirits are as coy and wild
As haggards of the rock.

Urs. But are you sure,

That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?

Hero. So says the prince, and my new-trothed

lord.

40

"Urs. And did theybid you tell her of it, madam ? "Hero." They did intreat me to acquaint her

of it:

But I persuaded them, if they lov'd Benedick,
To wish him wrestle with affection,

And never to let Beatrice know of it.

Urs. Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman Deserve as full, as fortunate a bed,

Hero. O God of love! I know, he doth deserve

As ever Beatrice shall couch upon ?

As much as may be yielded to a man:

50

But nature never fram'd 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