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Without offense to utter them. Thus, pretty lady,

I am sorry for thy much misgovernment.

Claud.

O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been,

If half thy outward graces had been placed

About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart!

But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! Farewell,

Thou pure impiety and impious purity!

For thee I’ll lock up all the gates of love,

And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang,

To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,

And never shall it more be gracious.

Leon.

Hath no man’s dagger here a point for me?

[Hero swoons.]

Beat.

Why, how now, cousin, wherefore sink you down?

D. John.

Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light,

Smother her spirits up.

[Exeunt Don Pedro, Don John, and Claudio.]

Bene.

How doth the lady?

Beat.

Dead, I think. Help, uncle!

Hero, why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar!

Leon.

O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand,

Death is the fairest cover for her shame

That may be wish’d for.

Beat.

How now, cousin Hero?

Friar.

Have comfort, lady.