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The supposition of the lady’s death

Will quench the wonder of her infamy.

And if it sort not well, you may conceal her,

As best befits her wounded reputation,

In some reclusive and religious life,

Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.

Bene.

Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you,

And though you know my inwardness and love

Is very much unto the Prince and Claudio,

Yet, by mine honor, I will deal in this

As secretly and justly as your soul

Should with your body.

Leon.

Being that I flow in grief,

The smallest twine may lead me.

Friar.

’Tis well consented; presently away,

For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.

Come, lady, die to live; this wedding-day

Perhaps is but prolong’d, have patience and endure.

Exit [with all but Benedick and Beatrice].

Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?

Beat. Yea, and I will weep a while longer.

Bene. I will not desire that.

Beat. You have no reason, I do it freely.

Bene. Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wrong’d.