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Claud.

And I’ll be sworn upon’t that he loves her,

For here’s a paper written in his hand,

A halting sonnet of his own pure brain,

Fashion’d to Beatrice.

Hero.

And here’s another

Writ in my cousin’s hand, stol’n from her pocket,

Containing her affection unto Benedick.

Bene. A miracle! here’s our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee, but by this light, I take thee for pity.

Beat. I would not deny you, but by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.

[Bene.] Peace, I will stop your mouth.

[Kissing her.]

D. Pedro.

How dost thou, Benedick the married man?

Bene. I’ll tell thee what, Prince: a college of wit- crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No, if a man will be beaten with brains, ’a shall wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it, and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee, but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruis’d, and love my cousin.