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c^  |.; 'ilje  f  Itt  |toif^  *^.'a.,vr. 


itich  Ado 
njui  Nothiiig 


toEORGE  SAMPSOM 


miJG'E 


I. ,  M  - 


I   ( 


The  Pitt  Press  Shakespeare 


MUCH  ADO 
ABOUT  NOTHING 


CAMBRIDGE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

C.  F.  CLAY,  Manager 
LONDON      :     FETTER     LANE,     E.G.  4 


NEW    YORK    :    T  H  K    M  A  C  M  1  L  L  A  N    C  O. 

BOMBAY      ] 

CALCUTTA  y  MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  LTD. 

MADRAS      j 

TORONTO  THE    MACMILLAN    CO.    OF 

CANADA     LTD. 
TOKYO  :  MARUZEN-KABUSIIIKI-KAISHA 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


SHAKESPEARE 

MUCH  ADO 
ABOUT  NOTHING 

EDITED  BY 

GEORGE  SAMPSON,  M.A. 

ST  JOHN'S  COLLEGE 


CAMBRIDGE 

AT  THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

1923 


PR 

hi  S3 


PRINTED  IN  GREAl    BRH AiN 


PREFACE 

THE  present  edition  of  Much  Ado  About  Nothhig  has 
been  prepared  for  those  whom  choice  or  necessity 
inclines  towards  a  text  with  a  full  commentary.  Those 
who  dislike  anything  beyond  a  plain  text  are  reminded 
that  nothing  compels  them  to  use  an  annotated  edition. 
They  may  also  be  reminded  that  the  text  of  Shakespeare 
is  rarely  "plain."  The  plainest  of  texts  will  usually  be 
found  to  contain  less  Shakespeare  and  more  editor  than 
the  reader  may  suppose.  Of  course  the  whole  body  of 
annotation  contained  in  such  a  volume  as  this  is  not 
meant  for  readers  of  one  type  or  age  or  capacity.  The 
explanation  needed  by  A  is  unnecessary  to  B;  the  dis- 
cussion that  may  interest  C  will  be  outside  the  range  of  D. 
And  so  on.  I  have  tried  to  make  the  appeal  as  wide  as 
possible,  and  to  interest  those  who  read  alone  as  well 
as  those  who  have  the  advantage  of  tutors. 

The  volume  follows  the  general  plan  of  those  prepared 
by  Mr  A.  W.  Verity  for  this  series.  Some  few  peculiarities 
may  be  noted. 

(i)  The  Introduction  includes  an  apparently  irrelevant 
account  of  Shakespearean  bibliography.  I  hope  this  will 
be  recognised  as  useful  and  appropriate.  Many  young 
students  begin  a  detailed  examination  of  a  play  without 
the  least  notion  of  how  the  text  of  Shakespeare  has  come 
down  to  us,  and  with  a  tendency  to  think  that  every  stop 
or  stage-direction  in  a  modern  edition  is  entitled  to  respect 
as  Shakespeare's  own.  Further,  they  do  not  understand 
why  there  should  be  many  textual  problems  in  Shake- 
speare and  next  to  none  in  Milton.  Such  discussion  of 
the  matter  as  I  have  been  able  to  give  is  very  elementary, 
but  it  may  help  to  prevent  the  student  from  supposing 
that  the  volume  called  Shakespeare  has  reached  us  in  the 
same  way  as  the  volume  called  Wordsworth. 


vi  PREFACE 

(2)  The  present  text  is  much  more  conservative  than 
that  usually  given  in  a  students'  edition.  Except  in  spelling 
it  reproduces  with  very  few  departures  the  text  of  the 
one  Quarto  (1600);  and  where  that  edition  will  give  sense 
I  have  kept  to  it,  and  have  rejected  some  time-honoured 
emendations .  Examples  will  be  found  at  I.  1.53,1.1.135, 
II.  I.  42,  II.  2.  32,  III.  I.  45,  IV.  I.  200,  V.  I.  16,  V.  2.  78. 
I  have  retained  as  a  now  traditional  convenience  the 
eighteenth  century  division  of  the  text  into  Acts  and 
Scenes ;  but  I  have  constantly  reminded  the  student  that 
Q.  has  no  divisions  of  any  kind  and  that  F.  has  bare 
division  into  Acts.  I  have  further  reminded  him  that  the 
scenic  directions  as  to  place  have  no  authority  and 
certainly  no  importance.  I  have  followed  as  closely  as 
possible  the  original  stage-directions,  but  I  have  normalised 
the  speech-headings.  Thus  Leonato's  brother  is  some- 
times Bro.,  sometimes  brother,  sometimes  Antho.,  some- 
times Ant.  I  have  kept  to  one  form.  We  may  properly 
retain  in  its  place  Etiter  Leonato,  and  the  Constable  and 
the  Headborough,  but  we  need  not  put  Head,  for  Verges 
at  the  beginning  of  that  officer's  speeches  in  that  single 
scene. 

(3)  The  spelling  is,  with  some  important  exceptions, 
the  spelling  of  to-day.  Nothing  appears  to  be  gained  (in 
such  an  edition  as  this)  by  a  reproduction  of  such  forms 
as  "A  kind  ouerflow  of  kindnefTe,  how  much  better  is 
it  to  weepe  at  ioy,  then  to  ioy  at  weeping?"  or,  "He  fet 
vp  his  bills  here  in  MelTina,  and  my  vncles  foole  reading 
the  chalenge,  etc."  There  are,  however,  places  where  the 
old  spelling,  or  something  like  it,  appears  an  advantage. 
Thus,  the  old  texts  use  such  forms  as  stufft,  approacht, 
markt,  which  are  at  least  as  good  as  stuff  d,  approach'd, 
markd,  and  better  than  stuffed,  approached,  fnarked.  I 
have  kept  them ;  but  I  have  not  kept  likt  for  lik'd,  dannst 
for  danc'd  or  hoptc  for  hop'd;  nor  have  I  kept  such  forms 
as  praisde,  confirmd,  kild,  challengde,  wrongd,  etc.  What  1 
have  done  very  carefully  is  to  retain,  in  a  clear  form,  ever}' 


PREFACE 


Vll 


elision  and  every  no-elision  of  Q.  When  the  present  text 
is  inconststejit  in  its  elisions  the  incotisistejicy  is  that  of  the 
original.  This  is  important,  because  some  persons  (notably 
Mr  Bayfield)  maintain  that  many  of  the  elisions  printed 
in  Q.  and  F.  were  not  intended  by  Shakespeare,  and  were 
made  by  the  printers.  Shakespeare  (we  are  assured)  did 
not  write  such  forms  as  entred  for  entered,  heele  for  he  will, 
dang'rous  for  dangerous,  but  meant  all  the  syllables  to  be 
pronounced;  nevertheless  the  printers,  not  recognising 
the  poet's  fondness  for  the  resolved  foot,  struck  out  what 
appeared  to  them  superfluous  syllables.  This  is  a  highly 
debatable  doctrine  which  we  cannot  even  begin  to  dis- 
cuss here ;  but  we  should  point  out  that  the  old  texts  are 
most  inconsistent.  In  the  present  play,  for  instance,  the 
word  loved  appears  in  different  places  as  loued,  lou'd, 
lou'de  without  any  discoverable  cause  of  difference.  What 
are  we  to  make  of  such  lines  as  these? 

.  But  I  perswaded  them,  if  they  lou'de  Benedicke. 
But  mine  and  mine  I  loued,  and  mine  I  praisde. 
In  the  rare  semblance  that  I  lou'd  it  first. 

We  cannot  found  a  theory  on  such  differences;  we  can 
only  admit  that  there  is  an  inconsistency,  and  reproduce 
it,  so  that  the  reader  whose  ear  demands  the  filling  out  of 
apparently  shortened  syllables  may  feel  certain  that  in 
the  text  before  him  he  has  no  editorial  meddling  with  the 
original. 

(4)  I  have  reverted  to  the  old  punctuation.  The  stops 
in  the  text  are  almost  exactly  those  of  Q.,  with  an 
occasional  loan  from  F.  where  that  second  thought  has 
appeared  better.  We  need  not  discuss  here  the  recent 
theory  of  Shakespearean  punctuation;  we  need  only  say 
that  modern  punctuation  is  grammatical  and  logical  and 
that  Shakespearean  punctuation  appears  to  be  rhetorical. 
Thus  in  modern  texts  a  certain  speech  in  this  play  is 
printed : 

This  man  said,  sir,  that  Don  John,  the  prince's  brother,  was 
a  villain. 


viii  PREFACE 

But  no  one  talks  in  gasps  like  that!  Q.  and  F.  print  it 
thus: 

This  man  said  sir,  that  Don  John  the  prince's  brother  was 
a  villain. 

Isn't  that  just  how  most  people  would  say  it?  But,  after 
all,  the  main  defence  of  our  reversion  is  that  the  punctua- 
tion in  the  text  is  the  original  printed  punctuation.  Those 
who  wish  to  vary  it  can  do  so;  but  they  will  have  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that  they  are  working  with  the 
original  data.  Personally,  I  find  that  the  old  punctuation, 
odd  as  it  looks,  makes  the  reading  easier.  The  matter  is 
mentioned  again  in  the  Introduction. 

An  editor  of  Shakespeare  is  in  the  debt  of  all  pre- 
ceding editors  back  to  Rowe  himself.  I  have  consulted 
(I  hope  with  the  right  proportion  of  profit  and  honesty) 
the  modern  editions  of  F.  S.  Boas,  J.  C.  Smith,  W.  A. 
Wright  and  K.  Deighton;  but  I  am,  of  course,  verj'^ 
specially  indebted  to  the  massive  Variorum  Edition  of 
Horace  Howard  Furness,  simply  because  it  assembles 
what  nearly  everybody  has  ever  said  about  the  play. 
Nevertheless  I  have  been  rash  enough  to  differ  from  all  of 
these  in  places,  especially  where  an  original  reading  has 
been  restored. 

For  valuable  help  most  generously  given  I  offer  very 
cordial  thanks  to  Dr  F.  S.  Boas,  to  Mr  A.  W.  Pollard, 
to  Mr  F.  Tavani,  to  Dr  William  Thomson,  and,  above 
all,  to  my  wife,  who  has  helped  me  in  many  ways,  but 
specially  by  making  the  translation  of  Bandello's  story 
printed  in  the  Appendix.  Strangely  enough,  although  this 
story  is  a  Shakespearean  source  at  first  or  second  hand,  it 
now  appears  for  the  first  time  with  its  ingenuous  Italian 
put  into  plain  English  for  general  circulation. 


GEORGE  SAMPSON. 


PORTOFINO, 

10  August,  1923 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION xi 

MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      .         .         .         .         i 

REFERENCE  LIST  OF  WORKS  ALLUDED  TO  IN 

THE  NOTES 79 

NOTES ^2 

GLOSSARY iS' 

APPENDIX.    BANDELLO'S  STORY           .          .          .197 
INDEX 2'9 


INTRODUCTION 

(I)  PUBLICATION  OF  THE  PLAY 

THE  first  appearance  of  Much  Ado  About  Nothing  in 
the  world  of  printed  books  took  place,  as  far  as  we 
know,  in  1600,  when  the  political  adventures  of  Essex  were 
troubling  the  last  years  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  It  came  out, 
like  some  other  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  as  a  small  paper- 
covered  quarto  pamphlet,  costing  fivepence  or  sixpence, 
and  containing  seventy-two  pages  of  rather  ill-printed 
matter. 

Overleaf  is  the  title-page. 

Apparently  it  was  never  reprinted  alone,  and  its  next 
appearance  was  in  the  first  collected  edition  of  Shake- 
speare's plays,  the  famous  First  Folio,  published  in  1623, 
seven  years  after  the  author's  death.  It  there  stands  sixth 
in  the  group  of  Comedies  and  occupies  twenty-one  pages. 
The  Catalogue  or  Index  calls  it  Much  adoo  about  Nothing ; 
the  heading  in  the  text  calls  it  Much  adoe  about  Nothing. 

The  oflScial  birth  of  the  play  as  a  book  is  recorded  thus 
in  the  Stationers'  Register  (see  Arber's  Transcript,  vol.  in, 
p.  37),  the  year  being  1600: 

my  lord  chamberlens  menns  plaies  Entred 
viz 
27  May  1 600    A  moral  of  clothe  hreches  and  velvet  hose 
To  master 

Robertas 
27  May  Allarum  to  London  j 

To  hym 

4.  .augusti 

As  you  like  yt  /  a  booke  \ 

HENR  Y  the  FFIFT  /  a  booke         I 
Euery  man  in  his  humour  /  a  booke    \-  to  be  staled 
The  commedie  of  muche  A  doo  about 
nothing  a  booke  /  / 

Later  in  the  record  (Arber,  ill.  170)  we  have  this  entry 
under  the  year  "42  Regin."  that  is,  1600: 

62 


Much  adoe  about 
Nothing. 

<i4s  it  hath  beenfundrie  times  publil^Iy 

a(5led  hy  the  right  honourabIe,the  Lord 

ChamberlaJne  his  fcruants. 
Written  by  }Vtlli,\mj  ShakfS^tarc, 


LONDON 

Printed  by  V.Sior  Andrew  Wifc^and 

William  Afpley. 
i5oo. 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

23.  augustt 

Andrew  Wyse      Entred  for  their  copies  vnder 
William  Aspley   the  handes  of  the  wardens 
Two  bookes.    the  one  called 
Muche  a  Doo  about  nothinge. 
Thother  the  second  parte  of 
the  history  of  kinge  HENR  Y  the 
Illjth  ^iifi  the  humours  of  Sir 
John  Ffallstaff:  Wrytten  by  master 
Shakespere xijd 

A  notable  entry,  for  it  is  the  first  time  that  our  greatest 
poet's  name  appears  in  the  Stationers'  Register. 

(II)   HOW  A  PLAY  CAME  INTO  PRINT 

(i)   Piracy  and  Copyright 

There  are  matters  arising  from  these  entries  that  need 
explanation.  The  explanation  will  take  us  some  distance 
from  the  play  under  immediate  discussion;  but  it  may  be 
useful  in  showing  the  student  how  a  play  of  Shakespeare 
came  into  print  and  why  the  text  is  in  places  uncertain. 

Shakespeare  did  not  publish  his  plays  as  Mr  Bernard 
Shaw  and  Sir  James  Barrie  publish  theirs.  The  reader 
beginning  a  study  of  Shakespeare  must  dismiss  from  his 
mind  not  merely  his  usual  ideas  of  a  theatre  and  a  stage, 
but  also  such  ideas  as  he  may  have  about  the  modern 
publication  of  books,  the  rights  of  authors,  and  the  pre- 
paration of  manuscripts  for  the  press. 

If,  taking  1922  as  our  base,  we  go  back  a  century,  we 
find  ourselves  in  the  year  of  Shelley's  death  and  Matthew 
Arnold's  birth.  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Lamb  and  Hazlitt 
are  in  their  maturity;  Tennyson  is  13,  Browning  and 
Dickens  10.  We  are  clearly  in  the  world  of  modern  litera- 
ture. If  we  go  back  still  another  century,  to  1722,  we  are 
in  the  great  days  of  Swift  and  Defoe,  we  are  in  the  Augustan 
age  of  English  prose.  If  we  go  back  a  century  more,  to 
1622,  we  are  on  the  eve  of  the  First  Folio  itself.  That  is  to 
say,  from  our  own  point  in  time,  we  can  look  back  over 
three  rich  and  crowded  centuries  of  modern  printed 
literature. 


xiv  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

But  notice  how  the  scene  changes  when  we  begin  with 
Shakespeare  himself.  He  was  born  in  1564.  If  we  go  back 
a  century,  we  are  in  the  very  infancy  of  printing.  The 
earliest-known  printed  document  with  a  date  is  an  In- 
dulgence of  1454.  To  1456  belongs  the  first  printed  book 
of  any  importance,  a  great  Latin  Bible,  undated,  the 
earliest  known  d^ted  book  being  the  Psalter  of  1457.  AH 
these  came  from  Mainz,  which  some  have  called  the  cradle 
of  typography,  although  printing,  possibly  in  a  cruder 
form,  may  have  been  practised  earlier  in  Holland.  In  1464 
there  was  no  printing  press  in  Italy  or  France  or  Switzer- 
land or  Spain — certainly  none  in  England.  The  first  book 
printed  in  English  is  The  Recuyell  of  the  historyes  of  Troye, 
produced  by  Caxton  at  Bruges  about  1475.  In  the  next 
year  he  set  up  his  press  at  Westminster,  and  in  1477 
produced  The  dictes  or  sayengis  of  the  philosophhres,  the 
first  dated  book  to  be  printed  in  England.  A  century'  and 
a  quarter  separate  the  Troy  Book  and  Much  Ado,  and  in 
that  period  the  development  of  English  printing  was  both 
great  and  rapid.  Still,  even  in  1600,  there  was  not,  as  now, 
a  solid,  settled  tradition  of  printed  literature — there  was 
no  large,  expectant  reading-public,  as  numerous,  almost, 
as  the  adult  and  adolescent  population  itself.  But  there 
was  something  else.  Obviously,  before  the  days  of  printing 
there  could  be  no  large  circulation  of  books.  The  medieval 
world  hadn't  a  great  reading-public,  but  it  had  a  very  great 
listening-public.  Literature  made  its  appeal  through  voice 
and  ear,  not,  as  now,  solely  through  the  eye,  and  the  poet's 
invocation  was  not,  "  Read,  mark,  learn,"  but  "  Lesteneth, 
lordinges,  both  elde  and  yinge."  In  the  days  of  the 
minstrels  there  was  no  large  circulation  of  poems,  but  there 
was  quite  a  considerable  circulation  of  poets.  Even  in  1600, 
despite  a  century  and  a  quarter  of  printing,  there  was, 
as  well  as  a  reading-public,  a  great  listening-public,  some 
of  it  technically  illiterate  in  our  sense,  but  bred  in  the 
tradition  of  generations  quick  to  follow  the  story  or  take 
the  points  in  lay  of  minstrel  or  homily  of  priest.  A  play 
of  Shakespeare  was  written  for  people  who  knew  how 
to  listen.  It  was  first  of  all  a  thing  heard  with  the  ears, 
and  only  secondarily  a  thing  read  with  the  eyes:  it  was  a 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

story  set  to  the  music  of  words  delivered  by  skilled  per- 
formers. To-day,  the  art  of  listening  is  so  far  lost,  that 
neither  actors  nor  audiences  seem  to  care  about  the 
difference  between  verse  and  prose ;  and  only  in  a  theatre 
with  a  specific  Shakespearean  tradition  will  you  feel  the 
intimate  sympathy  between  speaker  and  hearer  that  is  the 
first  postulate  of  Shakespearean  drama.  A  performance 
of  Verdi's  opera  is  often  closer  to  the  spirit  of  Othello 
than  a  performance  of  Shakespeare's  own  play. 

But  the  nearness  of  Shakespeare  to  the  dawn  of  printing 
has  helped  to  create  difficulties  rather  more  material.  In 
the  sixteenth  century,  print  was  so  far  still  a  new  thing, 
that  there  was  no  sound  tradition  of  law  about  it.  If  on 
the  production  of  a  new  play  by  Mr  Galsworthy  you 
engage  a  few  shorthand  writers  to  take  down  the  text  as 
spoken,  and  then  rush  off  and  publish  the  matter  thus 
obtained,  you  will  find  yourself  in  painful  conflict  with  the 
law  of  copyright.  If  someone  allows  you  to  see  the  manu- 
script of  a  new  story  by  Mr  Kipling,  and  you  make  a  copy 
of  it,  and  proceed  to  publish  it  without  the  author's  per- 
mission, you  will  again  find  yourself  in  conflict  with  the 
law,  and  your  "stolne  and  surreptitious  copies"  will  be 
instantly  confiscated  and  destroyed.  But  in  the  sixteenth 
century  such  piratical  deeds  were  quite  possible,  and  were 
sometimes  performed;  for  there  was  no  law  of  copyright 
and  no  clear  notion  of  literary  trespass.  Obviously,  until 
printing  made  the  multiplication  and  sale  of  books  a 
commercial  possibility,  an  author's  work  had  no  pecuniary 
value  (beyond  the  sum  he  might  expect  to  receive  from 
a  prosperous  patron,  if  he  had  one)  and  the  question  of 
property  rights  could  scarcely  arise.  Even  when  printed 
books  began  to  come  steadily  into  existence,  the  notion 
that  literature  (as  distinguished  from  almanacs  and  school 
books)  was  something  worth  stealing  or  protecting  grew 
but  slowly;  for,  as  long  as  the  reading-public  was  small, 
a  publisher  would  rather  produce  something  new  and 
original  than  reproduce  something  already  known  in  print. 

The  first  sign  of  a  copyright  appears  in  the  form  of  a 
privilege  (or  monopoly)  granted  to  the  printer  by  the  king. 
Mr  A.  W.  Pollard,  in  his  lectures  called  Shakespeare's 


xvi  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

Fight  with  the  Pirates  (Cambridge,  1920),  states  that  one 
of  the  eariiest  known  appearances  of  a  privilege  for  an 
English  printed  book  is  in  the  Latin  sermon  preached  by 
Richard  Pace  at  St  Paul's  Cathedral  on  the  Peace  between 
England  and  France.  This  was  printed  by  Pynson,  who 
finished  it  on  the  13th  of  November,  15 18,  and  stated  at 
the  end  of  the  colophon  (in  Latin)  that  it  was  issued  with 
a  privilege  granted  by  the  king  forbidding  anyone  else  to 
reprint  it  for  the  space  of  two  years.  This,  in  effect,  was 
the  grant  of  a  two  years'  copyright  to  Pynson  and  also 
an  admission  that  after  two  years  anyone  so  minded  might 
reprint  the  piece. 

(2)  Royal  Control  of  the  Press 

But  presently  the  sovereign  powers  of  the  realm  began 
to  take  notice  of  books  in  another  way.  On  the  Continent, 
the  new  art  of  printing  very  soon  became  involved  with 
the  politico-religious  disturbance  known  as  the  Reforma- 
tion. Books  were  powerful  weapons  in  the  conflict,  and 
had  therefore  to  be  controlled.  Royal  proclamations  con- 
taining lists  of  prohibited  books  began  to  be  issued  here 
in  1529.  In  1538  an  important  proclamation  declares  that, 
owing  to  the  growth  of  obnoxious  books,  the  importation, 
sale  or  publication  of  works  printed  abroad  is  prohibited 
without  his  Majesty's  special  licence;  further,  that  no 
books  shall  be  printed  here  till  they  have  been  examined 
by  some  of  the  Privy  Council  or  other  appointed  persons ; 
and  also  that  printers,  having  received  licence  to  print, 
shall  not  use  the  words  Cum  privilegio  regali  without  adding 
ad  imprimendum  solum,  and  declaring  in  English  the  fact 
and  meaning  of  the  licence. 

(3)  The  Stationers^  Company 

The  first  point  to  notice  about  this  proclamation  is  that 
it  establishes  a  censorship  of  books;  and  the  next  is  that 
the  words  ad  imprimendum  solum,  whatever  they  were 
originally  intended  to  signify,  came  later  (says  Mr  Pollard) 
to  be  interpreted  as  meaning  "for  sole,  or  exclusive 
printing."  That  this  is  so  is  evident  from  the  passage  in 
The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  (iv.  4.  91)  where  Biondello  says: 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

I  cannot  tell;  expect  they  are  busied  about  a  counterfeit 
assurance:  take  you  assurance  of  her,  cum  privilegio  ad  im- 
primendum  solum,  to  the  church. 

See  further  a  paper  by  A.  W.  Reed,  Trans.  Bibliog.  Soc. 
XV.  In  1557  came  the  most  important  event  in  the  early 
history  of  English  printing,  the  grant  of  a  Charter  by 
Queen  Mary  to  the  Stationers'  Company,  vesting  them 
with  all  the  legal  powers  and  privileges  of  a  Corporation 
and  giving  them  greater  authority  over  the  whole  book 
trade.  That  is,  the  Stationers'  Company  (which  became 
in  1560  one  of  the  liveried  companies  of  the  City)  received 
the  monopoly  of  publishing  books,  the  expected  return 
being  the  zeal  of  the  members  in  hunting  out  and  dragging 
into  publicity  the  secret  presses  to  which  desperate  Re- 
formers were  driven  to  resort. 

Under  the  rules  of  the  Company  every  member  was  required 
to  enter  in  the  register  the  name  of  any  book  or  copy  which  he 
claimed  as  his  property  and  desired  to  print,  paying,  at  the  same 
time,  a  fee  for  the  entry. ...By  their  charter  the  Stationers  were 
empowered  to  search  the  premises  of  any  printer  or  stationer 
to  see  that  nothing  was  printed  contrary  to  regulations,  and, 
accordingly,  searchers  were  appointed  to  make  weekly  visits  to 
printing  houses.... But  the  attentions  of  the  Company  were  not 
confined  to  illegal  productions;  the  brethren  themselves  were 
well  looked  after,  and  the  accounts  of  fines  received  for  breaking 
of  orders  and  other  offences  show  that  a  vigorous  supervision 
was  maintained.   (Camb.  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.  vol.  iv,  chap,  xviii.) 

It  will  be  seen  that,  apart  from  all  other  forms  of  censor- 
ship, the  Stationers'  Company  became  a  sort  of  licensing 
authority;  for  the  Government  henceforth  had  only  to 
issue  its  decrees  as  instructions  to  the  Master  and  Wardens 
to  be  sure  that  commercial  zeal  would  be  used  in  giving 
them  effect.  As  to  the  differences  in  Shakespeare's  time 
between  the  offices  of  printer,  publisher  and  bookseller, 
it  may  briefly  be  said  that,  under  the  rules  of  the  Company, 
it  was  difficult  to  become  a  printer  and  comparatively  easy 
to  become  a  publisher  or  bookseller;  that  all  printers  were 
publishers,  but  that  many  publishers  were  not  printers. 
See  further  on  this  point  the  essay  "Booksellers,  Printers 
and  the  Stationers'  Trade,"  by  R.  B.  McKerrow  in  Shake- 
speare's England,  vol.  11. 


xviii        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

(4)   Position  of  the  Author 

So  far  the  author  has  not  come  into  our  story.  The  right 
to  produce  a  work  was  given  by  the  Stationers'  Company 
to  the  publisher  who  entered  it  in  the  Register.  The  author, 
as  such,  had  no  rights,  and  had  to  make  what  terms  he 
could  with  the  publisher.  The  one  thing  necessary  for  the 
publisher  was  actual  possession  of  a  manuscript  that  he 
could  enter  in  the  Register.  Unless  some  powerful  person 
took  up  the  matter,  the  terms  upon  which  he  obtained  it 
were  nobody's  business  but  his  own.  Now  it  was  not 
always  the  author  who  provided  enterprising  publishers 
with  desirable  manuscripts.  The  Elizabethan  noblemen 
and  gentlemen  who,  after  the  agreeable  fashion  of  those 
spacious  days,  wrote  poems,  usually  "amatorious"  and 
sometimes  "vaine,"  circulated  manuscript  copies  of  their 
efforts  among  their  friends,  and  apparently  uttered  no 
protest  when  those  friends  made  copies  for  themselves 
as  a  personal  possession.  Some  one  of  those  friends,  over- 
enthusiastic  and  not  over-scrupulous,  possessing  a  manu- 
script work  by  some  notable  person,  might  be  persuaded 
to  part  with  the  treasure  to  a  solicitous  publisher,  who 
would  enter  it  in  the  Register  as  his  copy  and  proceed  to 
publish  it.  How  an  author  without  powerful  friends  or 
influence  could  interfere  is  difficult  to  see.  He  might 
never  hear  of  the  publication  till  the  book  was  actually 
in  existence.  He  could  not  claim  that  multiplication  was 
unlawful,  as  there  was  no  law ;  moreover,  if  it  was  allowable 
for  friends  to  make  copies  with  a  pen,  was  it  not  allowable 
for  other  friends  to  make  copies  with  type?  Apparently 
his  only  remedy  was  to  declare  the  piratical  publication 
false  and  faulty  and  produce  a  better  one  himself. 

(5)    The  Pirating  of  Plays 

Plays  were,  by  the  nature  of  things,  very  easy  to  steal, 
as  they  were  public  in  performance  and  could  be  taken  down 
more  or  less  accurately  by  ear.  Whatever  there  may  have 
been  before,  there  was  by  1608  a  practical  system  of  short- 
hand. 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

A  popular  play  (says  Mr  Aldis)  was  sure  of  finding  a  ready 
sale,  and  a  stationer  on  the  look  out  for  vendible  copy,  if  he 
could  obtain  an  acting  copy  of  a  favourite  play,  or  procure  a 
shorthand  writer  to  take  notes  during  the  performance,  would 
have  little  regard  to  the  wishes  of  either  playwright  or  players. 
(Camb.  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.  cap.  cit.) 

Piracy  in  the  printing  of  plays  is  a  theme  of  frequent 
complaint,  the  classic  reference  being  that  in  the  address 
To  the  great  Variety  of  Readers  prefixed  to  the  First  Folio 
Shakespeare  of  1623: 

It  had  bene  a  thing,  we  confesse,  worthie  to  have  bene  wished, 
that  the  Author  himselfe  had  liv'd  to  have  set  forth,  and  over- 
seen his  own  writings;  But  since  it  hath  bin  ordain'd  otherwise, 
and  he  by  death  departed  from  that  right,  we  pray  you  do  not 
envie  his  Friends,  the  office  of  their  care,  and  paine,  to  have 
collected  and  publish'd  them;  and  so  to  have  publish'd  them, 
as  where  (before)  you  were  abus'd  with  diverse  stolne,  and 
surreptitious  copies,  maimed,  and  deformed  by  the  frauds  and 
stealthes  of  injurious  impostors,  that  expos'd  them:  even  those, 
are  now  oflFer'd  to  your  view  cur'd,  and  perfect  of  their  limbes; 
and  all  the  rest,  absolute  in  their  numbers,  as  he  conceived  them. 

Two  other  striking  passages  are  worth  quoting,  both 
complaints  of  the  dramatist  Thomas  Heywood.  The  first 
is  the  preface  to  The  Rape  of  Lucrece  (1608): 

To  the  Reader. — It  hath  beene  no  custome  in  mee  of  all  other 
men  (courteous  Reader)  to  commit  my  plaies  to  the  presse :  the 
reason  though  some  may  attribute  to  my  owne  insufficiencie,  I 
had  rather  subscribe  in  that  to  their  seveare  censure  than  by 
seeking  to  avoide  the  imputation  of  weaknes  to  incurre  greater 
suspition  of  honestie :  for  though  some  have  used  a  double  sale 
of  their  labours,  first  to  the  Stage,  and  after  to  the  presse.  For 
my  owne  part  I  heere  proclaime  my  selfe  ever  faithfull  in  the 
first,  and  never  guiltie  of  the  last:  yet  since  some  of  niy  plaies 
have  (unknowne  to  me,  and  without  any  of  my  direction) 
accidentally  come  into  the  Printers  hands,  and  therefore  so 
corrupt  and  mangled,  (coppied  only  by  the  eare)  that  I  have  bin 
as  unable  to  know  them,  as  ashamed  to  chalenge  them,  This 
therefore,  I  was  the  willinger  to  furnish  out  in  his  native  habit: 
first  being  by  consent,  next  because  the  rest  have  beene  so 
wronged  in  being  publisht  in  such  savadge  and  ragged  orna- 
ments: accept  it  courteous  Gentlemen,  and  proove  as  favorable 
Readers  as  we  have  found  you  gratious  Auditors.    Yours  T.H, 


XX  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

The  second  passage  occurs  among  the  pieces  in  Hey- 
wood's  Pleasant  Dialogues  and  Dramma's  (1637).  This  is 
headed : 

A  Prologue  to  the  Play  of  Queene  Elizabeth  as  it  was  last 
revived  at  the  Cock-pit,  in  which  the  Author  taxeth  the  most 
corrupted  copy  now  imprinted,  which  was  published  without 
his  consent. 

Prologue. 

Playes  have  a  fate  in  their  conception  lent, 
Some  so  short  liv'd,  no  sooner  shew'd,  than  spent; 
But  borne  to-day,  to  morrow  buried,  and 
Though  taught  to  speake,  neither  to  goe  nor  stand. 
This :  (by  what  fate  I  know  not)  sure  no  merit, 
That  it  disclaimes,  may  for  the  age  inherit. 
Writing  'bove  one  and  twenty;  but  ill  nurst. 
And  yet  receiv'd,  as  well  perform'd  at  first, 
Grac't  and  frequented,  for  the  cradle  age, 
Did  throng  the  Seates,  the  Boxes,  and  the  Stage 
So  much;  that  some  by  Stenography  drew 
The  plot:  put  it  in  print:  (scarce  one  word  trew:) 
And  in  that  lamenesse  it  hath  limp't  so  long, 
The  Author  now  to  vindicate  that  wrong 
Hath  tooke  the  paines,  upright  upon  its  feete 
To  teache  it  walke,  so  please  you  sit,  and  see't. 

(Reprinted  in  Bang,  Materialien,  etc.,  vol.  ill.) 

A  play,  as  we  have  said,  for  the  Elizabethan  person,  was 
something  to  be  heard  and  witnessed,  before  it  was  some- 
thing to  be  read  and  possessed.  In  his  note  To  the  Reader 
prefixed  to  The  Malcontent  (1604)  John  Marston  thus 
complains : 

Only  one  thing  afflicts  me,  to  think  that  scenes,  invented 
merely  to  be  spoken,  should  be  enforcively  published  to  be  read, 
and  that  the  least  hurt  I  can  receive  is  to  do  myself  the  wrong. 
But,  since  others  otherwise  would  do  me  more,  the  least  incon- 
venience is  to  be  accepted.  I  have  myself,  therefore,  set  forth 
this  comedy. 

Statements  of  this  kind,  however,  could  easily  become  a 
pose,  and  mean  as  little  as  the  abject  humility  of  dedica- 
tions. 

(6)   Lawful  Publication  by  the  Actors 

A  dramatic  author  sold  his  play  to  the  actors,  not  to  the 
publishers ;  and  a  company  of  actors  possessing  a  good  play 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

would  be  as  unwilling  to  have  it  staled  in  print  as  modern 
comedians  to  have  their  "patter"  published  for  rivals  to 
imitate.  There  is  some  reason,  however,  to  believe  that  the 
players  themselves,  desiring  to  forestall  suspected  piracy, 
or  to  raise  money  in  lean  times,  arranged  the  publication 
of  a  play. 

On  22nd  July,  1598,  the  players  instructed  James  Roberts, 
the  printer  of  their  playbills,  to  prevent  the  piracy  of  The 
Merchant  of  Venice  by  entering  it  on  the  Stationers'  Register 
with  the  proviso  "that  yt  bee  not  printed  by  the  said  James 
Robertes  or  anye  other  whatsoever  without  lycence  first  had 
from  the  Right  honorable  the  lord  Chamberlen." 

Thus  Mr  Pollard  {Shakespeare's  Fight,  etc.),  interpreting 
the  bare  facts  of  the  Register. 

In  1600  the  Chamberlain's  men  apparently  had  reason  to 
fear  piracy,  and,  owing  to  the  Order  in  Council  of  22nd  of  June 
restricting  their  performances  to  two  a  week,  were  more  in- 
clined to  sell.  They  therefore  themselves,  on  4th  of  August, 
"  stayed  "  As  you  like  it,  Henry  V,  and  Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 
only  to  find  that  Henry  V  had  already  been  pirated  by  Thomas 
Millington  and  John  Busby.  As  you  like  it  they  prevented  from 
being  printed  at  all,  but  they  sold  Much  Ado  to  Andrew  Wise 
and  William  Aspley,  and  with  it  The  second  part  of  Henry  IV. 
(Pollard,  Shakespeare's  Fight,  etc.) 

That  is  to  say,  on  the  4th  August,  1600,  the  players 
registered  themselves  as  the  owners  of  certain  books  to 
be  published,  though  publication  was  "stayed,"  or  not  to 
be  proceeded  with  until  further  notice.  This  was  what  is 
called  in  Parliamentary  circles  a  "blocking  motion";  for 
even  if  the  players  did  not  proceed  at  once  to  publication, 
they  could  reckon  on  throwing  some  obstacles  in  the  way 
of  any  piratically-minded  person  who  tried  to  forestall 
them.  By  23rd  August  they  had  definitely  decided  to  sell, 
and  accordingly  parted  with  the  manuscript  of  the  plays 
Much  Ado  and  Henry  IV,  Part  II  to  Wise  and  Aspley,  who, 
having  paid  the  fee  of  "xijd"  and  received  the  Company's 
licence,  had  Much  Adoe  about  Nothing  printed  by  V.  S., 
i.e.  Valentine  Sims. 


xxii  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

(III)  POSITION  OF  THE  PLAYERS 

Let  us  assume  that  the  title-page  of  the  present  play  and 
the  entry  in  the  Stationers'  Register  have  been  sufficiently 
explained.  Two  further  points  now  come  up  for  considera- 
tion: first,  who  were  "My  lord  chamberlens  menn,"  and 
next,  what  was  the  nature  of  the  manuscript  which  they 
sold? 

(i)   Plays  as  Propaganda 

First  as  to  the  players.  In  modem  times  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  the  licensing  of  buildings — theatres,  music-halls, 
etc.,  and  a  censorship  of  plays.  In  the  sixteenth  century 
the  players  themselves  had  to  be  officially  recognised. 
During  the  troubled  years  when  England  was  in  a  state 
of  transition  from  its  old  Roman  allegiance  to  its  new  self- 
determination  in  church  government,  the  old  miracle  plays 
and  the  newer  morality  plays  and  interludes,  with  their 
strong  ecclesiastical  and  doctrinal  flavour,  were  powerful 
pro-Roman  influences  among  a  populace  to  whom  the 
play  was  what  the  cheap  book  or  picture  paper  or  cinema 
is  to  the  populace  of  to-day.  There  were,  of  course,  plays 
with  the  opposite  tendency.  When  a  royal  enactment  said 
one  thing  and  a  popular  play  said  something  different,  the 
play  would  always  be  more  potent  in  the  general  mind. 
The  proclamation  might  control  a  few  outward  actions; 
the  play  would  colour  the  mind  and  feelings.  How  could 
this  difficulty  be  met?  The  censorship  over  books  was 
fairly  thorough ;  but,  in  spite  of  it,  such  incendiary  publica- 
tions as  the  Martin  Marprelate  tracts  managed  to  slip  into 
existence  and  exert  their  powerful  influence.  Moreover, 
the  non-reading,  play-frequenting  public  was  unaffected 
by  all  ordinances  against  books.  What  remained,  therefore, 
was  to  establish  a  censorship  of  dramatic  performances, 
and  this  seemed  to  promise  most  success  if  it  took  the  form 
of  a  censorship  of  players. 

(2)   Licensing  of  Players 

Accordingly  a  statute  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  reign  (1572) 
thus  enacts: 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

And  for  the  full  expressing  what  persona  and  persones  shalbe 
intended  within  this  Braunche  to  be  Roges  Vacaboundes  and 
Sturdye  Beggers,  to  have  and  receave  the  punyshement  afore- 
said for  the  said  lewde  maner  of  Lyef;  It  ys  nowe  publyshed... 
and  set  foorth... That... all  Fencers  Bearewardes  Comon  Players 
in  Enterludes  &  Minstrels,  not  belonging  to  any  Baron  of  this 
Realme  or  towardes  any  other  honorable  Personage  of  greater 
Degree... whiche... shall  wander  abroade  and  have  not  Lycense 
of  two  Justices  of  the  Peace  at  the  leaste,  whereof  one  to  be  of 
the  Quorum,  wher  and  in  what  Shier  they  shall  happen  to 
wander... shalbee  taken  adjudged  and  deemed  Roges  Vaca- 
boundes and  Sturdy  Beggers,  intended  by  this  present  Act. 
{Shakespeare's  England,  vol.  ii,  chap,  xxiv.) 

(3)   Shakespeare  as  Player 

The  growing  power  of  Puritanism  rejoiced  in  this 
oppression  of  persons  charged,  and  sometimes  justly,  with 
all  manner  of  evil  behaviour.  The  stage  (from  behind)  has 
rarely  been  a  school  of  virtue  in  any  age.  People  sometimes 
allege,  as  an  example  of  life's  little  ironies,  that  our  greatest 
poet  was  no  more  than  a  rogue  and  vagabond  in  the  eyes 
of  the  law.  That  is  not  true.  Shakespeare  was  a  duly 
recognised  actor,  one  of  "  a  cry  of  players  "  under  exalted 
patronage.  Moreover,  he  was  author  as  well  as  actor,  with 
a  share  in  the  Globe  and  the  Blackfriars  theatres. 

Shakespeare  worked  throughout  his  career  for  one  company, 
the  earliest  that  was  formed  in  accordance  with  the  statute;  it 
was  licensed  as  Lord  Leicester's  in  1572,  became  Lord  Strange's 
on  the  death  of  its  first  patron,  then  the  Lord  Chamberlain's, 
and,  on  the  accession  of  James,  the  King's  men.  Other  important 
companies  were  the  Queen's,  founded  under  royal  warrant  in 
1583;  the  Admiral's,  under  Lord  Howard  of  Effingham,  first 
mentioned  in  1586,  and  renamed  as  Prince  Henry's  in  the  reign 
of  James  I ;  Lord  Worcester's,  which  became  Queen  Anne's ; 
and  Lord  Pembroke's,  first  mentioned  in  1593.  It  should  be 
noted  that,  when  James  succeeded  to  the  throne,  all  recognised 
companies  passed  under  royal  patronage.  (Percy  Simpson, 
Shakespeare's  England,  vol.  11,  chap,  xxiv.) 

It  has  recently  been  maintained,  by  the  way,  that  Shake- 
speare's first  company  was  the  Earl  of  Pembroke's.  There 
were,  of  course,  no  women  in  the  companies;  the  women's 
parts  were  played  by  boys — hence  the  frequent  predilection 


xxiv         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

of  female  characters  in  the  plays  for  the  garments  and 
status  of  male  persons — a  transformation  slightly  more 
convincing  when  it  meant  a  reversion  to  sex.  How  bravely 
the  boys  could  play  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that 
there  were  other  companies  of  actors  entirely  composed 
of  boys,  notably  the  "  Children  of  the  Chapel,"  and  the 
"Children  of  Paul's."  They  became  for  a  time  the  rage 
(as  the  "Infant  Roscius"  did  in  later  years)  and  entered 
so  far  into  dangerous  competition  with  the  "chamberlens 
menn"  that  Shakespeare  makes  indignant  reference  to  the 
Chapel  children  at  the  Blackfriars  in  a  famous  passage  of 
Hamlet  (ii.  2.  362-8). 

(4)   Players  and  Respectability 

There  is  no  real  inconsistency  between  Elizabethan 
patronage  of  the  drama  and  apparent  persecution  of  the 
actors.  The  statute  was,  in  some  respects,  merely  one  of 
the  many  attempts  that  have  been  made  in  all  ages  to  keep 
the  stage  respectable.  To-day,  when  disreputable  persons 
are  described  in  the  police-courts  as  "actresses,"  and 
illiterate  and  seedy  ranters  describe  themselves  as  "  actors," 
many  of  the  duly  accredited  members  of  the  profession 
are  desirous  of  having  some  form  of  academic  or  similar 
recognition  to  distinguish  them  from  the  unqualified  and 
undesirable  element.  Shakespeare,  let  us  remember,  as 
one  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  men,  and  later  as  one  of 
the  King's  men,  was  a  legally  respectable  person. 

(IV)   A  STAGE  PLAY 

The  second  question  we  raised  was  this:  what  was  the 
nature  of  the  manuscript  which  the  players  sold  to  the 
publisher?  Here  we  touch  upon  a  question  that  arouses 
some  contention  among  scholars.  The  main  facts,  however, 
can  be  easily  understood. 

(i)   Nature  of  the  Manuscript 

We  have  already  seen  that  publishers  could  sometimes 
obtain  a  pirated  copy  of  a  play  made  from  memory  or 
noted  down  in  shorthand.  That  would  be  a  "stolne  and 
surreptitious"  text.  The  genuine  play,  sold  by  the  proper 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

possessors,  might  be  a  collection  of  players'  parts,  or  the 
"prompt-copy,"  or  the  author's  original  manuscript,  or  a 
transcript  of  it.  There  has  been  some  controversy  upon 
the   question  whether   the   author's   original   manuscript 
was  used  as  the  prompt-copy,  or  whether  a  transcript 
was  made  for  the  use  of  the  producer.    It  is  obvious 
that  these  are  not  exclusive  alternatives.  Sometimes  the 
original  was  used,  sometimes  a  copy.    We  need  not  enter 
into  any  discussion  of  the  matter.  Everyone  who  has  taken 
part  in  amateur  theatricals  will  know  that,  if  the  play  to 
be  performed  is  unprinted,  the  performers  are  provided 
with  a  type-written  "  script "  of  their  "  parts,"  with  "  cues  " 
to  indicate  the  relation  of  those  parts  to  the  speeches  of 
the  other  performers.    Transcripts  of  the  whole  play  are 
not  given  to  all  the  cast;  but  the  producer  has  a  copy  of 
the  whole  play,  and  on  it  are  noted  the  full  stage-directions, 
the  "business,"  the  "properties,"  and  so  forth.  This  copy 
is  in  daily  use  at  the  theatre.    Readers  of  A  Midsummer- 
Night's  Dream  will  remember  that  Snug,  cast  for  the  lion 
in  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  plaintively  says,  "Have  you  the 
lion's  part  written?    Pray  you,  if  it  be,  give  it  me,  for  I 
am  slow  of  study";  and  that  at  the  first  rehearsal  Flute 
doesn't  know  when  to  come  in   or  where   to  stop;  for 
Quince,  the  "producer,"  having  told  him  when  to  begin, 
at  last  exclaims,  "Why  you  must  not  speak  that  yet;  that 
you  answer  to  Pyramus:  you  speak  all  your  part  at  once, 
cues  and  all."    Now  the  Elizabethan  play  sold  to  the 
publisher  might  be  a  collection  of  the  players'  parts,  to 
be  assembled  for  printing,  or  a  manuscript  of  the  whole 
play.    Even  to-day  editors  of  Elizabethan  madrigals  have 
usually  to  make  up  their  scores  from  the  separate  "parts" 
prepared  for  the  old  singers.    It  is  rather  unlikely  that 
players'  parts  would  be  sold,  for  these  were  more  valuable 
in  the  theatre  than  a  complete  copy.    Sometimes,  it  has 
been  suggested,  the  copy  for  printing  was  supplied  by  one 
unscrupulous   player,  who   could   provide   his   own  part 
accurately,  and  the  others  much  less  accurately;  but  that 
is  a  refinement  we  need  not  discuss  here.    The  Lanchinge 
of  the  Mary  (Brit.  Mus.  MS.  Egerton  1994)  is  an  author's 
original  that  has  plainly  been  used  as  a  prompt-copy. 

SMA  c 


xxvi         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

(2)   Provenance  of  Copy  for  Much  Ado 

The  transition  of  copy  from  playhouse  to  printer  is 
clearly  marked  in  the  present  play,  for  all  through  Act  iv. 
Sc.  2,  where  the  stage-direction  occurs,  "Enter  the  Con- 
stables, Borachio,  and  the  Towne  Clearke,  in  gownes,"  the 
names  of  the  two  principal  actors  and  not  of  the  characters 
are  printed — the  famous  Will  Kemp  interpreting  Dogbery 
and  Richard  Cowley  Verges.  See  note  on  p.  165  for  a 
quoted  passage  of  this  scene. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  printer  of  1600  had 
a  marked  theatre  copy  of  the  whole  play  in  manuscript 
(quite  possibly  Shakespeare's  own  original  script),  and  set 
up  his  pages  from  that;  and  there  can  be  equally  little 
doubt  that  the  printer  of  1623  had  a  marked  theatre  copy 
of  the  1600  printed  edition,  and  set  up  his  pages  from  that. 
One  interesting  variation  of  text  illustrates  this.  In  li.  3, 
the  Quarto  of  1600  has  the  stage-direction:  Enter  prince, 
Leonato,  Claudia,  Musicke.  The  Folio  of  1623  has  this 
direction :  Enter  Prince,  Leonato,  Claudio,  and  lacke  Wilson 
— "lacke  Wilson"  evidently  being  the  singer  of  the  song 
"  Sigh  no  more,  ladies."  The  Folio,  it  should  be  noted, 
follows  the  Quarto  in  printing  the  names  of  actors  instead 
of  characters  in  iv.  2.  The  two  texts  differ  surprisingly 
little  when  we  consider  the  interval  of  twenty-three  years 
in  which  stage  "business"  or  "gags"  might  easily  have 
become  accreted  upon  the  original  copy.  A  possible  in- 
ference is  that  the  play  was  not  so  frequently  performed 
as  we  might  suppose.  The  text  printed  here  is  mainly  that 
of  the  Quarto  (1600)  with  a  few  details  of  punctuation,  etc. 
taken  from  the  Folio.  The  latter,  on  the  whole,  gives  a 
distinctly  inferior  text. 

(V)   THE  DATE  OF  MUCH  ADO 

So  far,  we  have  watched  (at  some  length)  the  progress  of 
Much  Ado  about  Nothing  from  the  theatre  in  1600  to  its 
first  printer  in  the  same  year.  What  is  its  history  as  a  play 
before  it  became  a  printed  book? 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

(i)    The  List  of  Francis  Meres 

The  chief  external  authority  for  the  dating  of  Shake- 
speare's early  plays  is  the  list  given  in  Palladis  Tamia,  Wits 
Treasury,  by  Francis  Meres  (1598),  a  collection  of  choice 
utterances  on  art  and  morals  by  famous  authors,  mostly 
ancient,  together  with  some  slightly  precious  observations 
and  comparisons  by  the  author  himself.  The  following 
passage,  taken  from  the  section  called  A  Comparative 
Discourse  of  our  English  Poets  with  the  Greeke,  Latine,  and 
Italian  Poets,  is  the  most  important: 

As  the  soule  of  Euphorbus  was  thought  to  live  in  Pythagoras: 
so  the  sweete  wittie  soule  of  Ovid  lives  in  mellifluous  &  hony- 
tongued  Shakespeare,  witnes  his  Venus  and  Adonis,  his  Lucrece, 
his  sugred  Sonnets  among  his  private  friends,  &c. 

As  Plautus  and  Seneca  are  accounted  the  best  for  Comedy 
and  Tragedy  among  the  Latines :  so  Shakespeare  among  ye 
English  is  the  most  excellent  in  both  kinds  for  the  stage ;  for 
Comedy,  witnes  his  Geyitlemen  of  Verona,  his  Errors,  his  Love 
labors  lost,  his  Love  labours  wonne,  his  Midsumtners  tiight  dreame 
&  his  Merchant  of  Venice :  for  Tragedy  his  Richard  the  2,  Richard 
the  3,  Henry  the  4,  King  John,  Titus  Andronicus,  and  his  Romeo 
and  Juliet. 

As  Epius  Stolo  said,  that  the  Muses  would  speake  with  Plautus 
tongue  if  they  would  speak  Latin :  so  I  say  that  the  Muses  would 
speak  with  Shakespeares  fine  filed  phrase,  if  they  would  speake 
English. 

(2)   Love's  Labour's  Won 

Now  there  is  no  surviving  play  called  Love's  Labour's 
Won,  and  ingenious  scholars  have  tried  to  prove  that  it  is 
this  or  that  play  under  another  name.  Almost  every  play 
for  which  we  have  no  positive  evidence  of  date  has  been 
identified  with  it,  and  Much  Ado  is,  of  course,  one  of  the 
identifications.  It  may,  however,  be  said  decisively  that 
the  title  Love's  Labour's  Won  fits  the  plot  of  Much  Ado 
scarcely  at  all,  certainly  not  so  well  as  it  fits  (for  instance) 
the  stories  of  All's  Well  or  The  Tempest.  We  assume,  there- 
fore, that  Much  Ado  is  not  that  mysterious  comedy,  a 
conclusion  that  leaves  the  evidence  for  date  still  negative, 
for  the  play  may  have  existed  when  Meres  wrote  and  have 
been  omitted  from  his  balanced  list  of  six  comedies  and 


xxviii       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

six  tragedies.  This  is  not  very  probable  as  Meres  seems  to 
delight  in  quoting  multitudes  of  instances.  The  title-page 
of  1600  states  that  the  play  had  been  "sundrie  times 
publikely  acted  by  the  right  honourable,  the  Lord  Chamber- 
laine  his  servants,"  and  it  must,  therefore,  have  been  in 
existence  before  the  middle  of  that  year.  Attempts  have 
been  made  to  date  it  more  exactly  from  supposed  allusions 
in  the  text.  For  instance,  the  battle  referred  to  at  the 
opening  of  the  play  is  related  (not  very  convincingly)  to 
the  campaign  of  Essex  in  Ireland  in  1599,  and  the  pre- 
occupation of  the  Watch  about  one  "Deformed"  during 
III.  3  is  connected  with  a  character  in  Ben  Jonson's 
"  Cynthia's  Revels,  or  the  Fountaine  of  Selfe-Love,  a 
Comicall  Satyre.  First  acted  in  the  yeere  1600.  By  the 
then  Children  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  Chappell."  In  this  there 
is  one,  "  Amorphus,  or  the  deformed;  a  traveller  that  drunke 
of  the  fountain,  and  there  tells  the  wonders  of  the  water." 
The  fact  that  Ben  Jonson's  Amorphus  has  not  been,  like 
the  Watch's  man,"  a  vile  theefe  this  vii  yeares  "  is,  of  course, 
no  argument  against  the  identification.  The  Watch  is  not 
supposed  to  be  intelligent.  Unfortunately,  it  is  hard  to 
see  how  a  play  sold  to  the  printer  in  August,  1600,  after 
"sundrie"  performances,  can  make  an  allusion  to  another 
play  first  acted  in  1600.  It  is  barely  possible,  however,  if 
Ben  Jonson's  piece  was  acted  early  in  the  year,  for  there 
are  certain  indications  of  haste  in  Much  Ado  that  incline 
one  to  place  its  composition  not  very  long  before  publica- 
tion. But  I  think  it  very  improbable  that  there  is  any 
allusion.  Really,  apart  from  the  title-page,  there  is  no  direct 
evidence  for  date.  All  we  can  say  is  that  the  general  air  of 
fresh  maturity  warrants  a  supposition  that  the  play  (as  it 
now  exists)  was  put  together  about  1 599-1 600.  The  very 
first  scene  of  "flyting"  between  Beatrice  and  Benedick  is 
the  work  of  no  prentice  hand.  Rosaline  and  Biron  talk  like 
brilliant  youngsters  sparring  in  an  exhibition  match; 
Beatrice  and  Benedick  wield  dangerous  weapons  in  the 
serious  and  eternal  duel  of  sex. 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

(VI)    SHAKESPEARE'S  ORIGINALITY 

Another  question  arises.  Was  Shakespeare's  Much  Ado 
about  Nothing  the  first  EUzabethan  play  to  tell  its  particular 
story?  We  may  answer,  Probably  not;  though  there  is  no 
existing  play  producible  as  its  groundwork.  Young  students, 
with  the  practice  of  the  modem  stage  in  mind,  sometimes 
find  a  difficulty  in  understanding  how  Shakespeare  can  be 
an  original  genius  if  he  found  his  material  in  the  work  of 
other  men.  A  modem  playgoer  who  goes  to  see  a  new  piece 
by  a  popular  author  always  expects  something  new  what- 
ever he  may  actually  get.  If  the  play  is  really  new  and 
serious  it  may  run  for  a  few  weeks ;  if  it  is  much  less  new 
and  much  less  serious  it  may  run  for  a  few  years.  But  the 
Elizabethan  Londoner  knew  nothing  of  "  runs."  He  wanted 
a  frequent  change  of  fare,  and  he  hadn't  fort>'  theatres  to 
choose  among:  he  had  three  or  four.  The  companies, 
therefore,  needed  a  large  repertory  of  plays,  and  new,  or  at 
least  freshened  pieces  had  to  be  regularly  forthcoming. 
Students  must  not  think  of  an  Elizabethan  dramatist  as 
a  person  like  his  modem  counterpart,  who  works  at  leisure 
and  as  the  spirit  moves  him.  They  must  rather  think  of 
the  Elizabethan  theatre  as  a  roaring  loom  of  drama,  at 
which  new  plays  were  woven  with  great  speed,  and  by 
which  old  plays  were  patched,  freshened  and  joined  up 
for  immediate  use,  several  hands,  sometimes,  contributing 
to  the  processes.  Successful  dramatic  authorship  in  Eliza- 
bethan times  consisted  not  in  the  ability  to  produce  one 
"new  and  original  drama  of  modem  life"  per  annum,  but 
in  the  ability  to  adapt  or  put  together  a  stirring  play  in  a 
few  weeks.  Is  a  new  piece  wanted?  Well,  here  is  a  large 
book,  Holinshed's  Chronicles,  full  of  historical  incidents; 
here  is  another  large  book,  Plutarch's  Lives,  full  of  ex- 
emplary biographies;  here  are  books  of  stories,  mostly 
taken  from  the  Italian;  here  is  a  pile  of  old  plays,  once 
successful,  but  now  stale  and  obsolete.  Surely,  Master 
Shakespeare,  you  can  do  something  with  all  this  matter? 
So  Master  Shakespeare  sets  to  work  and  evokes  Macbeth 
from  Holinshed,  Julius  Caesar  from  Plutarch,  As  You  Like 
It   from    Lodge's   Rosalynde   and   King  John   from    The 


XXX  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

Troublesome  Raigne  of  King  John.  There  is  nothing  unusual 
in  this.  At  the  present  time,  popular  show  pieces  undergo 
periodical  revision,  and  appear  in  "a  new  edition  with  new 
songs  and  costumes."  Those  who  frequent  picture  palaces 
must  surely,  by  this  time,  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
American  film-makers  have  only  one  story  to  tell,  however 
much  they  vary  the  names  and  places.  Even  the  twelve 
"episodes"  of  a  serial  film  generally  prove  to  be  precisely 
the  same  episode  with  slight  variations.  The  Elizabethan 
playgoer  enjoyed  the  inevitable  complication  of  lover,  first 
heroine  (disguised  as  a  boy),  second  heroine,  who  falls  in 
love  with  the  "  boy,"  and  second  hero  who  comes  in  at  the 
end  to  save  the  situation,  just  as  heartily  as  the  modem 
picturegoer  enjoys  the  strong  silent  man  in  weeds  of  the 
West,  the  villain  of  mongrel  race,  and  the  child-like 
daughter  of  the  ranch  secretly  and  strenuously  adored  by 
the  speechless  hero.  The  Greeks  expected  in  their  tragedies 
nothing  but  some  fresh  presentation  of 

Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine, 

already  known  to  them  as  thoroughly  as  a  child  knows 
Cinderella.  Our  ancestors  in  medieval  times  had  apparently 
a  limitless  appetite  for  romances  about  King  Arthur  and 
his  Knights,  or  Charlemagne  and  his  Peers ^.  Even  when 
no  audience  compelled,  the  poets  took  their  good  stories 
wherever  they  found  them.  Coleridge  took  The  Ancient 
Mariner  from  a  book  of  travels ;  Keats  took  Endymion  from 
Lempriere  and  Isabella  from  Boccaccio;  Browning  took 
The  Ring  and  the  Book  from  an  old  yellow  volume  found 
on  a  bookstall ;  Morris  took  The  Earthly  Paradise  from 
northern  saga  and  medieval  romance  and  classical  legend. 
A  writer's  originality  is  to  be  judged,  not  by  what  he  begins 
with,  but  by  what  he  ends  with.  Shakespeare's  creative 
originality  appears  in  his  marvellous  power  of  making 
characters  come  alive.    Hamlet,  Lear,  Othello,  Rosalind, 

^  The  Sicilian  of  twentieth  century  Palermo  has  preserved 
unabated  the  old  fondness  for  the  Roland  stories.  He  sees  them 
at  puppet-theatres  in  sections  that  take  many  evenings  to  per- 
form, and  he  paints  the  famous  incidents  in  heroic  colours  on 
the  panels  of  his  carts. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

Portia,  Ophelia  and  the  rest  are  now  part  of  the  world's 
mythology.  All  civilised  readers  know  them,  and  that 
enduring  life  of  theirs  is  the  measure  of  Shakespeare's 
originating  power.  This  power  is  shown  again  in  his 
capacity  not  merely  for  retelling  a  story  well,  but  for  re- 
telling it  well  in  the  form  of  actable  drama.  There  is  no 
one  to  compare  with  Shakespeare  as  a  dramatist.  He  is  the 
best  known  play-maker  of  the  world.  No  other  dramatist 
has  had  so  many  of  his  plays  performed  so  frequently  in 
so  many  countries  for  so  many  centuries.  The  total  per- 
formances of  Hamlet,  for  instance,  must  far  exceed  the 
total  performances  of  any  other  single  play  whatsoever. 
Perhaps  the  best  answer  to  the  young  inquirer  about 
Shakespeare's  originality  is  the  fact  that,  for  the  most  part, 
Shakespeare's  sources  are  remembered  solely  because  they 
are  Shakespeare's  sources,  and  that,  apart  from  him,  they 
have  no  true  life  of  their  own. 

The  use  of  known  stories  for  play  or  poem  or  picture 
has  another  justification : 

In  all  art,  whether  literary,  pictorial,  musical,  or  architectural, 
a  certain  character  will  be  common  to  a  certain  age  or  country. 
Every  age  has  its  stock  subjects  for  artistic  treatment;  the 
reason  for  this  is  that  it  is  convenient  for  the  reader,  spectator, 
or  listener,  to  be  familiar  with  the  main  outlines  of  the  story. 
Written  literature  is  freer  in  this  respect  than  painting  or 
sculpture,  for  it  can  explain,  and  prepare  the  reader  better  for 
what  is  coming.  Literature  which,  though  written,  is  intended 
mainly  for  recitation  before  an  audience  few  of  whom  can  read, 
exists  only  on  condition  of  its  appealing  instantly  to  the  under- 
standing, and  will,  therefore,  deal  only  with  what  the  hearer 
is  supposed  already  to  know  in  outline.  The  writer  may  take 
any  part  of  the  stock  national  subjects  that  he  or  she  likes,  and 
within  reasonable  limits  may  treat  it  according  to  his  or  her 
fancy,  but  it  must  hitch  on  to  the  old  familiar  story,  and  hence 
will  arise  a  certain  similarity  of  style  between  all  poems  of  the 
same  class  that  belong  to  the  same  age,  language,  and  people. 
This  holds  just  as  good  for  the  mediaeval  Italian  painters  as  it 
does  for  the  Epic  cycle.  They  offer  us  a  similarity  in  dissimilarity 
and  a  dissimilarity  in  similarity.  (Samuel  Butler,  The  Authoress 
of  the  Odyssey,  chap,  xiv.) 


xxxii        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

(VII)    SHAKESPEARE  THE  POET 

Shakespeare's  creative  power  is  shown,  too,  in  the 
imaginative  beauty  of  his  verse.  We  forget,  sometimes, 
that  Shakespeare  is  not  only  our  greatest  dramatist,  but 
our  greatest  poet.  No  one  but  Shakespeare  gives  us  such 
abundance  of  the 

Jewels  five-words  long 
That  on  the  stretch'd  forefinger  of  all  Time 
Sparkle  for  ever. 

All  notes  and  stops  are  at  his  command,  from  the  majesty  ot 
This  royal  throne  of  Kings,  this  sceptred  isle, 

to  the  simplicity  of 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained ; 

from  the  mystery  of 

In  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time 

to  the  moving  cadence  of 

We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep ; 

from  the  bravery  of 

I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man, 

to  the  dramatic  pathos  of 

Finish,  good  lady,  the  bright  day  is  done. 
And  we  are  for  the  dark ; 

from  the  whispered  dread  of 

The  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns 

to  the  sweet  music  of 

Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountains'  tops. 

Even  some  common  daily  word  shines  out  like  a  gem 
under  his  hand,  as  here: 

Oh  Westmoreland,  thou  art  the  summer  bird 
Which  ever  in  the  haunch  of  winter  sings 
The  lifting  up  of  day 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

or  here : 

Thou  hast  never  in  thy  life 
Shew'd  thy  poor  mother  any  courtesy ; 
When  she,  poor  hen,  fond  of  no  second  brood, 
Has  cluck 'd  thee  to  the  wars  and  safely  home 
Loaden  with  honour. 

Let  the  student  who  has  any  doubt  of  Shakespeare's 
originality  read  a  great  Shakespeare  play  and  then  the 
book  from  which  the  poet  borrowed  the  plot.  If  he  has 
any  feeling  for  poetry,  drama  or  character,  that  should 
settle  the  matter  for  ever. 

(VIII)   POSSIBLE  SOURCES 

(i)   An  Old  Play 

Whatever  old  play  Shakespeare  may  have  worked  on  has 
not  come  down  to  us.  The  Documents  relating  to  the  Office 
of  the  Revels  in  the  Time  of  Queen  Elizabeth  (ed.  Feuillerat, 
Louvain,  1908,  vol.  xxi  in  Materialien  zur  Kunde  des 
dlteren  Englischen  Dramas,  ed.  W.  Bang)  has  the  following 
entry  under  date  18  December,  1574: 

Peruzing  and  Reformyng  of  playes.  The  expences  and  charges 
wheare  my  Lord  Leicester's  menne  showed  theier  matter  of 
panecia.  Xs. 

Item  for  A  dozen  of  Lether  poyntes  iiijd. 

Item  for  iij  Torches  that  nighte  iijs. 

Furness  suggests  that  "Panecia"  stands  for  "Fenicia" — 
Fenicia  being  the  counterpart  of  Hero  in  the  most  likely 
of  the  sources.  If  there  was  a  play  of  which  Fenicia  was 
the  heroine  the  fact  would  be  of  some  importance,  for, 
as  we  have  already  pointed  out,  the  Lord  Chamberlain's 
men  were  originally  Lord  Leicester's,  and  therefore  may 
have  retained  possession  of  this  "Fenicia,"  and  decided, 
twenty-five  years  later,  to  produce  a  re-written  version  of 
the  story.  But  this,  however  pleasing,  is  the  merest  con- 
jecture, for  no  such  play  exists,  nor,  let  us  repeat,  is  there 
any  certainty  that  Shakespeare  worked  upon  this  or  any 
other  piece.  The  general  plot  of  Much  Ado  is  woven  of 
three  parts,  the  story  of  Hero  and  Claudio,  the.  story  of 
Beatrice  and  Benedick,  and  the  humours  of  the  parish 


xxxiv       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

officers.  The  third  may  be  dismissed  briefly  as  belonging 
to  the  undoubted  line  of  Shakespearean  invention.  Dog- 
bery  is  as  clearly  Shakespeare's  own  as  Bumble  is  Dickens's. 

(2)   Ariosto 

The  Hero-Claudio  story  is  almost  as  old  as  story-telling 
itself.  In  the  days  of  man's  possessive  tyranny  over  woman 
— so  unpleasingly  illustrated  by  Hero  in  Much  Ado,  by 
Helena  in  AlFs  Well  and  by  Katherine  in  The  Taming  of  the 
Shrew — the  story  of  an  unfaithful  woman  discovered  in 
disloyalty  and  punished  by  repudiation,  or  worse,  was 
perennially  attractive  to  the  complacent  male.  Elizabethan 
readers  had  more  than  one  story  of  this  kind  at  their  dis- 
posal. There  was  the  tale  of  Genevra  (Hero)  and  Ariodant 
(Claudio)  in  Books  iv,  v  and  vi  of  the  Orlando  Furioso  by 
Ariosto  (1474-1533),  translated  by  Sir  John  Harington  in 
1591.  (The  spelling  of  the  names  here  is  Harington 's.) 
The  Stationers'  Register  records  an  even  earlier  version  by 
Peter  Beverley  (1566);  but  this  either  failed  to  survive  or 
did  not  come  into  printed  existence.  There  are,  however, 
so  many  important  diflferences  that  it  is  absurd  to  suppose 
the  author  of  Much  Ado  was  indebted  directly  to  Ariosto 
or  his  translators  for  the  story.  For  instance,  it  is  the  man 
Ariodant,  not  the  woman  Genevra,  who  is  given  out  for 
dead  and  who  reappears  at  the  dramatic  moment.  The  sole 
point  in  common  is  that  Dalinda  (Margaret)  is  made  by 
Polinesso  (Don  John)  to  impersonate  Genevra  at  a  window, 
and  give  him  entrance  to  her  room.  The  action  takes  place 
in  St  Andrews,  and  by  Scottish  law  Genevra  is  doomed  to 
die  by  fire  in  a  month  unless  a  knight  will  fight  her  accuser. 
An  unknown  knight  arrives,  and  the  duel  is  about  to  be 
fought,  when  Rinaldo,  mounted  on  Bayard,  rides  up, 
denounces  Polinesso's  crime,  and  the  unknown  knight 
thereupon  discloses  himself  and  proves  to  be  Ariodant, 
alive  and  repentant.  So  much  for  Ariosto.  One  play  based 
on  the  Italian  poet's  story  is  known  to  have  existed,  though 
it  is  now  lost.  Under  date  1582  the  Revels'  Accounts 
(already  quoted)  gives  this  entry: 

A  historic  of  Ariodante  and  Genevra  shewed  before  her 
maiestie  on  Shrove  Tuesdaie  at  night  enacted  by  mr  Mulcasters 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

children,  ffor  which  was  newe  prepared  and  Imployed,  one  Citty, 
one  battlement  of  Canvas,  vij  Ells  of  sarcenet,  and  ij  dozen  of 
gloves.  The  whole  furniture  for  the  reste  was  of  the  score  of 
this  office,  whereof  sondrey  garmentes  for  fytting  of  the  children 
were  altered  &  translated. 

Mr  Mulcaster's  children  were  the  boys  of  Merchant 
Taylors'  School,  and  Mr  Mulcaster  himself  is  one  of  the 
best  of  our  early  educationists.  A  later  play.  The  Partiall 
Law,  a  version  of  the  same  story,  was  recently  found  and 
printed  in  1908.  For  an  account  of  this  and  the  "woman 
question  "  in  our  early  drama  see  the  excellent  Introduction 
by  F.  S.  Boas  to  Much  Ado  (Oxford,  1916). 

(3)   Spenser 

Another  popular  version  of  the  Hero  story  is  that  related 
by  Spenser  (a  pupil  of  Mulcaster's)  in  Book  11,  Canto  iii 
of  The  Faerie  Qiieene,  published  in  1590;  but  here  the 
differences  are  even  greater,  for  though  Hero  (Claribell) 
is  again  impersonated  by  Margaret  (Pryene)  there  is  no 
window,  or  entering,  but  a  "  darksome  bowre,"  into  which 
Claudio  (Phaon)  is  led  by  Don  John  (Philemon)  where  he 
sees  the  supposed  interview.  The  wrathful  Phaon,  presently 
meeting  the  real  Claribell  kills  her  at  once,  without  a  word, 
and  then,  discovering  his  crime,  kills  Philemon  too,  and 
is  about  to  kill  Pryene,  when  he  is  attacked  himself  by 
persons  who  have  no  counterparts  in  Much  Ado.  The 
resemblance  here  is  the  smallest  possible.  It  was  Gerard 
Langbaine  in  his  Account  of  the  English  Dramatick  Poets 
(1691)  who  seems  first  to  have  suggested  Ariosto  and  Spenser 
as  the  source  of  the  plot  against  Hero.  Langbaine  was 
followed  by  Pope.  Two  eighteenth  century  editors  of 
Shakespeare,  Capell  and  Steevens,  suggested  a  much  closer 
parallel. 

It  is  true  (writes  Steevens)  as  Mr  Pope  has  obsers'ed,  that 
somewhat  resembling  the  story  of  this  play  is  to  be  found  in 
the  fifth  book  of  the  Orlando  Furioso.  In  Spenser's  Foerie 
Queene,  Bk  11,  c.  iv,  as  remote  an  original  may  be  traced.  A 
novel,  however,  of  Belleforest,  copied  from  another  of  Bandello, 
seems  to  have  furnished  Shakespeare  with  his  fable,  as  it 
approaches  nearer  in  all  its  particulars  to  the  play  before  us, 
than  any  other  performance  known  to  be  extant.    I  have  seen 


xxxvi       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

so  many  versions  from  this  once  popular  collection  that  I 
entertain  no  doubt  but  that  a  great  majority  of  the  tales  it 
comprehends  have  made  their  appearance  in  an  English  dress. 
Of  that  particular  story  which  I  have  just  mentioned,  viz.  the 
1 8th  history  in  the  third  volume,  no  translation  has  hitherto 
been  met  with. 

One  little  fact  rules  out  Ariosto  and  Spenser.  In  the  first 
speech  of  the  play  Shakespeare  sets  the  scene  in  Messina, 
Now  it  was  Bandello  who  first  gave  the  story  a  Sicilian 
setting. 

(4)   Bandello 

In  this  quotation  from  Steevens  two  names  famous  in 
the  history  of  Elizabethan  drama  are  brought  to  the  reader's 
notice.  Italy  has  been  the  land  of  tales  since  Boccaccio's 
Decamerone  was  written  in  1353 — nay,  since  the  Metamor- 
phoses were  written  by  Ovid,  that  Italian  of  Sulmona  in 
the  Abruzzi.  Two  centuries  after  Boccaccio,  flourished 
Matteo  Bandello,  bom  in  Castelnuovo  (Piedmont)  in  1480. 
He  became  a  monk  and,  visiting  France,  was  made  Bishop 
of  Agen  in  1550.  Four  years  later  he  published  at  Lucca 
the  first  three  volumes  of  his  Boccaccian  stories,  grave  and 
gay,  which  became  rapidly  popular  and  gained  the  com- 
pliment of  almost  instant  translation.  Thus,  in  1556-1567 
appeared  the  two  volumes  of  The  Palace  of  Pleasure  by 
William  Painter,  containing  a  selection  of  stories  from  Livy, 
Herodotus,  Aulus  Gellius,  Boccaccio,  Straparola  and  Ban- 
dello— but  not  the  story  which  is  parallel  to  Much  Ado. 
Also,  in  1567,  appeared  Fenton's  Certaine  Tragical  I  Dis- 
courses, containing  stories  draw-n  from  Bandello — but, 
again,  not  the  Hero-Claudio  story.  Painter's  collection 
furnished  many  a  dramatist  with  plots,  but  it  did  not 
furnish  Shakespeare  with  the  story  of  Hero.  Nor  did 
Fenton's.  Therefore,  if  the  tale  were  not  extant  in  some 
earlier  play,  Shakespeare  must  have  read  or  heard  the 
original  story  writ  in  choice  Italian  by  Bandello  himself. 
There  is  nothing  intrinsically  improbable  in  that.  The 
Elizabethans  were  exceedingly  Italianate,  and  Italian  was 
as  current  among  persons  of  any  education  as  French  is 
to-day.    Moreover,  Bandello  is  not  hard  reading. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii 

(5)   Belleforest 

Shakespeare  (as  Steevens  suggests)  might  have  got  his 
story  elsewhere,  for  a  Frenchman,  Fran9ois  de  Belleforest, 
a  courtier  of  Queen  Marguerite  of  Navarre  (that  teller  of 
tales)  had  compiled  in  1582  a  collection  of  Histoires 
Tragiques  in  which  Bandello's  Hero-Claudio  story  actually 
does  appear.  It  is  tempting  to  dwell  upon  Belleforest, 
who  comes  very  notably  into  Shakespearean  story,  as  the 
lost  original  Hamlet  play  (probably  by  Kyd)  came  from 
Saxo  Grammaticus  via  the  French  of  Belleforest.  But  we 
must  confine  ourselves  to  Much  Ado.  Belleforest  adapted 
rather  than  translated  the  original  story,  or  at  least  he 
"  enriched  "  it,  as  he  claims,  and,  where  there  are  differences 
of  detail,  Shakespeare  follows  Bandello  rather  than  Belle- 
forest. We  can  assume  then  that  Bandello  himself,  either 
directly,  or  through  the  medium  of  some  vanished  play, 
provided  the  Hero-Claudio  story  for  Much  Ado  about 
Nothing.    Observe  certain  points  of  the  legend. 

(6)  Bandello's  Story 

We  are  in  Sicily,  the  scene  of  that  romantic  adventure, 
the  establishment  of  Norman  sovereignty  in  the  eleventh 
and  twelfth  centuries.  After  the  direct  line  of  Norman 
rulers  had  ended,  the  crown  passed  to  the  semi-Norman 
Hohenstaufen  Emperors,  and  Frederick  II  (the  "second 
Frederick"  of  Sordello)  reigned  in  Sicily  from  11 97  to 
1250.  When  Frederick  died,  his  natural  son,  Manfred, 
ruled  as  Regent  for  Conrad,  the  next  heir  (who  died  in 
1254),  and  then  for  Conradin,  a  minor.  Pope  Urban  IV, 
pursuing  the  long  conflict  with  the  Emperors,  excommuni- 
cated Manfred  and  offered  the  crown  of  Sicily  to  Charles 
of  Anjou.  At  the  tragic  battle  of  Benevento  (1266)  Manfred, 
"last  of  the  Normans,"  was  defeated  and  slain,  and  two 
years  later,  after  the  battle  of  Tagliacozzo,  Prince  Conradin 
was  beheaded  at  Naples  in  his  seventeenth  year  by  sentence 
of  the  victorious  Charles.  These  events  are  alluded  to  by 
Dante  in  Inferno  XXVIII,  Manfred  himself  appearing  in 
Purgatorio  III.  The  Sicilians  endured  the  hated  rule  of 
Charles  and  the  Angevins  until  1282,  when  an  insult  offered 


xxxviii      MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

to  a  young  Sicilian  bride  by  a  French  officer  as  the  bells 
of  Santo  Spirito,  just  beyond  the  walls  of  Palermo,  were 
ringing  for  vespers,  provoked  an  outbreak  that  ended  in 
the  slaughter  of  four  thousand  Frenchmen.  The  massacre 
of  the  Sicilian  Vespers  marked  the  end  of  French  rule. 
Charles  attacked  Messina,  but  was  defeated,  and  King 
Peter  of  Aragon,  son-in-law  of  Manfred,  was  crowned  in 
the  Cathedral  of  Palermo. 

It  is  at  this  point  that  Bandello's  story  begins.  After 
his  coronation,  King  Peter  comes  to  Messina  where  he  sets 
up  his  court.  Here  one  of  his  greatest  and  noblest  knights, 
Don  Timbreo  di  Cardona,  falls  passionately  in  love  with 
Fenicia,  the  young  and  beautiful  daughter  of  Lionato  de' 
Lionati,  an  impoverished  gentleman  of  ancient  lineage; 
and  the  young  lord,  having  tried  in  vain  to  make  Fenicia 
his  mistress,  is  at  last  moved  to  offer  her  marriage.  Lionato 
instantly  and  joyfully  agrees  to  the  great  alliance,  and 
everybody  is  pleased  except  one,  Don  Girondo  Olerio 
Valenziano,  who  was  himself  in  love  with  Fenicia.  Girondo 
suborns  an  unnamed  person  [Borachio]  to  tell  Don  Timbreo 
that  Fenicia  is  unchaste,  and  that  he  may  prove  it  for 
himself  if  he  watches  her  window  from  a  ruined  place  in 
the  garden.  When  night  comes,  Don  Timbreo  duly  sees 
someone  bring  a  ladder  to  Fenicia's  window,  which  is 
presently  entered  by  a  lackey  in  the  gay  dress  of  a  gallant. 
Don  Timbreo  instantly  believes  the  guilt  of  Fenicia,  and 
sends  next  day  a  messenger  to  Lionato,  declaring  that, 
Fenicia  being  unchaste,  he  must  seek  a  more  complaisant 
son-in-law.  Lionato  firmly  believes  in  his  child's  innocence, 
and  declares  that  Don  Timbreo,  having  grown  cool,  is 
taking  this  means  of  evading  a  marriage  with  a  poor  dower- 
less  girl.  Fenicia  swoons  and  apparently  dies;  but,  being 
washed  for  her  burial,  revives.  Nevertheless,  the  report 
of  her  death  is  generally  believed,  and  Lionato  sends  her 
away,  and  allows  the  funeral  to  proceed.  The  coffin  is 
housed,  amid  general  lamentation,  in  the  vaults  of  the 
Lionati,  with  an  inscription  like  that  on  Hero's  tomb.  Later, 
Girondo,  overcome  with  remorse,  confesses  his  crime 
before  the  tomb  of  Fenicia,  and  begs  Timbreo  to  kill  him 
in  just  punishment.  Timbreo  behaves  magnanimously  to 


INTRODUCTION  xxxix 

the  repentant  sinner,  and  they  go  together  to  Lionato  and 
express  their  deep  remorse,  promising  to  make  any  amends 
Lionato  should  desire.  Lionato  thereupon  asks  Don  Tim- 
breo  to  take  in  marriage  a  wife  selected  by  him,  and,  the 
promise  being  given,  produces  Fenicia  a  year  after  her 
tragic  repudiation,  changed  and  even  more  beautiful,  but 
living  and  loving,  and  all  ends  happily. 

(7)    Comparison  with  Much  Ado 

Even  this  very  rough  and  imperfect  summary  will  help 
to  elucidate  some  difficulties  in  Much  Ado.  Who,  for  in- 
stance, is  the  lofty  Don  Pedro,  the  Prince  to  whom  every- 
body is  so  obsequious?  The  play  gives  no  indication,  but 
the  story  shows  him  to  be  the  famous  King  Peter  of  Aragon. 
What  is  the  war  just  over  as  the  play  begins?  The  fighting 
that  established  King  Peter  in  the  sovereignty  of  Sicily 
Why  does  there  seem  to  be  a  sort  of  oddity  in  the  marriage 
of  Claudio  and  Hero? — surely  the  proudest  of  young  nobles 
need  not  have  felt  hesitation  in  wedding  the  daughter  of 
the  governor,  even  though  Don  John  suggests  an  in- 
feriority of  station.  In  the  story,  Lionato  is  not  the  governor 
of  a  city,  but  an  impoverished  nobleman.  Why  does  Don 
John  in  causeless  malignity  plot  disaster  to  an  innocent 
girl?  In  the  story,  Don  Girondo  is  the  girl's  hopeless  lover. 
These  further  differences  will  be  noted:  in  the  story  Don 
Timbreo,  save  for  his  one  impassioned  suspicion,  is  a 
gentleman ;  Claudio  is  as  httle  of  a  gentleman  as  a  nobleman 
can  be,  disputing  with  Count  Bertram  of  Rousillon  the  bad 
eminence  of  being  Shakespeare's  completest  cad.  In  the 
story,  Fenicia  has  a  sympathetic  father  and  mother ;  in  the 
play  Hero  has  no  mother,  and  her  father  is  a  credulous  and 
harsh  old  fool.  In  the  play,  a  public  and  entirely  unsub- 
stantiated charge  of  unchastity  against  the  daughter  of  the 
Governor  is  made  by  a  stranger,  almost  a  foreigner,  in 
a  church  crowded  with  Sicilian  gallants — a  vile  and  in- 
credible insult,  which  could  have  been  instantly  answered, 
and  would  have  been  violently  resented.  In  the  story,  the 
charge  is  not  made  publicly  by  Timbreo,  but  privately 
and  courteously  by  a  third  person,  and  poor  Lionato  has 
no  means  of  defending  his  dowerless  girl,  contemptuously 


xl.  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

thrown  over  by  a  rich  and  apparently  satiated  nobleman.  In 
the  story  there  is  no  girl  disguised  to  resemble  Fenicia. 
In  the  play,  Ariosto's  Dalinda  becomes  Shakespeare's 
Margaret  and  gives  us  one  of  Shakespeare's  weakest 
moments  as  a  dramatist;  for  he  makes  Margaret  a  co- 
conspirator with  a  villain,  a  silent  instrument  in  a  deadly 
plot  against  her  mistress,  reduces  her  to  little  more  than 
a  name,  and  requires  us  to  accept  her  as  an  innocent  and 
pleasing  character.  Indeed,  the  whole  Hero-Claudio  story, 
from  the  gratuitous  wooing  by  proxy  to  the  incredible 
scene  of  repudiation,  is  the  poorest  part  of  the  play.  It 
compares  very  unfavourably  with  its  Italian  parallel  in 
probability,  in  plot  and  in  detail.  Don  Pedro  behaves  with 
entire  unintelligence.  Claudio,  as  we  have  said,  is  merely 
despicable;  Leonato  is  a  repellant  and  foolish  father; 
Margaret,  who  holds  the  key  of  the  mystery,  says  nothing 
about  it  in  spite  of  all  her  chatter;  and  Hero  herself  is 
almost  meanly  acquiescent,  lacking  the  air  of  spiritual 
exaltation  that  redeems  the  sacrifice  of  Helena  to  Bertram. 
In  Bandello,  the  charge  is  unanswerable;  in  Much  Ado 
it  would  not  survive  a  moment's  investigation.  As  will  be 
shown  in  the  Notes,  Shakespeare  handles  the  story  very 
carelessly  and  seems  to  be  interested  in  it  merely  as 
material  for  the  dramatic  and  rhetorical  church  scene.  All 
this  points  to  haste  or  indifTerence,  and  I  cannot  agree 
with  Dr  Boas,  who  finds  in  the  play  "extraordinarily  deft 
workmanship."  The  workmanship  of  the  pattern  is  much 
below  Bandello's;  but  the  workmanship  of  the  fabric  is, 
of  course,  beyond  any  such  comparison.  Though  nowhere 
rising  to  the  exquisite  poetic  beauty  of  Twelfth  Night, 
Much  Ado  is  rich  in  the  texture  that  gives  to  Shakespeare's 
verse  and  prose  its  unmatchable  quality. 

(8)   Other  Parallels 

Readers  who  desire  to  pursue  the  supposed  parallels  to 
Much  Ado  any  further  should  consult  the  elaborate  appen- 
dices of  Furness,  where  they  will  find  mentioned,  in 
addition  to  those  already  named,  a  Dutch  play  by  Jan 
Jansen  Starter,  a  late  Grecian  romance  Chaereas  and  Callir- 
rhoe,  by  Chariton,  and  the  Spanish  novel  Tirante  el  Blanco, 


INTRODUCTION  xli 

the  last  of  which  deserves  our  respect  and  even  our  love 
in  another  connection ;  for  was  it  not  one  of  the  books  in 
the  sacrificed  library  of  Don  Quixote,  that  connoisseur  of 
romances?  On  the  fatal  day  when  the  curate  and  the 
barber  were  engaged  in  the  work  of  destruction,  the  latter, 
not  caring  to  tire  himself  with  any  more  reading,  told  the 
housekeeper  to  collect  all  the  big  volumes  and  throw  them 
into  the  yard. 

It  was  not  said  to  one  dull  or  deaf,  but  to  one  who  enjoyed 
burning  them  more  than  weaving  the  broadest  and  finest  web 
that  could  be ;  and  seizing  about  eight  at  a  time  she  flung  them 
out  of  the  window. 

In  carrying  so  many  together  she  let  one  fall  at  the  feet  of 
the  barber,  who  took  it  up,  curious  to  know  whose  it  was,  and 
found  it  said,  "History  of  the  Famous  Knight,  Tirante  el 
Blanco." 

"God  bless  me!"  said  the  curate  with  a  shout,  "'Tirante  el 
Blanco'  here!  Hand  it  over,  gossip,  for  in  it  I  reckon  I  have 
found  a  treasury  of  enjoyment  and  a  mine  of  recreation.  Here 
is  Don  Kyrieleison  of  Mantalvan,  a  valiant  knight,  and  his 
brother  Thomas  of  Mantalvan,  and  the  knight  Fonseca,  with 
the  battle  of  the  bold  Tirante  fought  with  the  mastiff,  and  the 
witticisms  of  the  damsel  Placerdemivida,  and  the  loves  and  wiles 
of  the  widow  Reposada,  arid  the  empress  in  love  with  the  squire 
Hipolito — in  truth,  gossip,  by  right  of  its  style  it  is  the  best 
book  in  the  world.  Here  knights  eat  and  sleep,  and  die  in  their 
beds,  and  make  their  wills  before  dying,  and  a  great  deal  more 
of  which  there  is  nothing  in  all  the  other  books." 

Those  who  are  tempted  by  this  eulogy  to  essay  the 
adventure  of  reading  Tirante  el  Blanco  should  begin  with 
"  the  loves  and  wiles  of  the  widow  Reposada,"  a  story  which 
offers  some  few  incidents  similar  to  those  in  Much  Ado, 
but  common  to  the  whole  general  repertory  of  tales. 
Mr  Fitzmaurice- Kelly  warns  us  that  the  slight  extravagance 
of  praise  is  not  to  be  taken  seriously,  and  that  Cervantes 
meant  to  condemn  this  book  with  most  of  its  fellow  sinners. 
On  the  other  hand,  Don  Pascual  de  Gayangos  inclines  to 
the  belief  that  Cervantes  meant  the  praise  seriously. 
Mr  Fitzmaurice- Kelly  further  adds  that  Joanot  Martorell, 
who  is  alleged  to  have  translated  it  from  English  into 
Portuguese  and  thence  into  Valencian  (in  which  language 
it  was  originally  published  in  1490),  is  undoubtedly  the 

SMA  <i 


xUi  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

author.  Apparently  no  surviving  English  romance  pro- 
vides a  parallel.  But  this  is  a  digression  for  which  we  ask 
pardon  on  the  plea  that  it  is  a  duty  as  well  as  a  dehght  to 
quote  from  Don  Quixote  whenever  occasion  serves. 

(IX)   SHAKESPEARE'S  ADDITIONS 
TO  THE  STORY 

(i)  New  Characters 

If,  as  we  have  said,  Bandello's  Fenicia-Timbreo  story 
is  a  more  successful  piece  of  tale-telling  than  Shakespeare's 
Hero-Claudio  story,  it  is  much  inferior  in  scope,  style  and 
general  human  interest  to  Much  Ado  as  a  whole.  Bandello 
gives  us  no  Dogbery  and  Verges,  no  thrilling  dramatic 
point  like  the  sudden  "Kill  Claudio!"  that  makes  an 
elaborate  piece  of  melodrama  come  alive,  and,  above  all, 
no  Beatrice  and  Benedick.  Beatrice,  specially,  is  in  the 
right  line  of  Shakespeare's  sparkling  heroines.  She  is 
Rosaline  and  Rosalind  and  Portia  and  something  of  Kate 
the  Shrew.  And  yet  she,  too,  is  a  mystery.  Who  is  she? 
What  is  she  doing  in  this  menage}  She  is  expressly  de- 
scribed in  the  very  first  stage-direction  as  Leonato's 
"niece";  but  how?  "Who  was  her  father,  who  was  her 
mother?"  The  reader  is  at  first  tempted  to  think  that 
Anthony,  Leonato's  brother,  is  her  father;  but  that  is  not 
so.  Anthony  is  never  referred  to  as  her  father,  and  Leonato 
expressly  calls  himself  her  guardian.  Anthony  has  a 
shadowy  and  musical  son,  seen  but  never  heard,  and  he 
later  assumes  the  fatherhood  of  the  supposititious  daughter 
whom  Claudio  is  to  marry,  "were  she  an  Ethiope,"  in 
expiation  of  his  crime  against  Hero;  but  Claudio  never 
imagined  that  he  was  to  marry  Beatrice.  (It  is  worth 
remembering,  at  this  point,  that  Bandello's  Lionato  has 
a  second  daughter,  Belfiore,  who  plays  an  important  part 
in  the  ddnouement .)  Beatrice  is  Shakespeare's  most  com- 
plete orphan,  without  father  or  mother,  or  any  indicated 
parentage.  Indeed,  we  may  go  further  and  say  that,  like 
another  celebrated  orphan,  she  is  without  beginning  of 
days  or  end  of  life;  for  she  is  one  of  Shakespeare's  most 
enduringly  popular  heroines,  presenting  the  eternal  type 


INTRODUCTION  xliii 

of  high-spirited  man-scorner  softened  at  last  by  a  half- 
reluctant  love. 

(2)   Did  Shakespeare  travel  abroad? 

Whether  Shakespeare  got  any  suggestions  for  Beatrice 
and  Benedick  from  other  writers  cannot  be  proved.  The 
question  is,  however,  very  interesting,  and  we  will  give  it 
a  moment's  attention,  because  it  leads  to  still  another 
question:  Did  Shakespeare  ever  travel  abroad  with  any 
company  of  actors?  It  is  historical  fact  that  between  1580 
and  1630  companies  of  English  actors  visited  Germany, 
Austria,  France,  Holland,  Denmark  and  Italy,  where  they 
gave  highly  successful  performances.  It  is  a  fact  that  some 
of  Shakespeare's  own  plays  were  included  in  their  repertory. 
It  is  a  fact  that  in  1620  a  volume  entitled  Engelische 
Comedien  und  Tragedien  appeared  in  Germany  containing 
versions  of  Titus  Andronicus  and  The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona;  and  that  in  1630  came  a  second  volume  containing 
eight  English  plays,  not  one  of  which  appears  to  be  extant 
in  English  (see  Camh.  Hist.  E7ig.  Lit.  v,  283  et  seq.).  There 
are  early  German  versions  of  the  preShakespearean  Hamlet , 
of  Romeo  and  Juliet  and  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew.  In  1585 
and  1586  members  of  Lord  Leicester's  company  visited 
the  Danish  court  at  Elsinore  and  extended  their  tour  to 
Germany.  Among  them  were  Will  Kemp,  creator  of 
Dogbery,  and  other  actors  mentioned  in  the  First  Folio. 
Kemp  even  visited  Italy.  Did  Shakespeare  travel  to 
Germany  or  visit  Elsinore  itself?  Did  he  even  reach  Italy 
and  there  catch  the  sweet  infection  of  love  for  the  land 
in  which  he  laid  so  many  of  his  gracious  scenes?  Some  find 
reasons  to  think  he  did,  but  their  reasons  are  ingenious 
rather  than  convincing.  The  plays  themselves  do  not  show 
us  a  travelled  man.  Italy,  for  Shakespeare,  is  merely  "far 
away  and  long  ago."  I  think  we  can  dismiss  Shakespeare's 
"travels"  as  entirely  fanciful. 

The  only  reason  for  a  mention  of  the  matter  here  is  that, 
contemporary  with  Shakespeare,  there  lived,  mainly  at 
Nuremberg,  a  certain  Jacob  Ayrer,  who  wrote  between 
1583-1603  numerous  plays  described  by  the  author  as 
being  "in  the  new  English  manner,"    One  of  them  re- 


xliv         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

sembles  The  Tempest.  Another,  the  title  of  which,  as 
translated  in  Fumess,  runs  thus,  A  Mirror  of  Womanly 
Virtue  and  Honour.  The  Comedy  of  the  Fair  Phaenicia  and 
Count  Tymbri  of  Golison  from  Arragon,  etc.,  is  the  Hero- 
Claudio  story  retold,  apparently  not  from  Bandello,  but 
from  Belleforest — certain  peculiarities  of  the  latter  being 
transferred  to  the  play.  It  is  quite  certain  that  there  is 
no  direct  contact  between  Much  Ado  and  The  Beautiful 
Phoenicia.  What  is  possible,  however,  is  that  some  un- 
known play,  acted  by  the  English  comedians  abroad,  may 
have  been  the  common  basis  of  both.  The  essential  dis- 
similarity can  best  be  seen  after  reference  to  Cohn's  volume 
containing  passages  from  Ayrer's  comedy.  In  this  play 
there  is  a  foolish  man-servant,  Jahn,  who  pursues  a  low- 
comedy  love-affair  with  a  reluctant  waiting- woman,  Anna- 
Maria,  and  certain  German  critics  (including  Hermann 
Grimm)  have  suggested  that  Shakespeare  found  here  the 
germ  of  his  Beatrice  and  Benedick.  Hermann  Grimm  has 
discovered  still  another  original  for  Benedick.  The  Duke 
Heinrich  Julius  of  Brunswick,  born  in  the  year  of  Shake- 
speare's birth,  was  a  noble  whose  interest  in  the  stage  led 
him  to  keep  a  company  of  actors  and  to  write  plays  himself. 
One  of  these,  Vincenfius  Ladislaus,  printed  in  1599  (observe 
the  date),  presents  the  ludicrous  adventures  of  the  titular 
character,  who,  in  his  blend  of  foolish  vanity,  grotesque 
mendacity  and  general  idiocy,  seems  to  be  a  blend  of 
Parolles,  Andrew  Aguecheek,  Ralph  Roister  Doister  and 
Baron  Munchausen.  It  is  difficult  to  see  how  any  critic 
can  find  in  Vincentius  the  least  trace  of  an  original  for 
Benedick.  Henry  Julius  of  Brunswick,  like  Ayrer,  interests 
the  student  of  Shakespeare  almost  solely  because  he  eluci- 
dates, ever  so  little,  the  literary  relations  between  England 
and  the  Continent  in  the  sixteenth  century.  Students  will 
find  a  mine  of  interesting  matter  in  Albert  Cohn's  Shake- 
speare in  Germany  in  the  Sixteenth  and  Seventeenth  Centuries  : 
an  Account  of  English  Actors  in  Germany  and  the  Nether- 
lands and  of  the  Plays  performed  by  them  during  the  same 
Period  (1865).  Lengthy  passages  of  Ayrer's  play  are 
translated  in  this  volrme  and  in  Fumess.  It  should  be 
added  that  though  the  collection  of  facts  in  Cohn's  volume 


INTRODUCTION  xlv 

is  highly  interesting,  the  inferences  are  sometimes  rash 
and  should  be  accepted  with  caution. 

(3)  Beatrice  and  Benedick 

Whatever  originals  there  may  or  may  not  be,  it  is  clear 
that  the  Beatrice  and  Benedick  we  know  are  Shakespeare's 
own  invention;  and  it  is  they,  not  Hero  and  Claudio,  who 
make  the  play  popular.  We  have  said  that  Beatrice  is  in 
the  line  of  Shakespeare's  sparkling  heroines.  Benedick, 
too,  is  not  without  his  ancestors.  He  is  Biron  grown  into 
an  experienced  man  of  the  world ;  he  is  Mercutio  extended 
and  matched  with  an  opposite  as  keen  in  fence  as  he;  he 
is  Gratiano  refined  and  made  fit  for  decent  society.  Beatrice 
and  Benedick  even  from  the  first  were  the  popular  cha- 
racters. Leonard  Digges,  in  the  lines  prefixed  to  the  Poems 
of  1640,  writes: 

...let  but  Beatrice 
And  Benedicke  be  seene,  loe  in  a  trice 
The  Cockpit,  Galleries,  Boxes  all  are  full. 

They  have  often  been  imitated,  directly  or  indirectly. 
Playgoers  and  novel-readers  will  recall  many  modem 
comedies  and  stories  in  which  the  compleat  bachelor  and 
the  high-spirited  independent  girl  are  compelled,  not 
merely  to  abdicate  their  independence,  but  to  make  a 
mutual  surrender.  Perhaps  the  most  striking  modem 
parallel  to  this  part  of  Much  Ado  is  Bernard  Shaw's  You 
Never  Can  Tell,  where  Valentine,  "the  duellist  of  sex," 
and  Gloria  Clandon,  "the  new  woman,"  capitulate  almost 
abjectly.  The  soothing  words  of  the  delightful  Waiter  might 
have  been  uttered  to  Benedick,  whose  dread  of  the  future 
is  disguised  under  very  thin  bravado : 

Crampton.  Then,  Mr  Bohun,  you  don't  think  the  match  an 
unwise  one? 

Bohun.  Yes  I  do;  all  matches  are  unwise.  It's  unwise  to  be 
born ;  it's  unwise  to  be  married ;  it's  unwise  to  live ;  and  it's  wise 
to  die. 

Waiter.  Then,  if  I  may  respectfully  put  a  word  in,  sir,  so 
much  the  worse  for  wisdom !  [To  Valentine,  benignly]  Cheer 
up  sir,  cheer  up :  every  man  is  frightened  of  marriage  when  it 
comes  to  the  point ;  but  it  very  often  turns  out  very  comfortable, 
very  enjoyable  and  happy  indeed,  sir — from  time  to  time,  /never 


xlvi  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

was  master  in  my  own  house,   sir:   my  wife  was  like  your 
young  lady:  she  was  of  a  commanding  and  masterful  disposition. 
But  if  I  had  my  Ufe  to  live  twice  over,  I'd  do  it  again,  I'd  do  it 
again,  I  assure  you.  You  never  can  tell,  sir:  you  never  can  tell. 
Mr  Shaw  gives  us  another  married  Benedick  in  Man  and 
Superman ;  but  here  Beatrice  is  wanting,  for  Ann  is  the  born 
wife,  not  the  female  "  duellist  of  sex."   John  Tanner,  meant 
to  be  Don  Juan,  is  much  closer  to  Benedick,  and  some  of 
his  utterances  (translated  into  Elizabethan)  would  fit  the 
mouth  of  the  other  reluctant  husband.  This,  for  example: 
AT^n.\^Ne\\,\i{  you  don't  want  to  be  married,  you  needn't  be. 
Tanner.  Does  any  man  want  to  be  hanged?    Yet  men  let 
themselves  be  hanged  without  a  struggle  for  life,  though  they 
could  at  least  give  the  chaplain  a  black  eye.  We  do  the  world's 
will,  not  our  own.    I  have  a  frightful  feeling  that  I  shall  let 
myself  be  married  because  it  is  the  world's  will  that  you  should 
have  a  husband. 

Ann.  I  daresay  I  shall,  some  day. 

Tanner.  But  why  7ne — me  of  all  men?  Marriage  is  to  me 
apostasy,  profanation  of  the  sanctuary  of  my  soul,  violation  of 
my  manhood,  sale  of  my  birthright,  shameful  surrender, 
ignominious  capitulation,  acceptance  of  defeat.  I  shall  decay 
like  a  thing  that  has  served  its  purpose  and  is  done  with ;  I  shall 
change  from  a  man  with  a  future  to  a  man  with  a  past ;  I  shall 
see  in  the  greasy  eyes  of  all  the  other  husbands  their  relief  at 
the  arrival  of  a  new  prisoner  to  share  their  ignominy.  The  young 
men  will  scorn  me  as  one  who  has  sold  out:  to  the  women,  I 
who  have  always  been  an  enigma  and  a  possibility,  shall  be 
merely  somebody  else's  property — and  damaged  goods  at  that : 
a  secondhand  man  at  best. 

And  later: 

Tanner.  I  solemnly  say  that  I  am  not  a  happy  man.  Ann  looks 
happy;  but  she  is  only  triumphant,  successful,  victorious.  That 
is  not  happiness,  but  the  price  for  which  the  strong  sell  their 
happiness.  What  we  have  both  done  this  afternoon  is  to  renounce 
happiness,  renounce  freedom,  renounce  tranquillity,  above  all, 
renounce  the  romantic  possibilities  of  an  unknown  future,  for 
the  cares  of  a  household  and  a  family.  I  beg  that  no  man  may 
seize  the  occasion  to  get  half-drunk  and  utter  imbecile  speeches 
and  coarse  pleasantries  at  my  expense. 

The  last  admonition  might  very  profitably  have  been 
addressed  to  Claudio  and  his  princely  friend,  for  their 
taste  in  pleasantry  can  scarcely  be  called  fine. 


INTRODUCTION  xlvii 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  and  most  obscure  passages 
in  the  present  play  refers  to  the  story  of  Beatrice  and 
Benedick.  In  ii.  i,  249,  Pedro  says  to  Beatrice,  "Come 
Lady,  come,  you  have  lost  the  heart  of  signior  Benedicke  " ; 
to  which  Beatrice  replies : 

Indeed  my  Lord,  he  lent  it  me  awhile,  and  I  gave  him  use 
for  it,  a  double  heart  for  his  single  one,  mary  once  before  he 
wonne  it  of  me,  with  false  dice,  therefore  your  grace  may  well 
say  I  have  lost  it. 

What  does  this  mean?  Is  it  serious?  If  so,  the  serious  fit 
lasts  but  a  moment,  for  Beatrice  returns  instantly  to  her 
rather  broad  jesting.  Perhaps  Beatrice  is  merely  referring 
to  the  masquerade,  during  which  there  has  been  some  very, 
almost  dangerously,  plain  speaking.  We  may  paraphrase 
her  words  thus : 

Yes,  I  have  lost  his  heart  indeed,  for,  taking  advantage  of 
his  disguise,  he  opened  his  heart  very  freely,  calling  me  dis- 
dainful, cheap-witted,  and  so  forth;  but  I  gave  him  his  own 
back  with  interest,  a  double  heart  full  of  plain  speaking  for  his 
single  one,  for  he  got  t^vice  as  much  as  he  gave.  Once  before 
he  did  the  same  sort  of  thing,  in  the  same  false  way.  You  may 
well  say  I  have  lost  his  heart,  for  he  is  not  likely  to  play  this 
game  again. 

That  is  the  most  obvious  explanation  of  this  odd  speech, 
and  perhaps  the  best  one,  for  it  is  quite  in  Beatrice's  vein 
and  it  keeps  us  within  the  bounds  of  the  play  as  we  have 
it.  For  any  other  explanation  we  must  go  outside  the  play 
and  assume  (i)  that  Shakespeare  originally  wrote  some 
earlier  scenes  dealing  with  the  story  of  Beatrice  and  Bene- 
dick, and  then  excised  them — for  note  that  the  two  meet 
in  Act  I  as  old  friends  (or  enemies) ;  or  (2)  that  Shake- 
speare used  some  older  play  containing  somewhat  similar 
characters,  and  did  not  remove  all  the  allusions;  or  (3)  that 
Shakespeare  deliberately  makes  reference  to  an  untold 
story,  as  an  artistic  means  of  securing  the  three-dimen- 
sioned reality  that  is  perhaps  his  greatest  dramatic  quality. 
Shakespeare's  characters  are  not  creatures  of  a  minute: 
they  bring  with  them  their  past  and  their  future.  If  the 
speech  of  Beatrice  at  this  moment  is  serious  it  is  almost 
tragic.  We  must  assume  that  Beatrice  and  Benedick  have 


xlviii       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

a  past  that  has  touched  them  deeply  and  left  a  defensive 
bitterness.  "Use,"  as  we  have  indicated,  is  "interest." 
What,  then,  was  the  "double  heart"  she  gave  him  for  his 
"  single  one  "?  Did  Benedick  woo  her  once  in  earlier  days, 
so  capturing  her  affections  that  she  gave  him  her  heart 
double-charged  with  love,  which  he  lightly  rejected  and 
so,  with  "false  dice,"  got  back  what  he  gave?  The  story 
of  Pegeen  and  Christy  Mahon  in  The  Playboy  of  the 
Western  World  perhaps  illustrates  the  situation  a  little. 
The  wild  heart  of  Pegeen  is  captured  at  once  by  the 
apparent  courage  and  glowing  speech  of  Christy,  who, 
proving  afterwards  (as  she  thinks)  to  be  no  more  than  a 
liar  and  facile  romancer,  is  rent  by  her  fury;  but  when  he 
goes  he  takes  her  heart  with  him,  and  she  cries,  as  perhaps 
Beatrice  does  in  this  very  speech,  "My  grief!  I  have  lost 
him!" 

But  this  is  reading  too  much  into  a  sentence,  and  the 
only  justification  for  any  such  interpretation  is  the  clear 
fact  that  Beatrice  and  Benedick  meet,  at  the  very  opening 
of  the  play,  as  persons  on  special  terms  of  defensive  in- 
timacy. "There  is  a  kind  of  merry  war,"  says  Leonato, 
"betwixt  Signior  Benedick  and  her:  they  never  meet  but 
there's  a  skirmish  of  wit  between  them."  Much  can  be 
read  into  such  a  statement. 

Indeed,  it  is  not  a  paradox  to  say  that  the  comedy  of 
Beatrice  and  Benedick  is  the  only  serious  part  of  Much  Ado. 
The  Hero-Claudio  story  is  melodrama  plus  rhetoric.  It  is 
of  the  stage,  stagey,  and  we  cannot  take  it  seriously.  But 
the  Beatrice-Benedick  story  rings  true.  It  is  the  best  of 
human  comedy,  because  it  is  near  to  tragedy.  Beatrice  and 
Benedick  are  two  fine  spirits,  mutually  and  instantly 
attracted,  conscious  of  each  other's  power  and  therefore 
instinctively  hostile  through  fear;  but  what  they  really  fear 
is  not  each  other,  but  themselves — not  conquest,  but  sur- 
render. If  Beatrice  were  a  modern  stage  character,  she 
would  enlarge  at  length  on  the  call  of  self,  the  independence 
of  women,  the  duty  of  living  one's  own  life,  and  so  forth. 
As  a  Shakespearean  character,  she  says  none  of  these 
things,  but  she  feels  them,  and  they  are  the  unspoken 
motive  of  her  specific  hostility  to  Benedick  (for,  observe. 


INTRODUCTION  xlix 

she  is  kind  to  everybody  else),  because  she  fears  him  as  the 
one  man  who  has  weakened  her  sense  of  self-sufficiency. 
Much  of  this  is  true  also  of  Benedick,  who  assumes  the 
pose  of  anti-feminist,  not  indeed,  because  he  hates  all 
women,  but  because  he  is  afraid  of  loving  this  one  woman. 
It  is  a  terrible  moment  when  a  man  encounters  the  woman 
before  whom  his  pride  becomes  as  wax  in  the  flame. 

So  Beatrice  and  Benedick  assume  an  attitude  of  defensive 
hostility,  pretending,  in  lawful  strategy,  that  they  are 
strong  just  where  they  know  they  are  weak.  Of  course, 
they  overdo  it,  as  such  people  will.  Those  who  complain 
that  their  hostility  is  crude  or  over-drawn  have  missed  the 
point,  which  is,  that  an  assumed  character  is  naturally 
unnatural.  A  rich  man  can  afford  to  neglect  appearances; 
a  man  pretending  to  be  rich  cannot.  If  Beatrice  and  Bene- 
dick really  disliked  each  other  they  would  tacitly  avoid  each 
other;  but  instead  they  seek  each  other  out  to  show  each 
other  the  extraordinary  amount  of  their  indifference.  Real 
indifference  is  not  so  sedulous;  real  indifference  is  really 
indifferent.  At  the  opening  of  the  play  the  first  person 
Beatrice  mentions  is  Benedick  and  the  one  person  whom 
Benedick  ostentatiously  affects  to  ignore  is  Beatrice. 

We  need  not,  therefore,  attach  too  much  importance  to 
the  excellent  comedy  device  by  which  these  duellists  of 
sex  are  taken  suddenly  unawares  and  compelled  for  a 
moment  to  face  the  facts.  The  plot  of  Pedro  and  Claudio 
does  not  make  Benedick  fall  in  love  with  Beatrice;  the 
plot  of  Hero  and  Ursula  does  not  make  Beatrice  fall  in 
love  with  Benedick ;  the  effect  of  the  conspiracy  is  simply 
to  make  them  recognise  that  they  have  been  in  love  with 
each  other  all  the  time.  What  really  unites  them  is  not  the 
trick  in  the  garden,  but  the  tragedy  in  the  church.  At  the 
sight  of  Hero's  agony,  pity  and  indignation  fill  the  heart 
of  Beatrice,  and  she  slips  unconsciously  back  into  mere 
womanhood.  She  has  need,  now,  of  a  man's  arm.  The 
barriers  of  pose  and  pretence  are  down  between  the  two 
and  they  stand,  deeply  moved,  over-mastered,  with  their 
love  confessed  though  still  unspoken.  The  breaking  of  such 
a  silence  is  a  crucial  moment  for  the  poet.  "  If  he  should 
falter  now,"  we  murmur.  But  Shakespeare  does  not  falter. 


1  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

A  lesser  artist  would  have  begun  with  a  declaration  of  love, 
or  something  equally  false  in  feeling;  but  Benedick's  first 
words  are  among  Shakespeare's  most  exquisite  touches  of 
art,  and  the  rest  of  the  scene  is  on  the  level  of  the  opening. 
It  is  another  touch  of  supreme  art  that  the  first  meeting 
of  Beatrice  and  Benedick  on  the  new  footing — the  meeting 
anticipated  with  such  huge  delight  by  Pedro  and  Claudio — 
should  be  in  circumstances  like  these,  when  the  first  pledge 
of  love  is  to  be  the  life  of  the  man  who  plotted  the  en- 
counter as  a  jest.  The  scene  ought  to  be  played  strongly, 
intensely,  and  not  in  the  "touch  and  go"  spirit  of  light 
comedy;  for  the  purpose  of  Beatrice  is  as  strong  and  keen 
as  the  sword  for  which  she  is  to  ask.  Turn  to  the  page  itself 
and  observe  the  steps  by  which  the  climax  is  reached — first 
the  wish  of  Beatrice  for  a  man,  a  friend,  to  help  her,  then 
the  general  offer  of  Benedick,  who  is  told  that  the  work  is 
not  his,  because  the  quarrel  is  not  his,  for  he  is  unconnected 
with  Hero  and  is  bound  by  old  ties  to  Pedro  and  Claudio : 
the  quarrel  cannot  be  his,  unless  new  ties  bind  him  to 
Beatrice.  Prophetically  he  swears  love  by  his  sword,  and 
Beatrice  then  approaches  her  great  demand  with  utterances 
playful,  yet  full  of  purpose,  for  even  through  her  tenderness 
shines  the  steel  of  the  desiderated  sword.  Not  till  his  love 
is  sworn  and  his  arm  dedicated  to  her  service,  does  Beatrice, 
in  terrible  brevity,  demand  from  him  the  life  of  his  friend. 
His  reply  is  as  great  dramatically  as  the  demand,  and  the 
surrender  as  great  as  both.  Indeed,  it  seems  to  me,  that 
these  two  pages  of  Much  Ado  touch  a  height  of  tense, 
true  drama  that  very  few  English  comedies  have  ever  sur- 
passed. 

(4)   Doghery  and  Verges 

The  third  strand  in  the  story  of  Much  Ado  has  also 
contributed  much  to  the  popularity  of  the  play.  Without 
Dogbery  and  his  men  the  interest  would  be  more  than 
halved — another  proof  that  in  a  work  of  art  the  whole  is 
greater  than  the  sum  of  its  parts.  Actually  the  constables 
contribute  little  to  the  story,  though  something  to  the  plot. 
Their  happy  blundering  helps  first  to  tangle  and  then  to 
unravel  the  mystery,  but  they  are  entirely  remote  from  the 


INTRODUCTION  li 

tragedy  of  Hero  and  the  comedy  of  Beatrice.  Their  special 
function  is  not,  indeed,  to  provide  what  is  called  "comic 
relief,"  and  not,  like  the  grave-makers  in  Hamlet  or  the 
gardener  in  Richard  II,  to  heighten,  as  by  dim  suggestion 
from  afar,  a  sense  of  impending  doom,  and  thrill  the  hearer 
with  a  feeling  of  something  beyond  the  audible  words. 
They  are  there  to  keep  a  serious  story  from  straying  outside 
the  limits  of  comedy — just  as  in  Don  Giovanni  the  monu- 
mentally comic  Leporello  and  an  apparently  superfluous 
and  lively  epilogue  keep  that  wonderful  work  to  its  proper 
key  of  comedy.  For  an  example  of  Shakespearean  "comic 
relief"  we  can  turn  to  the  two  Gobbos  in  The  Merchant  of 
Venice,  where  we  find  matter  entirely  extraneous  both  to 
plot  and  to  story,  and,  we  must  confess,  neither  very  comic 
nor  much  of  a  relief.  Dogbery  and  Verges  are  on  the  plane 
of  Bottom  and  Quince,  and  are  conceived  with  a  large- 
ness of  heart  and  sympathy  that  ought  to  shame  the 
suburban  minds  who  claim  Shakespeare  as  the  spokesman 
of  snobbery.  Shakespeare,  like  Dickens  and  Cervantes, 
laughs  with  his  great  comic  creations,  not  at  them.  Neither 
Shakespeare  nor  Scott  believed  it  necessary  to  make  men 
contemptible  because  they  were  poor.  The  great  humorists 
are  something  more  than  sycophants.  Dogbery's  fatuity 
is  stupendous;  but  we  enjoy  him,  because  Shakespeare 
enjoyed  him.  Humour  is,  in  a  way,  the  greatest  triumph 
of  creative  literature,  for  it  must  come  pure  from  a  generous 
heart.  No  one  by  taking  thought  can  create  humorous 
characters. 

What  is  wanted  (says  Bagehot)  is  to  appreciate  mere  clay, 
which  mere  mind  never  will.... However  strong  in  any  poet 
may  be  the  higher  qualities  of  abstract  thought  or  conceiving 
fancy,  unless  he  can  actually  sympathise  with  those  around  him, 
he  can  never  describe  those  around  him.  Any  attempt  to 
produce  a  likeness  of  what  is  not  really  liked  by  the  person  who 
is  describing  it,  will  end  in  the  creation  of  what  may  be  correct, 
but  is  not  living — of  what  may  be  artistic,  but  is  likewise 
artificial. 

That  is  why  humorists  are  so  few.  Bottom  and  Quince 
are  examples  of  "mere  clay"  struggling  with  an  unwonted 
artistic  and  intellectual  task;   Dogbery  and  Verges   are 


Hi  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

"mere  clay"  struggling  with  the  intricacies  of  the  law. 
Now  the  law  is  rich  in  phrases,  and  the  heavy,  unquickened 
mind  adheres  to  the  ritual  of  phrases.  Listen  to-day  to 
such  talk  as  politeness  permits  you  to  overhear  on  trams 
and  trains,  and  you  will  find,  among  the  class  from  whom 
Shakespeare  drew  his  humorous  characters,  the  same 
attachment  to  time-honoured  formulas,  just  as  in  the  class 
above  that  you  find  a  similar  attachment  to  the  cliches  of 
journalism  and  politics.  The  first  are  generally  making  an 
effort  at  thought,  the  second  an  effort  to  avoid  thought. 
Certainly  no  one  can  accuse  Dogbery  and  Verges  of  not 
taking  thought.  They  overflow  with  laborious  effort.  But 
then,  consider  their  position!  They  are  "the  Prince's 
officers,"  or  in  English,  parish  officers.  The  direction  for 
their  first  entry  reads,  Enter  Dogbery  and  his  compartner 
with  the  Watch;  but  their  next  entry  is  headed.  Enter 
Leonato,  and  the  Constable,  and  the  Headborongh,  and  nearly 
all  through  that  scene  the  official  titles  preface  their 
speeches.  Later,  as  we  have  seen,  the  names  of  the 
comedians  Will  Kemp  and  Cowley  are  affixed  to  the 
speeches  of  Dogbery  and  Verges,  so  that  we  know  who 
created  these  parts.  Still  a  third  officer  appears  in  that 
scene,  the  "Towne  Clearke"  in  an  official  "gowne,"  but 
though  gowned  and  clerked  in  the  heading,  he  is  called 
"Sexton"  in  the  text — doubtless  being,  like  borough 
officials  in  times  much  later,  a  pluralist.  Dogbery's  own 
office  was,  in  fact,  one  of  great  importance,  even  though 
Dogbery  (like  his  betters)  was  not  conspicuously  fit  to 
hold  it. 

In  Saxon  and  early  Norman  times,  public  peace  was 
secured  by  a  sort  of  mutual  insurance — ten  homesteads 
joined  together  and  undertook,  so  to  speak,  to  keep  each 
other  in  order.  In  a  sense,  they  were  all  policemen,  but 
elected  one  of  themselves  to  be  representative  of  all  and 
responsible  for  the  bringing  of  wrongdoers  to  justice.  This 
chosen  person  was  the  Headborough,  Tythingman,  Bors- 
holder  or  Chief  Frankpledge.  As  time  went  on,  the  nature 
of  the  Headborough's  duties  changed,  but  the  name  was 
kept.  Specific  measures  for  the  public  safety  were  em- 
bodied in  the  Statute  of  Winchester  (1285),  which  instituted 


INTRODUCTION  liii 

a  regular  system  of  watch  and  ward.  In  Edward  Ill's  time 
we  find  a  further  development,  the  existence  of  the  Petty 
Constable  acting  under  the  direction  of  the  Justice  of  the 
Peace,  who  was  himself  originally  more  of  a  policeman 
than  a  judge. 

The  qualifications  that  a  constable  ought  to  possess  are  thus 
tabulated  by  Coke : 

(i)  Honesty:  to  execute  his  office  truly  without  malice, 
affection,  or  partiality. 

(2)  Knowledge:  to  understand  his  duty,  what  he  ought  to  do. 

(3)  Ability :  as  well  in  estate  as  in  body,  that  so  he  may  attend 
and  execute  his  office  diligently,  and  not  neglect  the  same 
through  want  or  impotency.  (Melville  Lee,  A  History  of  Police 
in  England,  1901.) 

We  seem  to  be  listening  to  Dogbery's  charge  to  the 
watch. 

The  constable's  duties  with  regard  to  watch  and  ward  were, 
to  keep  a  roster  of  the  watchmen,  to  see  that  they  were  vigilant 
and  alert  during  the  hours  of  watching,  to  receive  into  custody 
any  guilty  or  reasonably  suspected  person  handed  over  to  him 
by  the  watch,  and  to  keep  such  person  in  safety,  until  he  should 
give  bail  or  be  brought  before  a  Justice  of  the  Peace.  (Lee, 
op.  cit.) 

Observe  how,  in  thirteenth  century  Messina,  Leonato. 
suddenly  becomes  an  English  Justice  of  the  Peace,  receiving 
the  sworn  information  of  the  Petty  Constable. 

Dogbery  was  only  a  Petty  Constable,  but  he  had  the 
spirit  of  High  Constable.  Colquhoun's  Treatise  on  the 
Functions  and  Duties  of  the  Constable  (1803)  can  scarcely 
be  cited  as  an  authority  for  1600,  but  his  description  of 
the  High  Constable's  duties  will  sound  familiar  to  readers 
of  Much  Ado. 

The  High  Constable  has  the  superintendence  and  direction 
of  the  petty  constables,  headboroughs,  and  other  peace  officers 
in  his  hundred  or  division.  It  is  his  duty  to  take  cognisance 
of,  and  to  present  all  offences  within  his  hundred  or  division 
which  lead  to  the  corruption  of  morals,  breaches  of  the  Lord's 
Day,  Drunkenness  Cursing  or  Swearing.... To  do  all  in  his 
power  to  arrest  offeriders  and  so  to  dispose  of  his  constables 
as  to  suppress  the  disorders  in  question. 


liv  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

The  High  Constable,  it  may  be  observed,  was  an  officer 
of  the  Hundred  or  Wapentake,  and  appointed  the  Head- 
borough,  Tythingman  or  Borsholder  for  each  Borough  or 
District  within  the  Hundred.  Of  the  Headborough  or 
Tythingman  thus  writes  Ashdowne  in  The  Churchwardens^ 
and  Overseers'  Guide: 

There  is  frequently  a  Tythingman  in  the  same  town  with 
a  constable,  who  is,  as  it  were,  a  deputy  to  exercise  the  office 
in  the  constable's  absence;  but  there  are  some  things  which 
the  constable  has  power  to  do  that  tythingmen  cannot  interfere 
with. 

No  wonder  poor  Verges  is  patronised  by  the  "right 
maister  Constable!"  Dalton's  Countrey  Justice  (1620), 
quoted  by  Halliwell  (in  Fumess),  is  also  delightfully  apt: 

This  watch  is  to  be  kept  yearly  from  the  feast  of  the  Ascention 
until  Michaelmas,  in  every  towne,  and  shall  continue  all  the 
night,  sc.  from  the  sunne  setting  to  the  sunne  rising.  All  such 
strangers,  or  persons  suspected,  as  shall  in  the  night  time  passe 
by  the  watchmen  (appointed  thereto  by  the  towne  constable, 
or  other  officer),  may  be  examined  by  the  said  watchmen, 
whence  they  come,  and  what  they  be,  and  of  their  businesse,  etc. 
And  if  they  find  case  of  suspition,  they  shall  stay  them;  and  if 
such  persons  will  not  obey  the  arrest  of  the  watchmen,  the  said 
watchmen  shall  levie  hue  and  crie,  that  the  offenders  may  be 
taken :  or  else  they  may  justify  to  beate  them  (for  that  they 
resist  the  peace  and  Justice  of  the  Realme),  and  may  also  set 
them  in  the  stockes  (for  the  same)  untill  the  morning;  and  then, 
if  no  suspition  be  found,  the  said  persons  shall  be  let  go  and 
quit:  But  if  they  find  cause  of  suspition,  they  shall  forthwith 
deliver  the  said  persons  to  the  sherife,  who  shall  keepe  them  in 
prison  untill  they  bee  duely  delivered;  or  else  the  watchmen 
may  deliver  such  person  to  the  constable,  and  so  to  convey 
them  to  the  Justice  of  peace,  by  him  to  be  examined,  and  to  be 
bound  over,  or  committed,  untill  the  offendours  be  acquitted 
in  due  manner. 

(5)   Dogbery  in  Real  Life 

Fumess  calls  attention  to  a  remarkable  anticipation  of 
Dogbery's  doings  in  real  and  very  high  life : 

There  is  an  original  letter,  discovered  by  Mr  Lemon  in  the 
State  Paper  Office,  entirely  in  the  handwriting  of  Lord  Burghley, 
dated  from  Theobalds  on  the  loth  of  August,  1586,  only  two 
months  and  a  day  before  the  meeting  of  the  Commissioners 


INTRODUCTION  Iv 

at  Fotheringay  for  the  trial  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  The  letter, 
which  is  addressed  to  Secretary  Walsingham,  relates  to  some 
circumstances  preparatory  to  that  event,  when  a  watch  was  set 
and  the  "ways  laid,"  according  to  the  ordinary'  expression  of 
that  day,  for  the  capture  of  conspirators.  It  gives  us  a  curious 
account  of  the  proceedings  of  the  Dogberj's  of  that  day  for  the 
arrest  of  suspected  persons,  and  shows  how  much  to  the  life 
our  great  dramatist  drew  the  characters  he  introduced.  Lord 
Burghley  observed  at  Enfield  such  inefficient  and  Dogbery- 
like  arrangements  for  the  seizure  of  the  parties  implicated,  that, 
on  his  arrival  at  home,  he  dispatched  the  letter  in  question  to 
Sir  Francis  Walsingham.  The  extreme  speed  with  which  he 
was  anxious  that  his  communication  to  the  Secretary  should 
be  conveyed  may  be  judged  from  the  superscription,  in  the 
following  singular  form : 

To  the  R.  Honorable  my  verie  loving  frend  Sir  Francis 
Walsingham,  Knight, 

Hir  Ma'^  Principall  Secretary,  at  London,  hast^j 

hast     T>    J. 

hast|P°^* 
W.  Burghley.  hastj 

'  In  order  to  render  it^  contents  perfectly  intelligible,  we 
must  premise,  that  by  August  loth,  1586,  the  ministers 
of  Elizabeth  were  in  full  possession  of  the  details  of  a 
plot  by  Antony  Babington,  in  concert  with  the  Queen  of 
Scots,  to  murder  the  Queen  of  England ;  and  they  had  just 
arrived  at  that  point,  when  the  arrest  or  escape  of  any  of 
the  conspirators  would  have  been  of  the  utmost  importance. 
Ballard,  one  of  the  principal  conspirators,  had  been  taken 
up  on  August  4th,  which  instantly  alarmed  the  rest,  who 
therefore  fled  in  all  directions.  These  were  the  parties  who, 
according  to  Lord  Burghley,  w^ere  "missing,"  and  to  arrest 
whom  the  Dogberys  of  Enfield  w^ere  upon  the  watch,  all 
the  means  of  identification  they  apparently  possessed  being 
that  one  of  the  accused  had  a  "  hooked  nose."  It  is  worthy 
of  note  also  that  Babington  and  some  of  his  co-con- 
spirators were  arrested  on  the  ver>'  day  that  Lord  Burghley 's 
letter  bears  date;  and  hence  we  may  infer,  perhaps,  that 
the  description,  however  defective,  w'as  sufficient. 

Sir — As  I  cam  from  London  homward,  in  my  coche,  I  sawe 
at  euery  townes  end  the  nombre  of  x.  or  xij.  standyng,  with 
long  staues,  and  vntill  I  cam  to  Enfield  I  thought  no  other  of 


Ivi  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

them,  but  that  they  had  stayd  for  auoyding  of  the  rayne,  or  to 
drynk  at  some  alehouses,  for  so  they  did  stand  vnder  pentyces 
[pent-houses]  at  alehouses.  But  at  Enfield  fynding  a  dosen  in 
a  plump  [group],  whan  ther  was  no  rayne,  I  bethought  myself 
that  they  war  apoynted  as  watchmen,  for  the  apprehendyng  of 
such  as  ar  missyng  [i.e.  certain  escaped  traitors] ;  and  there- 
uppon  I  called  some  of  them  to  me  apart,  and  asked  them  wherfor 
they  stood  ther?  and  on  of  them  answered, — To  tak  3  yong 
men.  And  demandyng  how  they  shuld  know  the  persons,  on 
answered  with  these  words: — Mary,  my  Lord,  by  intelligence 
of  ther  fauor.  What  meane  you  by  that?  quoth  I.  Marry,  sayd 
they,  on  of  the  partyes  hath  a  hooked  nose. — And  haue  you, 
quoth  I,  no  other  mark? — No,  sayth  they.  And  then  I  asked 
who  apoynted  them;  and  they  answered  on  Bankes,  a  Head 
Constable,  whom  I  willed  to  be  sent  to  me. — Suerly,  sir,  who 
so  euer  had  the  chardg  from  yow  hath  vsed  the  matter  neg- 
ligently, for  these  watchmen  stand  so  oppenly  in  plumps,  as 
no  suspected  person  will  come  neare  them ;  and  if  they  be  no 
better  instructed  but  to  fynd  3  persons  by  on  of  them  hauyng 
a  hooked  nose,  they  may  miss  therof.  And  thus  I  thought  good 
to  aduertise  yow,  that  the  Justyces  that  had  the  chardg,  as  I 
thynk,  may  vse  the  matter  more  circumspectly.' 

(X)   A  MISSING  CHARACTER 

There  is  one  other  character  of  the  play  deserving  our 
special  notice,  because,  though  named,  and  apparently 
necessary,  she  never  appears.  Surely  what  Hero  needs 
most  in  her  misery,  when  her  own  father  furiously  joins 
in  the  hunt  against  her,  is  a  mother.  Now  Bandello  gives 
Fenicia  an  excellent  mother  as  well  as  an  excellent  father; 
there  is  a  mother  (Veracundia)  in  Ayrer's  play ;  and  Shake- 
speare (as  I  think)  originally  gave  Hero  a  mother.  The  very 
first  stage-direction  of  the  play  reads:  Enter  Leonato 
Governour  of  Messina,  Innogen  his  wife.  Hero  his  daughter 
and  Beatrice  his  Neece,  zvith  a  messenger.  Later  (Act  ll) 
we  get  this:  Enter  Leonato,  his  brother,  his  wife.  Hero  his 
daughter,  and  Beatrice  his  neece  and  a  kinsman.  But  when  we 
come  to  the  church  scene  (Act  iv)  where  all  the  principals 
are  assembled,  there  is  no  mention  of  Leonato's  wife,  and 
nowhere  in  the  play  does  she  speak  a  word  or  give  the 
least  indication  of  presence.  The  play  exhibits  Hero  as 
entirely  motherless.  Who,  then,  is  the  mysterious  Innogen? 


INTRODUCTION  Ivii 

The  usual  explanation  is  that  she  is  a  character  in  the 
old  play  on  which  Shakespeare  worked,  and  that  her  name 
was  retained  by  an  accident  of  copying.  Well,  there  may 
have  been  an  "  old  play"  and  Hero  may  have  had  a  mother 
in  it;  but  my  own  view  is  that  Innogen's  appearance 
represents  Shakespeare's  first  thought,  and  her  dis- 
appearance his  second  thought.  In  Bandello,  remember, 
the  accusation  is  not  made  in  public,  and  not  made  by 
Don  Timbreo.  That  credulous  but  courteous  young 
gentleman  sends  a  messenger  to  deliver  his  refusal  of 
marriage  privately  to  Lionato  and  his  wife.  There  is  no 
church  scene  and  no  public  repudiation.  I  believe  that, 
in  the  first  part  of  the  story,  Shakespeare  wrote  a  part  for 
Hero's  mother;  but  by  the  time  he  came  to  the  church 
scene  with  its  gross  and  abominable  interruption,  he  recog- 
nised, as  every  sensible  reader  must  recognise,  that  Hero's 
mother  would  probably  be  able  to  prove  an  alibi  for 
the  poor  girl  on  the  night  before  her  marriage ;  or  if  not, 
that  her  outraged  instinct  and  commonsense  would  have 
prompted  questions  enough  to  shatter  the  accusation  to 
atoms.  The  church  scene,  remember,  is  Shakespeare's  own 
addition  to  the  story.  It  has  no  parallel  in  the  other  versions. 
In  writing  it,  therefore,  Shakespeare  suddenly  found  him- 
self in  this  dilemma;  either  he  must  equip  Hero  with  a 
second  fatuously  stupid  parent,  thus  making  an  incredible 
scene  still  more  incredible,  or  else  he  must  give  the  girl 
a  sensible  mother  who  would  spoil  the  scene  entirely.  It 
is  hard  enough  to  believe  in  the  silence  of  Beatrice;  to 
believe  in  the  silence  of  Innogen  as  well  would  be  im- 
possible. Shakespeare  solved  the  difficulty  therefore  by 
turning  back  and  cutting  her  out  of  the  play.  The  two 
references  to  her  are  thus  not  accidents  of  copying  but 
accidents  of  retention. 

Consider.  Innogen  is  actually  the  name  given  by 
Holinshed  to  the  wife  of  Brute^,  the  mythical  Trojan 
founder  of  Britain ;  and  it  is  very  near  to  that  with  which 

^  Al  things  being  thus  brought  to  passe  according  to  Brutes 
desire,  wind  also  and  wether  serving  the  purpose,  he  with  his 
wife  Innogen  and  his  people  imbarked,  and  hoisting  up  sailes 
departed  from  the  coasts  of  Grecia  (Bk  ii,  chap.  ii). 

SMA  ' 


Iviii  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

Shakespeare  was  to  baptise  one  of  his  loveliest  creations, 
some  years  later,  in  a  play  drawn  from  Holinshed's  story 
of  Britain — where  the  husband,  too,  is  Leonatus.  Cym- 
beline,  as  we  have  it,  is  a  thing  of  shreds  and  patches ;  and 
perhaps  Shakespeare  was  already  considering  the  story. 
He  had  been  at  Holinshed  just  before  Much  Ado  for 
Henry  IV  and  Henry  V;  and  with  the  name  Innogen  in  his 
mind  used  it  for  the  wife  of  Leonato.  Later,  when  Leonatus 
was  to  be  wived,  he  made  a  slight  and  exquisite  change  in 
the  name  he  had  first  borrowed  and  rejected,  and  Innogen 
became  Imogen.  This,  of  course,  is  nothing  but  conjecture ; 
but  it  is  at  least  as  plausible  as  the  suggestion  that "  Innogen 
his  wife"  is  a  mere  ghost  from  an  old  play  hovering  on 
the  threshold  of  the  new.  Possibly,  however,  as  we  shall 
proceed  to  suggest,  Innogen  may  have  belonged  to  a 
different  part  of  the  story. 

(XI)  A  REVISED  VERSION 
(i)   Hero  and  Claudia 

So  far  I  have  taken  the  play  as  we  find  it,  and  called 
attention  to  one  or  two  possible  "second  thoughts."  There 
are,  however,  indications  that  the  existing  play  is  altogether 
a  second  thought,  the  result  of  revision,  readjustment  or 
re-composition.  Turn  for  example  to  the  first  scene.  Here 
we  find  Beatrice  and  Benedick,  not  merely  known  to  each 
other,  but  on  terms  of  easy  intimacy.  They  have  plainly 
met,  not  once,  but  many  times.  Claudio,  however,  appears 
to  be  a  complete  stranger  to  all.  Read  carefully  Leonato 's 
speech  beginning,  "A  victory  is  twice  itself,"  and  con- 
tinue for  a  score  of  lines  to  the  point  where  Beatrice 
interrupts  with  her  question  about  "  Signior  Mountanto" : 

Leona.  A  victory  is  twice  it  selfe,  when  the  atchiever  brings 
home  ful  numbers:  I  find  here,  that  don  Peter  hath  bestowed 
much  honour  on  a  young  Florentine  called  Claudio. 

Mess.  Much  deserv'd  on  his  part,  and  equally  remembred 
by  don  Pedro,  he  hath  borne  himselfe  beyond  the  promise  of 
his  age,  doing  in  the  figure  of  a  lamb,  the  feats  of  a  lion,  he  hath 
indeed  better  bettred  expectation  than  you  must  expect  of  me 
to  tell  you  how. 


INTRODUCTION  Hx 

Leo.  He  hath  an  unckle  here  in  Messina  will  be  very  much 
glad  of  it. 

Mess.  I  have  already  delivered  him  letters,  and  there  appeares 
much  joy  in  him,  even  so  much  that  joy  could  not  shew  it  selfe 
modest  enough,  without  a  badge  of  bitternesse. 

Leo.  Did  he  breake  out  into  teares? 

Mess.  In  great  measure. 

Leo.  A  kind  overflow  of  kindenesse,  there  are  no  faces  truer 
than  those  that  are  so  washt,  how  much  better  is  it  to  weepe  at 
joy,  than  to  joy  at  weeping? 

Note  further  the  question  of  Beatrice  to  the  Messenger : 

Beat.  Who  is  his  companion  now?  He  hath  every  month  a 
new  sworne  brother. 

Mess.  1st  possible? 

Beat.  Very  easily  possible. ...But  I  pray  you,  who  is  his 
companion?  is  there  no  young  squarer  now  that  will  make  a 
voyage  with  him  to  the  divell  ? 

Mess.  He  is  most  in  the  companie  of  the  right  noble  Claudio. 

Beat.  ...God  help  the  noble  Claudio.... 

Is  it  not  clear  that  Leonato  and  Beatrice  are  asking 
questions  about  a  person  unknown  to  them?  The  sole 
information  Leonato  appears  to  possess  about  Claudio  is 
that  he  has  an  uncle  in  Messina.  This  tearful  gentleman  is 
referred  to  at  some  little  length  and  then  vanishes  for  ever 
from  the  story.  When  Claudio  appears,  not  a  single  word, 
not  the  faintest  sign  of  recognition,  is  exchanged  between 
him  and  Leonato,  or  between  him  and  Hero;  and  as  soon 
as  he  is  alone  with  Benedick  he  exclaims,  "Benedick,  didst 
thou  note  the  daughter  of  Signior  Leonato?"  as  if  he  had 
seen  her  for  the  first  time.  We  cannot,  of  course,  draw  a 
decisive  conclusion  from  the  mere  form  of  his  exclamation, 
but  we  are  entitled  to  say  that  it  does  not  sound  in  the  least 
like  a  reference  to  someone  already  known  to  the  speaker. 
Don  Pedro  enters,  and  Hero  is  further  discussed.  Pedro 
remarks  that  she  is  very  worthy  of  love,  and  Claudio 
replies,  "You  speak  this  to  fetch  me  in,  my  Lord" — that 
is,  "  to  play  a  trick  on  me."  When  Benedick  retires,  Claudio 
turns  to  Don  Pedro,  and  (on  a  new  page  of  the  Quarto 
and  in  the  first  blank  verse  of  the  play)  confesses  his  love 
for  Hero,  asking  (as  it  seems)  rather  particularly  whether 
Leonato  has  a  son.    Then  quite  suddenly,  we  learn  that 


Ix  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

Claudio  already  knows  Hero,  that  he  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her  during  an  earlier  stay  before  the  war,  but  made 
love  take  a  second  place  to  his  duty  as  a  soldier;  and  that, 
having  now  returned,  he  is  more  in  love  than  ever.  Thus, 
at  the  very  opening  of  the  play,  we  find  a  perplexing  in- 
consistency— Beatrice  and  Benedick  already  intimate, 
Claudio  a  stranger,  and  then  Claudio  not  a  stranger.  We 
feel  that  something  here  is  left  untold — or  left  out. 

(2)    The  Proxy  Wooing 

At  this  point  begins  the  first  hint  of  a  plot,  but  not  the 
plot  that  we  associate  with  Much  Ado.  It  is  the  story  of 
a  Wooing  by  Proxy — a  familiar  source  of  complication  in 
comedy.  In  Ayrer's  play,  Don  Gerando  acts  as  a  sort  of 
proxy,  for  he  tells  Anna  Maria,  the  serving-maid,  what  love 
she  has  inspired;  but  when  she  learns  that  it  is  only  the 
love  of  Jahn  the  lackey,  she  refuses  to  hear  more.  Humorous 
complications  are  made  to  arise  from  this  situation.  In 
Much  Ado,  Don  Pedro,  for  no  assigned  or  assignable 
reason,  promises  to  woo  Hero  for  Claudio.  Claudio  wishes 
this,  though  he  does  not  ask  it  directly.  "Wast  not  to  this 
end,"  asks  Pedro,  "that  thou  beganst  to  twist  so  fine  a 
story?"  And  Claudio  gratefully  accepts.  Yet  Claudio  is 
not,  like  Christian  de  Neuville  in  Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  a 
handsome  dolt,  nor  is  Hero,  like  Roxane,  a  fantastical  lady 
requiring  to  be  wooed  in  good  set  terms.  And  Don  Pedro, 
we  will  add,  is  not  in  the  least  like  Cyrano.  As  the  play 
stands,  this  device  of  a  Proxy  Wooing  is  entirely  gratuitous. 
Claudio  can  speak  for  himself  volubly  enough  when 
occasion  requires.  However,  for  some  reason,  or  no  reason, 
Don  Pedro  undertakes  to  disguise  himself  as  Claudio  at 
a  masked  ball,  woo  and  win  Hero,  inform  her  father, 
and  then  hand  her  over  to  the  real  Claudio.  Claudio  is 
told  in  most  precise  detail  what  the  plan  is,  and  approves 
almost  effusively. 

The  usual  complications  now  begin.  In  I.  2,  Leonato 
is  informed  by  his  brother  that  "a  good,  sharp  fellow" 
has  told  him  that  he  overheard  Don  Pedro  confessing 
to  Claudio  that  he  (Pedro)  was  in  love  with  Hero  and 


INTRODUCTION  Ixi 

proposed  to  declare  his  passion  that  night  at  the  ball. 
We  are  not  told  who  the  good  sharp  fellow  is  or  how  he 
came  to  hear  the  conversation.  To  Leonato,  the  prospect 
of  so  great  an  alliance  seems  a  dream;  but  he  appears  to 
attach  no  importance  to  the  matter,  and  does  not  think 
it  worth  while  to  tell  Hero  about  it  himself:  he  leaves  the 
task  to  his  brother.  The  "good,  sharp  fellow,"  who  is 
to  be  sent  for  and  questioned,  does  not  appear  and  is 
never  mentioned  again. 

This  is  the  first  complication  of  the  Proxy  Wooing  plot. 
Observe  that  this  short  scene  is  entirely  unnecessary  to 
the  play  as  we  now  have  it.  Not  a  thing  is  said  or  done 
that  contributes  a  single  touch  to  the  story  of  Much  Ado 
about  Nothing.  It  would  be  an  important  scene,  however, 
in  the  story  of  a  Proxy  Wooing,  for  it  contributes  the  first 
serious  misunderstanding. 

Act  I.  Sc.  3  introduces  us  to  the  three  villains,  and  we 
discover  that  the  motive  spirit  in  the  Bastard  appears  to  be 
hatred  of  his  more  fortunate  brother.  We  are  confronted 
with  the  faint  prototypes  of  Edgar  and  Edmund  in  Lear. 
Borachio,  Don  John's  "jackal,"  who,  for  some  reason 
unexplained  and  inexplicable,  is  "entertained  for  a  per- 
fumer" to  smoke  "a  musty  room,"  now  arrives  to  tell 
his  master  that  Don  Pedro  proposes  to  woo  Hero /or  himself 
(there  is  no  mention  of  the  proposed  disguise)  and  then 
to  hand  her  over  to  Claudio.  Why  a  servant  or  follower 
of  Don  John's,  coming  (as  we  suppose)  with  his  master, 
was  so  far  unrecognised  that  he  was  actually  set  to  fumigate 
a  room,  we  cannot  imagine.  If  for  a  year  he  has  been 
intimate  with  Margaret,  Hero's  waiting-woman,  how  is  it 
that  he  is  "  entertained  for  a  perfumer  "?  How  long  did  he 
spend  over  the  fumigation — i.e.  what  time  elapses  at  this 
point?  Where  were  Pedro  and  Claudio  when  he  whipped 
behind  the  arras  and  listened?  Did  he  hear  the  garden 
conversation  from  a  window,  or  did  Pedro  and  Claudio 
have  their  conversation  all  over  again  in  this  room?  If  so, 
why?  And  when  did  it  happen?  These  are  not  idle 
questions.  They  should  be  answerable  if  the  story  is  to 
work  out  smoothly.  But  they  cannot  be  answered,  because 
the  story  is  not  consistent.    Note  that  Borachio's  version 


Ixii  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

of  the  wooing  differs  both  from  the  truth  and  from  the 
tale  told  to  Leonato  by  Anthony.  It  is  the  second  com- 
plication of  the  Proxy  Wooing  story. 

Don  John  now  stirs  out  of  his  saturnine  lethargy,  for 
he  scents  occupation.  He  sees  a  chance  of  injuring,  not 
only  his  brother,  but  Claudio,  who,  in  some  way  not 
explained,  had  "got  the  glory"  of  Don  John's  "over- 
throw." So  far,  it  will  be  observed,  there  is  not  a  word 
about  Hero.  No  one  seems  to  suppose  that  she  may  have 
any  interest  in  the  question  of  her  future.  We  are  bound  to 
say  that  she  gives  no  hint  of  supposing  so  herself.  We  do 
not  know  whether  she  reciprocates  Claudio's  early  love, 
or  if  she  is  even  aware  of  it.  We  do  not  know  anything 
whatever  about  her  feelings  towards  either  Claudio  or  Don 
Pedro.  During  much  of  the  play  she  is  a  complete  cipher. 
In  the  whole  first  Act,  she  speaks  exactly  one  unimportant 
line  of  seven  words.  Indeed,  until  they  actually  stand 
together  at  the  altar.  Hero  and  Claudio  have  never  con- 
versed with  each  other  alone.  Claudio  makes  a  formal 
and  perfunctory  speech  of  just  nineteen  words  to  Hero  at 
the  betrothal.  Hero  says  nothing  whatsoever  to  Claudio. 
Nay,  even  more;  at  the  second  marriage,  after  Hero  has 
been  disclosed  to  the  astonished  Claudio,  not  a  single  word 
passes  between  them.  Not  a  syllable  of  contrition  or  shame 
escapes  the  lips  of  the  man  who  has  so  vilely  wronged  the 
girl  at  his  side.  And  she  is  equally  silent.  It  is  impossible 
to  avoid  a  suspicion  that  something  must  have  happened 
to  the  part  of  Hero.  Surely  she  was  not  originally  meant  to 
be  so  speechless.  She  has  scarcely  a  dozen  lines  in  the 
whole  play  of  which  she  is  a  central  figure. 

So  we  reach  the  second  Act.  In  the  first  scene  we 
gather,  from  a  remark  by  Leonato's  brother,  that  Hero  has 
been  told  to  expect  a  proposal  from  the  prince,  and  knows, 
by  her  father's  ruling,  what  answer  she  is  to  give.  We  do 
not  know  anything  at  all  about  the  ruling  or  the  answer. 
We  are  told  nothing. 

It  is  important,  in  view  of  what  follows,  to  remember 
that  Claudio  knows  the  real  truth  about  the  Proxy  Wooing 
— that  he  has  been  told  exactly  what  is  to  happen,  and  that 
he  agrees  to  it  all. 


INTRODUCTION  Ixiii 

The  next  reference  to  the  plot  comes  at  li.  i .  138,  where, 
after  the  love-making  at  the  ball  (Claudio  himself,  as  far 
as  we  can  tell,  having  neither  danced  nor  spoken),  the 
following  conversation  ensues: 

John.  Sure  my  brother  is  amorous  on  Hero,  and  hath  with- 
drawne  her  father  to  breake  with  him  about  it:  the  Ladies 
follow  her,  and  but  one  visor  remaines. 

Borach.  And  that  is  Claudio,  I  knowe  him  by  his  bearing. 

John.  Are  not  you  Signior  Benedicke? 

Clau.  You  know  me  well,  I  am  he. 

John.  Signior,  you  are  very  neere  my  brother  in  his  love,  he 
is  enamoured  on  Hero,  I  pray  you  disswade  him  from  her,  she 
is  no  equall  for  his  birth,  you  may  doe  the  parte  of  an  honest 
man  in  it. 

Clau.  How  know  you  he  loves  her? 

John.  I  heard  him  sweare  his  affection. 

Bor.  So  did  I  too,  and  he  swore  he  would  marry  her  tonight, 

John.  Come  let  us  to  the  banquet,  (exeunt:  Manet  Clau.). 

Clau.  Thus  answer  I  in  name  of  Benedicke, 

But  heare  these  ill  newes  with  the  eares  of  Claudio : 
Tis  certaine  so,  the  Prince  wooes  for  himselfe,  etc. 

There  are  several  difficulties  here.  If  Pedro  is  recognised 
as  Pedro,  what  has  become  of  his  proposed  disguise  as 
Claudio?  If  John's  first  speech  is  addressed  to  Borachio, 
as  Borachio's  reply  seems  to  indicate,  he  has  already 
forgotten  what  he  was  clearly  told,  namely,  that  Pedro 
was  to  woo  Hero  for  himself,  and  then  hand  her  over  to 
Claudio.  The  suggestion  has  been  made,  however,  that 
Don  John  (recognising  Claudio)  utters  his  first  speech 
loudly  enough  to  reach  a  listener's  ears,  Borachio's  reply 
being  whispered.  The  objection  is  first  (generally)  that 
shouts  answered  by  whispers  do  not  make  a  convincing 
deception,  and  next  (particularly)  that  if  Don  John  recog- 
nises Claudio  he  does  not  need  Borachio  to  identify  that 
gentleman  for  him. 

What  follows,  however,  is  clear.  Pretending  to  recognise 
Claudio  as  Benedick,  Don  John  tells  him  (i)  that  Don 
Pedro  is  enamoured  of  Hero  and  has  sworn  to  marry  her, 
and  (2)  that  Hero  is  no  match  for  Don  Pedro  on  account 
of  her  inferior  station.  Both  statements  are  deliberately 
false  and  meant  to  give  pain.  Now  Claudio  knows  all  about 


Ixiv  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

(i)  because  it  has  been  carefully  arranged  between  Pedro 
and  himself;  and  he  knows  that  (2)  is  ridiculous,  first, 
because  Pedro  was  likely  to  know  at  least  as  much  as  the 
dubious  John  about  the  station  of  the  lady  he  was  wooing, 
and  next  because  the  daughter  of  the  Governor  was 
certainly  not  too  lowly  to  be  married  to  Pedro,  who  later 
declares  himself  willing  to  marr>'  the  fatherless  Beatrice. 
Hero  was  not  Fenicia,  poor  and  portionless.  The  statement 
is,  and  is  meant  to  be,  a  piece  of  gratuitous  and  insulting 
disparagement;  but  Claudio,  who  has  a  complete  answer 
to  both  assertions,  ignores  statement  (2)  and  gives  full 
credence  to  statement  (i),  although  (we  repeat)  he  knows 
the  whole  secret.  He  proceeds  in  a  familiar  passage  to 
deplore  the  faithlessness  of  friends  and  the  perils  of  wooing 
by  proxy.  When  Benedick  appears — he,  too,  having  taken 
the  prince's  wooing  quite  seriously — Claudio  is  so  over- 
wrought that  he  breaks  off  the  conversation  and  departs 
in  anger. 

Here  again  we  feel  that  something  is  left  untold — or  left 
out.  Act  I.  Sc.  2  has  no  successor:  we  are  not  shown  the 
effect  of  the  false  news  about  the  Prince's  wooing  upon  the 
household  of  Leonato.  "  Innogen  his  wife"  probably  be- 
longs to  this  story,  and  it  seems  inconceivable  that  Hero 
should  be  entirely  left  out  of  it.  Something,  we  feel,  should 
intervene  between  1.  2,  and  this  point — some  scene  in 
which  the  villains  play  their  promised  part,  and  in  which 
the  report  about  Pedro  is  magnified  into  a  certainty  that 
possesses  everyone,  deceiving  even  John,  who  knows  part 
of  the  truth,  and  Claudio  who  knows  all  of  it.  Pedro's 
disguise  as  Claudio  is  never  mentioned  again.  We  do  not 
see  him  wooing  Hero  as  we  see  Cyrano  wooing  Roxane, 
though  we  gather  from  John's  remark  that  the  wooing 
was  as  passionate  and  amorous  as  Pedro  had  promised. 
All  we  get  is  a  hearsay  wooing,  a  wooing  that  is  merely 
reported,  reported  wrongly  to  some,  and  misunderstood 
by  others  who  really  know  something  about  it.  There  is 
the  promise  of  tragi-comic  entanglements ;  and  then,  quite 
suddenly,  Pedro  hands  the  passive  Hero  over  to  Claudio 
in  accordance  with  their  original  compact,  and  the  story 
of  the  Proxy  Wooing  collapses  to  an  ignominious  end. 


INTRODUCTION  IxV 

Claudio,  the  sulky  wooed-for,  says  a  few  ungracious  words ; 
Hero,  the  inanimate  wooed,  says  precisely  nothing  at  all. 
The  story  is  dismissed,  and  is  never  referred  to  again  by 

anyone. 

If  I  was  so  soon  to  be  done  for 
I  wonder  what  I  was  begun  for. 

"Tarry  a  little:  there  is  something  else."  At  I.189,  Q. 
has  the  stage-direction,  EtJter  the  Prince,  Hero,  Leonato, 
John  and  Borachio  and  Conrade.  The  last  three,  the  villains 
who  have  begun  to  make  trouble  out  of  the  proxy  wooing, 
have  not  a  line  allotted  to  them  in  the  scene,  and  they  are 
clearly  in  the  way;  for  although  the  actual  date  of  Hero's 
wedding  is  discussed  and  settled  here,  we  find  them  in 
a  later  scene  entirely  ignorant  of  this  important  point.  Why 
then  do  their  names  occur  when  their  persons  are  un- 
wanted? Because  this  was  originally  the  denouement  of  the 
Proxy  Wooing  story,  and  they  were  necessary  then.  When 
the  complications  were  unravelled,  the  villains  had  to  be 
exposed.  An  exposure  is,  in  the  present  text,  impossible; 
first,  because  there  is  scarcely  anything  to  expose,  and  next 
because  the  villains  are  required  for  further  villainy  in  the 
next  story.  Exposed  and  discredited  villains  in  Act  11  can't 
proceed  to  be  successful  villains  of  the  same  kind  in  Act  iii 
of  the  same  play.  The  exposure  has  vanished,  but  the 
names  have  remained  in  the  stage-direction  of  Q.  The 
mistake  was  remedied  in  the  Folio,  which  has  simply, 
Enter  the  Prince,  the  entry  of  Leonato  and  Hero  being  put 
forward  to  the  entry  of  Claudio  and  Beatrice.  The  names 
of  the  three  villains  properly  disappear. 

(3)    The  Second  and  Third  Plots 

Thus  the  piece  is  well  on  through  the  second  Act,  and 
all  it  has  given  us  in  the  way  of  story  is  a  plot  that  definitely 
ends  here.  We  have  had  (let  us  recall)  the  fairly  elaborate 
beginning  of  a  Proxy  Wooing  comedy,  a  brief  glimpse  of 
the  victim  in  the  toils  of  misunderstanding,  and  an  abrupt 
and  definite  ending. 

Immediately  after  (il.  i.  308)  begins  the  Second  Plot, 
the  entanglement  of  Beatrice  and  Benedick.  This  is  the 


Ixvi  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

one  fully  consistent  story  in  the  play  and  we  need  not  dwell 
upon  it. 

Act  II.  Sc.  2  introduces  us  once  again  to  Don  John,  who 
observes,  as  if  it  were  a  new  fact  just  brought  to  his  notice, 
"  It  is  so,  the  Counte  Claudio  shall  marry  the  daughter  of 
Leonato,"  and  the  obliging  Borachio  just  as  suddenly 
replies,  "Yea,  my  lord,  but  I  can  crosse  it."  Then  is 
unfolded  the  beginning  of  the  Third  Plot,  the  Unchastity 
Plot,  as  we  may  call  it.  The  extraordinarily  abrupt  and  un- 
related opening  of  this  fresh  story  sounds  like  a  part,  not 
merely  of  a  new  plot,  but  of  a  new  play. 

The  parallelism  between  this  plot  scene  and  the  earlier 
(i.  3)  is  singularly  unfortunate,  as  it  suggests  that  Don 
John  and  his  henchmen  assemble  regularly  for  their 
daily  conspiracy.  It  is  tempting  to  think  that  originally 
the  two  scenes  did  not  belong  to  the  same  play.  No  one 
has  any  right  to  say  that  Much  Ado  as  we  have  it  represents 
a  compound  of  two  other  plays;  but  at  least  we  can  say 
that  it  represents  a  meeting,  but  not  a  mingling,  of  two 
different  stories  told  about  the  same  people.  Certainly 
with  II.  2  we  begin  all  over  again.  The  villains  hatch  a 
plot.  Not  the  least  reference  is  made  to  the  past.  Claudio 
has  already  been  deceived  by  Don  John  and  Borachio 
about  Hero,  and  he  not  only  takes  no  action  (even  in  words) 
against  the  deceivers,  but,  when  we  reach  ill.  2.  73,  and 
the  same  two  villains  present  a  second  disreputable  report 
about  Hero,  he  believes  them  a  second  time  without  any 
question.  We  called  the  parallelism  of  the  two  plot  scenes 
unfortunate ;  the  parallelism  of  the  two  accusation  scenes 
is  almost  shocking.  John  makes  a  grave  charge  about  Hero 
to  Claudio  and  Pedro;  he  has  already  made  a  false  charge 
about  Hero  and  Pedro  to  Claudio,  but  no  one  thinks  of 
recalling  the  fact.  Is  it  credible  that  even  Claudio  (to  say 
nothing  of  Pedro)  should  swallow  a  second  foul  story  from 
the  same  tainted  source?  Here  it  is  more  than  tempting, 
it  is  almost  necessary  to  think  that  originally  the  two  scenes 
did  not  belong  to  the  same  play. 


INTRODUCTION  Ixvii 

(4)    Weakness  of  the  Ufichastity  Plot 

One  result  of  this  juxtaposition  of  two  distinct  stories 
is  that  neither  is  well  told.  The  Proxy  Wooing  complication 
is  abandoned  too  soon  for  effect ;  the  Unchastity  story  does 
not  carry  a  moment's  conviction.  Borachio,  a  drunken 
hanger-on,  who  never  appears  on  equal  terms  with  the 
grandees  of  the  story,  who  is  at  one  and  the  same  moment 
so  unknown  as  to  be  "entertained  for  a  perfumer"  and  so 
familiar  as  to  have  had  a  year-old  intrigue  with  one  of  the 
household,  offers  freely  to  declare  that  he  has  had  a  long 
criminal  association  with  the  daughter  of  the  Governor, 
a  lady  great  enough  to  be  wooed  by  a  king  for  his  most 
favoured  noble.  He  sees  no  danger  in  the  declaration — he 
anticipates  nothing  from  the  fury  of  a  father,  the  wrath 
of  a  lover  and  the  displeasure  of  a  king.  In  none  of  the 
parallel  stories  is  there  a  point  so  weak.  And  Borachio 
himself  is  the  feeblest  of  villains.  His  end  is  as  tame  as 
his  beginning,  for  his  instant  and  abject  collapse  is  as 
incredible  as  his  rash  assumption  of  guilt.  It  is  an  odd 
rascal  who  begins  by  putting  his  own  head  in  the  noose, 
and  ends  by  pleading  to  have  it  tightened. 

In  addition  to  playing  the  villain  himself,  he  undertakes 
to  persuade  a  waiting- woman,  Margaret  (with  whom  he  is 
on  terms  of  midnight  intimacy),  to  impersonate  Hero,  so 
that  he  audibly  calls  her  Hero  and  she  calls  him  Claudio. 
Why  "Claudio"?  If  Hero  imagined  that  the  midnight 
wooer  was  Claudio,  she  would  be  as  innocent  as  if  she  had 
imagined  that  the  proxy  wooer  was  Claudio.  Even  if  we 
accept  the  suggestion  that  "Claudio"  is  here  a  mistake 
for  "Borachio"  the  case  is  not  much  better,  for  then 
Margaret  must  know  that  there  is  something  questionable, 
first  in  her  being  there  at  all,  and  next  in  her  being  required 
to  assume  her  mistress's  name  and  garments  while  Borachio 
retains  his  own.  No  such  interview  is  possible  without 
guilty  collusion  on  the  part  of  the  girl.  Yet  what  happens? 
Margaret  appears  next  morning  before  the  mistress  whom 
she  has  impersonated,  and  behaves  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  That  mistress  is  accused  of  talking  at  midnight 
with  a  man  at  a  window,  is  publicly  repudiated,  and  left 


Ixviii        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

for  dead.  The  girl  who  has  actually  talked  at  midnight  in 
her  mistress's  clothes  and  name  with  a  man  at  a  window 
says  never  a  word  about  it;  and  at  the  end  of  the  tragic 
day,  when  the  house  is  plunged  into  desolation,  she  appears 
in  the  garden  exchanging  broad  jests  with  Benedick,  and 
another  girl,  Ursula,  has  to  come  and  tell  him  that  Hero 
is  guiltless.  After  all  that,  Margaret  is  expressly  declared 
to  be  innocent,  even  by  Leonato  himself. 

The  actual  charge  of  unchastity  made  in  such  circum- 
stances is  not  even  theatrically  convincing.  There  is  no 
dramatic  case.  Hero  talks  with  a  man.  Well,  where  is  the 
man?  We  do  not  hear  his  accusation  in  the  play,  because 
the  accusation  could  not  have  been  made.  His  confession 
of  "a  thousand"  secret  encounters  would  revolt  the 
spectator  and  ruin  the  scene.  The  charge,  I  say,  does  not 
begin  to  be  convincing,  because  there  is  not,  and  could 
not  be,  any  confrontation  of  accuser  and  accused;  and  if 
the  accuser  is  not  producible,  the  accusation  disappears 
with  him.  But  he  was  actually  seen  talking  with  a  girl  at 
the  window.  The  answer  is  simple.  Margaret  (innocent 
by  hypothesis)  knows  she  was  the  girl,  and  can  innocently 
explain.  If  the  reader  examines  the  Ariosto  and  Bandello 
stories  he  will  see  that  the  accusation  in  each  could  with 
ease  be  maintained  and  with  difficulty  be  refuted.  The 
charge  against  Hero  could  not  be  maintained  for  five 
minutes.  It  would  refute  itself  automatically.  Borachio, 
the  chief  accuser  and  joint  accused,  is  never  mentioned. 
No  one  asks  a  single  question  about  him ;  and  when  the 
tragic  scene  is  all  over  and  the  mystery  solved.  Hero's  own 
father  is  still  so  ignorant  (and  uninterested)  that  he  has 
to  have  the  man  pointed  out  to  him. 

(5)   Character  of  Claiidio 

There  is  scarcely  a  rag  of  credibility  in  a  story  that 
causes  a  king  and  a  count  to  conduct  themselves  like  a  pair 
of  ill-bred  and  over-stimulated  brawlers.  Of  Pedro  we 
need  say  little,  as  he  is  an  unimportant  shadow  of  royalty. 
Claudio  is  much  more  interesting.  In  many  ways  he  repre- 
sents  a   familiar  type   of  young   Englishman — the  well- 


INTRODUCTION  Ixlx 

connected  person  of  the  usual  antecedents,  feather-headed 
and  fickle-minded,  conscious  of  social  advantages,  insistent 
on  privilege,  oblivious  of  civic  duty,  indefatigable  in  the 
pursuit  of  pleasure,  insanely  attached  to  form,  always  ready 
for  a  "rag"  (what  is  the  Beatrice  and  Benedick  plot  but 
a  first-rate  "  rag  "  ?),  ready  to  fall  in  love  instantly,  to  propose 
one  day,  marry  the  next,  and  repent  the  day  after,  intensely 
selfish,  quick  to  take  offence,  blindly  furious  in  paying 
back  supposed  slights  or  injuries — and  yet,  after  all,  a 
pleasant,  agreeable  fellow,  with  good  stuff  in  him,  and  as 
physically  fearless  as  he  is  mentally  and  morally  timorous. 
We  can  understand  him  better  now.  Claudio  to-day  would 
drive  a  racing-car  at  Brooklands  or  pilot  an  aeroplane  across 
the  Atlantic.  In  the  tragic  years  of  the  war,  he  would  have 
gone  "  over  the  top  "  with  a  joke  and  died  with  a  smile.  The 
pity  is  that  Claudio  has  never  begun  to  learn  the  real 
elements  of  national  duty,  or  to  understand  that  he  owes 
any  obligation  to  anyone  outside  his  own  set ;  and  we  have 
to  have  a  war  to  discover  all  the  good  there  is  in  him. 
Claudio,  the  almost  insufferable  young  man-about-town, 
goes  to  the  Front  and  "bears  himself  beyond  the  promise 
of  his  age,  doing  in  the  figure  of  a  lamb  the  feats  of  a  lion." 
The  problem  about  Claudio  is  how  to  teach  him  the  arts 
of  peace. 

(6)   Compensations  of  the  Story 

But  readers  and  playgoers  alike  agree  that  the  Claudio- 
Hero  story  is  the  least  attractive  part  of  Much  Ado.  It  is 
not  a  piece  of  pure  romance  like  the  story  of  Olivia  and 
Viola  in  Twelfth  Night,  where  we  do  not  ask  for  material 
credibility.  It  must  be  taken  seriously,  or  it  fails;  and 
we  cannot  take  it  seriously.  It  is  not  a  good  story,  partly 
because  it  is  not  a  story  at  all,  but  two  stories,  unrelated 
and  mutually  obstructive.  How  there  came  to  be  two 
stories;  whether  parts  of  two  plays  were  hastily  linked 
together  for  rapid  production ;  whether  a  play,  begun  with 
one  story,  was  rapidly  completed  with  another  more 
spectacular;  or  whether  (as  critics  generally  suggest) 
Shakespeare  used  the  Proxy  Wooing  complication  merely 
to   exhibit  the   suspicious   mind   of  Claudio   more   fully 


Ixx  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

prepared  for  an  instant  reception  of  the  graver  charge :  these 
are  questions  that  no  one  can  answer  with  authority.  The 
last  suggestion  seems  to  me  by  far  the  least  satisfactory, 
for  even  in  romantic  drama  the  young  lover  ought  not  to 
be  twice  deceived  by  the  same  villain  in  the  same  way. 
Moreover,  the  two  stories,  though  they  meet,  never  unite. 
The  earlier  suspicion  is  never  suggested  as  an  excuse  for  the 
later.  All  we  have  a  right  to  say  in  answer  to  our  questions 
is  that  here  and  there  in  the  play  we  can  detect  gaps  un- 
filled, inconsistencies  unsmoothed,  and  traces  of  revision 
not  quite  obliterated.  The  play  is  knit  together  by  the 
capital  story  of  Beatrice  and  Benedick,  and  further  recom- 
mended by  the  humours  of  the  parochial  officials.  Dogbery 
and  Verges  are  among  Shakespeare's  greatest  triumphs  in 
that  kind.  Their  completeness  is  amazing  when  we  con- 
sider how  little  we  really  see  of  them.  Dogbery  just 
blunders  into  the  story  and  out  of  it  almost  immediately, 
yet  we  seem  to  know  all  about  him — we  can  figure  his 
progress  from  solid  youth  to  mature  constablery,  and 
imagine  him  rounding  and  ripening  to  retirement.  In  a 
special  sense,  Dogbery  is  an  admirable  example,  not  merely 
of  humorous  invention,  but  of  all  artistic  creation:  Shake- 
speare liked  him,  and  so  he  lives. 

(XII)   A  PROSE  COMEDY 

(i)   Shakespeare's  early  prose 

Perhaps  the  most  remarkable  peculiarity  of  Much  Ado 
about  Nothing  is  that  it  is  the  prose  comedy  of  a  poet. 
Shakespeare  had  already  shown  his  mastery  of  prose  in 
several  earlier  plays — in  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  in 
Romeo  and  Juliet  and  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  for 
example.  The  almost  contemporary  As  You  Like  It  and 
Henry  IV  contain  many  admirable  prose  passages.  But 
though  in  the  last  named  we  think  often  of  Falstaff  and 
his  friends,  we  do  not,  as  a  rule,  remember  the  prose  of 
these  plays  before  the  verse.  Their  general  note  or  move- 
ment is  that  of  verse  dramas.  Indeed,  if  we  omit  Henry  IV 
and  consider  the  others,  we  usually  find  ourselves  remem- 


INTRODUCTION  Ixxi 

bering  their  excellent  prose  as  an  after-thought.  It  is  all 
the  other  way  with  Much  Ado.  A  mention  of  that  play 
suggests  instantly  to  us  the  polished  prose  of  Beatrice  and 
Benedick,  or  the  humorous  prose  of  Dogbery  and  the 
Watch ;  it  is  only  by  an  effort  that  we  remember  the  scenes 
in  verse.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  in  the  whole  play  (and  it  is 
not  short)  there  are  barely  six  hundred  lines  of  metrical 
writing,  even  though  we  count  as  verse  some  passages 
originally  printed  as  prose.  Indeed,  we  can  say,  without 
any  qualification,  that  all  the  best  of  the  play  is  in  prose 
and  that  nearly  all  the  worst  is  in  verse. 

(2)   Shakespeare^ s  prose  excellence 

And  how  excellent  the  prose  is,  both  dialogue  and  solo ! 
With  what  delight  we  hear  the  tense,  brief  utterances  of 
Beatrice  and  Benedick,  after  the  windy  rhetoric  of  the 
church  scene  1  How  we  enjoy  the  polite  and  deadly  ex- 
changes of  the  challenge  scene,  after  the  two  old  men  have 
been  "  carrying  on"  in  the  stretched  metre  of  their  antique 
song!  The  prose  of  Shakespeare  is  really  prose:  it  is  not 
merely  verse  without  the  metre.  Let  us  illustrate  this  by 
a  comparison.  Some  ten  years  before  Shakespeare,  was 
bom  John  Lyly,  whose  name  the  histories  of  literature 
have  passed  on  to  us  with  a  label  that  does  him  less  than 
justice.  Lyly  wrote  Euphues,  but  he  was  not  a  Euphuist. 
He  was  certainly  a  mannered  writer — a  writer  with  what  we 
call  a  trick  of  style — and  (if  we  may  dare  to  say  so)  he  loved 
an  antithesis  more  than  he  loved  justice.  As  Bagehot  said 
of  Gibbon,  Lyly  wrote  a  style  in  which  it  is  difficult  to  tell 
the  truth ;  but  nevertheless  he  wrote  very  carefully  and  he 
wrote  very  well.  How  his  imitators  exaggerated  his  manner- 
ism does  not  concern  us  here.  Lyly's  own  place  in  the 
history  of  English  prose  is  both  honourable  and  important. 

Nearly  twenty  years  before  Much  Ado  was  published, 
Lyly  had  written  a  "tragicall  comedie,"  Alexatider  and 
Campaspe — or  Campaspe,  as  it  is  sometimes  briefly  called. 
Except  for  the  songs  (one  of  which  is  known  to  everybody) 
the  play  is  in  prose,  and  in  very  good  prose,  too.  Let  us 
quote  a  lengthy  passage. 


Ixxii        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

(3)  Lyly's  Campaspe 

In  these  speeches  (one  of  which  instantly  recalls  a  couple 
of  lines  in  the  present  play)  Hephestion  is  reproaching 
Alexander  for  his  infatuation : 

Alex.  Hephestion,  how  doe  you  like  the  sweet  face  of 
Campaspe? 

Hephest.  I  cannot  but  commend  the  stout  courage  of  Timoclea. 

Alex.  Without  doubt  Campaspe  had  some  great  man  to  her 
father. 

Hephest.  You  know  Timoclea  had  Theagines  to  her  brother. 

Alex.  Timoclea  still  in  thy  mouth?   Art  thou  not  in  love? 

Hephest.  Not  I. 

Alex.  Not  with  Timoclea,  you  meane.  Wherein  you  resemble 
the  lapwing,  who  crieth  most  where  her  nest  is  not:  and  so 
you  lead  me  from  espying  your  love  with  Campaspe,  you  crie 
Timoclea. 

Hephest.  Could  I  as  well  subdue  kingdomes  as  I  can  my 
thoughts,  or  were  I  as  far  from  ambition  as  I  am  from  love, 
all  the  world  would  account  me  as  valiant  in  armes  as  I  know 
my-selfe  moderate  in  affection. 

Alex.  Is  love  a  vice? 

Hephest.  It  is  no  vertue. 

Alex.  Well,  now  shalt  thou  see  what  small  difference  I  make 
betweene  Alexander  and  Hephestion.  And,  sith  thou  hast  beene 
alwaies  partaker  of  my  triumphes,  thou  shalt  bee  partaker  of 
my  torments.  I  love,  Hephestion,  I  love!  I  love  Campaspe,— 
a  thing  farre  unfit  for  a  Macedonian,  for  a  king,  for  Alexander, 
Why  hangest  thou  downe  thy  head,  Hephestion,  blushing  to 
heare  that  which  I  am  not  ashamed  to  tell? 

Hephest.  IVIight  my  words  crave  pardon  and  my  counsell 
credit,  I  would  both  discharge  the  duetie  of  a  subject,  for  so 
I  am,  and  the  office  of  a  friend,  for  so  I  will. 

Alex.  Speake,  Hephestion ;  for  whatsoever  is  spoken,  Hephes- 
tion speaketh  to  Alexander. 

Hephest.  I  cannot  tell,  Alexander,  whether  the  report  be  more 
shamefull  to  be  heard  or  the  cause  sorrowful  to  be  beleeved. 
What,  is  the  son  of  Philip,  Kingof  Macedon,  become  the  subject 
of  Campaspe,  the  captive  of  Thebes?  Is  that  minde  whose 
greatnes  the  world  could  not  containe  drawn  within  the  compass 
of  an  idle  alluring  eie  ?  Wil  you  handle  the  spindle  with  Hercules, 
when  you  should  shake  the  speare  with  Achilles?  Is  the  warlike 
sound  of  drum  and  trump  turned  to  the  soft  noise  of  lyre  and 
lute?  the  neighing  of  barbed  steeds;  whose  lowdnes  filled  the 
aire  with  terrour  and  whose  breathes  dimmed  the  sun  with 


INTRODUCTION  Ixxiii 

smoake,  converted  to  delicate  tunes  and  amorous  glances?  O 
Alexander,  that  soft  and  yielding  mind  should  not  bee  in  him 
whose  hard  and  unconquered  heart  hath  made  so  many  yield. 
But  you  love!  Ahgriefe!  But  whom?  Campaspe.  Ah  shame! 
A  maide  forsooth  unknown,  unnoble,  and  who  can  tell  whether 
immodest?  whose  eyes  are  framed  by  art  to  enamour  and  whose 
heart  was  made  by  nature  to  enchant.  Ay,  but  she  is  beautiful. 
Yea,  but  not  therefore  chaste.  Ay,  but  she  is  comlie  in  all  parts 
of  the  bodie.  But  she  may  be  crooked  in  some  part  of  the  minde. 
Ay,  but  she  is  wise.  Yea,  but  she  is  a  woman.  Beautie  is  like 
the  black-berry,  which  seemeth  red  when  it  is  not  ripe,  re- 
sembling precious  stones  that  are  polished  with  honie,  which, 
the  smoother  they  looke,  the  sooner  they  breake.... Remember, 
Alexander,  thou  hast  a  campe  to  governe,  not  a  chamber.  Fall 
not  from  the  armour  of  Mars  to  the  arrows  of  Venus,  from  the 
fierie  assaults  of  warre  to  the  maidenly  skirmishes  of  love,  from 
displaying  the  eagle  in  thine  ensigne  to  set  down  the  sparrow. 

We  have  given  only  part  of  Hephestion's  harangue,  but 
enough  to  show  that  the  general  texture  of  the  prose,  good 
as  it  is,  is  altogether  too  artful,  too  elaborate  to  be  the 
prose  of  really  successful  drama.  Indeed,  we  feel  that  it 
is  not  really  true  prose  at  all,  but  the  raw  material  of  verse. 
Let  us  set  by  it  a  prose  passage  from  our  present  play — 
Benedick's  complaint  about  the  taunts  of  Beatrice  at  the 
masked  ball: 

O  she  misusde  me  past  the  indurance  of  a  block :  an  oake  but 
with  one  greene  leafe  on  it,  would  have  answered  her :  my  very 
visor  beganne  to  assume  life,  and  scold  with  her:  she  tolde  me, 
not  thinking  I  had  beene  my  selfe,  that  I  was  the  prince's  jester, 
that  I  was  duller  than  a  great  thawe,  huddleing  jest  upon  jest, 
with  such  impossible  conveiance  upon  me,  that  I  stoode  like 
a  man  at  a  marke,  with  a  whole  army  shooting  at  me :  she  speakes 
poynyards,  and  every  word  stabbes:  if  her  breath  were  as 
terrible  as  her  terminations,  there  were  no  living  neere  her,  she 
would  infect  to  the  north  starre :  I  woulde  not  marry  her,  though 
she  were  endowed  with  al  that  Adam  had  left  him  before  he 
transgrest.  She  would  have  made  Hercules  have  turn'd  spit, 
yea,  and  have  cleft  his  club  to  make  the  fire  too. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  about  this  passage.  It  is  real 
prose.  Moreover,  it  is  real  dramatic  prose,  that  is,  the  kind 
of  prose  an  actor  can  deliver  on  the  stage  as  if  it  were  the 
natural  improvisation  of  a  speaker  with  a  sense  of  style. 
It  has  the  natural  rubato  of  conversation,  not  the  see-saw 

SM  A  / 


Ixxiv       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

of  antithetical  balance.  We  cannot,  indeed,  call  Shakespeare 
our  first  great  modern  prose  writer,  but  I  think  we  can  call 
him  our  first  writer  of  natural  prose  dialogue.  Much  Ado 
contains  an  abundance  of  examples. 

(4)   Poetic  Drama 

On  the  other  hand,  it  has  none  of  the  great  verse 
dialogues  and  solos  that  we  think  of  as  soon  as  we  mention 
even  such  early  plays  as  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  Henry  V 
and  Richard  II.  The  best  scene  in  verse  is  that  at  the 
opening  of  Act  iii,  when  the  plot  against  Beatrice  is 
hatched.  There  are  good  lines  in  the  scene  between  Leo- 
nato  and  Anthony,  and  in  the  latter  part  of  the  church 
scene ;  but  the  earlier  part  of  this  does  not  ring  true,  and  its 
protestations  are  altogether  excessive.  Of  course  we  must 
never  forget  that  dramatic  speech  in  verse  is  heightened 
speech.  Indeed,  if  it  were  not  heightened  it  would  not 
be  dramatic.  On  a  stage  which  can  give  us  a  convincing 
illusion  of  reality,  characters  can  talk,  as  they  do  in  modern 
drama,  more  or  less  "naturally,"  as  we  say,  partly  because 
their  actions  have  the  momentum  given  by  the  stage 
illusion.  If  a  modern  play  shows  us  a  burglar  opening  a 
safe,  there  is  no  need  for  words ;  we  are  convinced  by  the 
physical  circumstances.  But  on  an  open  platform,  with  no 
properties,  the  actor  has  to  create  illusion  by  words,  and 
the  words  must  therefore  be  charged  with  force  and  colour 
and  warmth  or  they  will  fail  to  raise  the  emotional  tem- 
perature of  the  hearers.  In  short,  if  the  auditors  cannot 
see  the  burglar  opening  the  safe,  they  must  be  made  to 
feel  it.  The  dramatic  poet  presenting  the  exaltation  or 
despair  of  human  souls  necessarily  and  legitimately  makes 
use  of  what  is  called  "rhetoric" — the  something  more  than 
the  merely  naturalistic  in  speech.  People  do  not  habitually 
converse  as  Romeo  and  Juliet,  or  Macbeth  and  his  wife 
converse.  But  Shakespeare  in  writing  their  speeches  was 
not  trying  to  convey  merely  a  natural  representation  of 
talk,  he  was  trying  to  convey  something  far  greater,  a  sense 
of  the  mysterious  impulses,  the  moving  passions  and  the 
shuddering  fears,  of  which  the  words  are  merely  the  con- 


INTRODUCTION  Ixxv 

ventional  symbols.  That  is  the  difference  between  the 
speech  of  poetic  drama  and  the  conversation  in  a  drawing- 
room. 

The  danger  of  rhetoric  is  that  it  can  easily  become  rant ; 
and,  in  the  hands  of  inferior  writers,  like  some  of  Shake- 
speare's contemporaries  and  successors,  it  often  becomes 
rant.  Further,  it  is  clear  that  the  "groundlings"  of  Shake- 
speare's time  loved  rant,  and  that  Shakespeare  disliked 
them  for  demanding  it.  But  he  gave  it  to  them,  sometimes, 
for  all  that.  When  Laertes  hears  that  his  sister  is  drowned, 
he  begins  a  speech  of  grief  with  the  lines : 

Too  much  of  water  hast  thou,  poor  Ophelia, 
And  therefore  I  forbid  my  tears. 

Do  we  not  feel  (as  the  acute,  ironic  sense  of  Anatole 
France  discerned)  that  this  touch  of  excess  comes  perilously 
near  to  the  ridiculous?  However,  people  liked  that  kind 
of  excess  in  Shakespeare's  time,  and  so  they  got  it.  Shake- 
speare's greatest  poetic  achievement  is  that  he  took  the 
current  rhetorical  verse  of  the  stage  and  sublimed  it  till 
it  sounded  like  the  speech  of  gods.  Here  and  there  the 
baser  metal  shows;  and  it  shows,  I  think,  in  the  church 
scene  of  Much  Ado.  Indeed,  how  could  even  Shakespeare 
be  successful  there?  The  point  is  not  that  the  audience 
know  Claudio  and  Pedro  are  the  victims  of  deception,  but 
that  they  know  Claudio  and  Pedro  haven't  experienced 
enough  deception  to  justify  their  roulades  of  rant.  A  mere 
word  starts  Claudio  on  a  fantasia  of  voluble  embroideries. 
Leonato  says,  quite  simply  and  innocently,  "  I  dare  make 
his  answer,"  and  Claudio  bursts  out  with  his  "O!  what 
men  dare  do !  what  men  may  do !  what  men  daily  do,  not 
knowing  what  they  do !"  All  of  which  is  as  true  as  that 
there  are  milestones  on  the  Dover  Road,  but  all  of  which 
is  as  utterly  irrelevant  as  that  other  remarkable  assertion. 
When  Claudio  protests  his  extraordinary  self-control  in  not 
tempting  the  virtue  of  his  betrothed — that  in  spite  of  all 
temptations  he  had  been  a  model  of  "bashful  sincerity  and 
comely  love,"  Hero  interposes  her  modest  question,  "And 
seem'd  I  ever  otherwise  to  you?"  and  Claudio  replies  in 
a  speech  that  is  nearly  the  most  shocking  in  the  play : 

/2 


Ixxvi        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

Out  on  thee  seeming,  I  will  write  against  it, 
You  seem  to  me  as  Dian  in  her  orb. 
As  chaste  as  is  the  bud  ere  it  be  blown : 
But  you  are  more  intemperate  in  your  blood, 
Than  Venus,  or  those  pampred  animals 
That  rage  in  savage  sensuality. 

This  revolts  us,  as  I  have  said,  not  only  because  we  know^ 
that  Hero  is  innocent,  but  because  we  know  that  Claudio's 
ground  for  thinking  her  guilty  is  absurdly  small.  We  feel 
that  he  requires  next  to  no  evidence  for  her  guilt  and 
mountains  of  evidence  for  her  innocence.  Indeed,  his 
speech  is  unintentionally  ironic;  for  Claudio  himself  has 
nothing  but  the  flimsiest  of  "seeming"  to  justify  his 
scandalous  vituperation.  In  short,  the  quantity  of  rhetoric 
is  absurdly  disproportionate  to  the  quantity  of  truth  known 
to  the  speaker,  and  we  are  unconvinced,  and  even  dis- 
gusted. Really,  of  course,  we  are  wrong  in  looking  for 
commonsense  or  consistency  in  such  speeches.  The  Eliza- 
bethan playgoer  liked  to  hear  these  verse  solos  delivered 
ore  rotundo,  just  as  our  Victorian  parents  and  grandparents 
liked  to  hear  Donizetti's  Lucia  intimate  her  madness  in 
an  elaborate  duet  of  fiorititre  with  the  flute.  They  did  not 
ask  for  dramatic  sense  or  consistency  in  opera,  they  merely 
asked  to  hear  Grisi  and  Mario  sing.  Nearly  all  the  verse 
passages  of  Much  Ado  are  concerned  directly  or  indirectly 
with  the  Claudio-Hero  story,  a  story  which  is  too  feeble 
in  substance  to  be  tragic,  and  too  tragic  in  treatment  to 
be  romantic.  The  verse  is  thus  placed  at  a  cruel  disad- 
vantage: the  more  it  moves  us  the  less  we  like  it.  Let  us 
agree,  then,  that  the  real  excellence  of  Much  Ado  is  in  its 
prose;  that  the  play  is  an  admirable  prose  comedy,  im- 
plicated with  a  much  less  admirable  serious  story  in  verse. 

(XIII)   THE  VERSE  OF  THE  PLAY 
(i)   Some  Metrical  Elements 

Let  us  now  consider  the  verse,  not  as  expression,  but  as 
form. 

The  dramatic  verse  of  Shakespeare  is  in  general  what 
is  called  "blank  verse,"  the  peculiarity  of  which  is  that 


INTRODUCTION  Ixxvii 

it  is  composed  of  rimeless  lines  containing  (normally) 
five  stresses  and  measures  and  (usually)  ten  syllables.  It  is 
impossible  to  frame  any  definition  that  will  cover  the  whole 
of  Shakespeare's  dramatic  verse,  as  he  sometimes  uses 
riming  couplets  and  even  stanza-forms  (a  few  occurring 
in  the  present  play),  and  occasionally  interposes  a  line 
containing  less  or  more  than  the  normal  ten  syllables. 

A  short  technical  digression  is  necessary  before  we  can 
discuss  the  verse  of  the  play  in  detail.  The  metres,  and 
even  the  measures,  of  our  verse  since  Chaucer  are  niore 
akin  to  Greek  than  to  the  older  English.  That  is  to  say, 
the  direct  or  indirect  effects  of  an  ancient  artistic  civilisa- 
tion have  been  a  more  potent  factor  in  the  creation  of 
English  verse  forms  than  our  own  ruder  aesthetic  origins 
were  able  to  supply.  Accordingly,  the  nomenclature  of 
English  metrical  forms  is  largely  Greek.  Unfortunately  the 
Greeks,  only  vaguely  conscious  of  accent  and  measures, 
defined  their  terms  quantitatively,  that  is,  as  relative  dura- 
tions, long  or  short.  This  system,  which  answered  well 
enough  for  certain  Greek  metres,  could  not  be  applied  to 
English.  Quantity,  of  course,  enters  into  English  as  into 
all  verse;  but  the  infrequency  of  strict  quantitative  forms 
has  forced  the  other  element,  accent,  into  prominence. 
Strong  accent  falls  oftener  than  not  on  a  long  syllable. 
Thus  the  second  syllable  in  "make-weight"  is  distinctly 
stronger  than  the  second  syllable  in  "maker."  So  is  the 
first.  If  the  former  word  is  put  for  the  latter  in  a  line  the 
rhythm  tends  to  be  broken  and  retarded. 

But  though  quantity  influences  our  verse,  the  English 
poet  does  not  definitely  weave  his  pattern  of  "longs"  and 
"  shorts  "  as  the  Greek  poet  did.  Accent  is  more  prominent 
than  quantity  in  English  verse.  There  need  be  no  confusion, 
then,  in  the  use  of  the  traditional  Greek  names  and  symbols 
if  we  understand  that  in  English  they  mean  one  thing 
and  in  Greek  another.    Thinking  in  terms  of  accent  we 
may  thus  describe  the  English  arrangement  of  syllables : 
trochee         s's         as  in  slowly 
iambus         ss'         as  in  awake 
dactyl  s'ss       as  in  laud'ably 

anapaest       sss'       as  in  appertain  . 


Ixxviii      MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

The  Greek  "long"  and  "short"  signs  are,  however,  so 
useful  in  making  accent  visible  that  they  are  usually  re- 
tained, the  long-  standing  in  Englishfor  a  strongly  accented 
syllable  and  the  short  -  for  a  less  accented  syllable.  It 
should  be  noticed,  however,  that  the  signs  when  used  in 
the  English  way  sometimes  contradict  the  actual  quantities. 
Thus  such  words  as  bankrupt,  banker,  batter,  shepherd, pity, 
all  of  which  differ  in  quantity,  are  represented  in  English 
by  precisely  the  same  symbol  |  -  ~'  | ,  where  |  — 'I  stands 

for  s's  and  not  for  |  J  ^  |  or  2  i  | .  In  quantity 
batikrupt  is  just  as  long  as  pitiless  and  twice  as  long  as 
pity,  as  we  can  see,  if  we  write: 


bankrupt 
2      2 


pitiless 

112 


bankrupt 
2       2 


pitiless 
112 


A  mother  using  the  word  pretty  to  a  baby  says  pity -pity, 
giving  the  whole  of  it  just  the  length  of  bankrupt : 
I  pity-pity  I  bankrupt 

I    I    I       I    I     I        2        2 

Nevertheless  in  English  marking  bankrupt  and  a  single 
pity  come  out  exactly  alike,  both  having  two  syllables 
and  the  accent  on  the  first,  and  both  therefore  being 
marked  1  -  -  |. 

Quantitatively,  |  -  -  |  is  of  the  double  genus,  that  is,  the 
strong  part  (thesis)  is  twice  the  weak  part  (arsis).  The 
foot  I  -  -  -  I  is  of  the  equal  genus,  the  strong  part  (thesis) 
being  equal  to  the  weak  part  (arsis).  Expressed  in  musical 

notation  this  may  be  put  thus :  |  — ^  ]  is  |  J  ^'  |  or  |  2  i  | 
which  is  equivalent  to  I  J^J^J  |  a  three-time  measure; 
and  I  -  ~  ^  1  is  1  J  ^^  j  or  |  2  i  i  |  which  is  equiva- 
lent to  1  J^  J^  J   J    I  a  two-time  (or  four-time)  measure. 

Just  as  J  can  be  resolved  into  J  J^  or  J7  ^™  so  |  -  ~  | 
can  be  resolved  into  |  "-  ~  |  (the  cyclic  dactyl)  or  into 
I  -  • —  I  (the  tribrach).  In  other  words,  lively  and  livelier 
can  both  be  equal  measures  in  the  same  line  of  quantita- 
tive verse.  A  measure  in  poetry  as  in  music  is  the  distance 
from  one  strong  accent  to  the  next.  Thus  the  combination 

hi     I   • 
-  -^  is  not  a  measure,  just  as  J    ^  is  not  a  measure, 


INTRODUCTION  Ixxix 

because  a  measure  must  obviously  begin  with  the  accented 
note.  Even  with  a  foot  rule  we  measure  from  one  definite 
mark  to  the  next.  Besides  resolutions  there  can  be  equiva- 
lent substitutions.    Just  as  J    J    J^  (triplet)   and  J    J 

3  2 

(duplet)  are  time-equivalents  in  music  (see  for  instance  the 
"Habanera"  in  Carmen)  so  in  a  blank  verse  line  we  may 
find  an  occasional  two-time  measure  taking  the  place  of 
the  more  usual  three-time  measure. 

(2)   Metre  and  Rhythm 

So  far  we  have  spoken  of  certain  metrical  elements. 
We  must  now  consider  rhythm,  which  the  student  must 
not  suppose  to  be  another  name  for  metre.  Metre  is  the 
skeleton,  rhythm  the  living  body.  Metre  is  the  mechanical 
movement  of  verse,  rhythm  is  the  free  movement  of  verse 
within  the  metrical  limits.  If  the  word-movement  syn- 
chronises exactly  with  the  metrical  movement  (as  in  much 
bad  blank  verse)  we  get  a  tame  and  monotonous  jog-trot; 
if  the  word-movement  entirely  disregards  the  metrical 
movement  we  have  no  longer  verse,  but  prose;  for  good 
prose  has  rhythm  but  not  metre.  The  poet's  task  is  to  get 
all  the  freedom  that  lies  between  monotony  and  anarchy. 
Blank  verse  lines  are  metrically  equal  to  each  other,  that 
is,  they  have  (as  one  would  say  in  music)  the  same  time- 
signature  ;  but  they  are  not  rhythmically  alike. 

One  rooni  he  owned,  the  fifth  part  of  a  house, 

,.        ,  .  (Wordsworth.) 

is  a  blank  verse  Ime ;  but  so  is 


or, 
or, 


A  local  habitation  and  a  name ; 

And  shake  the  yoke  of  inauspicious  stars 

The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine. 


It  is  possible  to  stress  these  lines  exactly  (or  almost  exactly) 
in  the  same  way ;  but  it  is  impossible  to  read  them  in  the 
same  way.  The  metre  of  all  is  the  same,  the  rhythm  of  each 
is  distinct.  A  musical  comparison  may  help  us.  Chopin 
wrote  Valses  which  follow  metrically  the  fixed  three-four 


Ixxx         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

movement,  but  flow  rhythmically  with  almost  complete 
independence  of  that  basis,  which,  nevertheless,  they  ac- 
knowledge. Scarcely  any  two  Valses  of  Chopin  move  in 
the  same  way,  though  their  theoretical  shape  is  the  same^. 
And  so,  while  the  Blue  Danube  Waltz  is  a  more  practical 
piece  of  dance-music,  the  D  flat  Waltz  is  by  far  the  more 
delightful  invention.  The  poet  who  is  a  master  of  style 
can  create  inexhaustible  beauty  out  of  the  counterpoint 
between  his  metre  and  his  rhythm,  and  not  the  least  of 
the  rewards  awaiting  the  student  of  Shakespeare  is  the 
delight  of  seeing  the  poet's  mastery  of  verse  develop  from 
the  pretty  rippling  movement  of  Loves  Labour's  Lost  to 
the  heart-shaking  rhythms  of  Macbeth.  In  its  infinite  and 
exquisite  variety  of  cadence,  the  blank  verse  of  Shakespeare 
is  one  of  the  most  marvellous  instruments  devised  by  man 
for  the  expression  of  human  emotion. 

(3)   Blank  Verse 

And  now  as  to  the  blank  verse  itself.  For  practical 
purposes  English  blank  verse  emerges  as  a  definite  form 
in  the  translation  of  the  Aeneid  made  by  Henry  Howard, 
Earl  of  Surrey  (1517-1547).    Here  are  a  few  lines: 

With  this  the  sky  gan  whirl  about  the  sphere : 
The  cloudy  night  gan  thicken  from  the  sea. 
With  mantles  spread  that  cloaked  earth  and  skies, 
And  eke  the  treason  of  the  Greekish  guile. 
The  watchmen  lay  dispers'd  to  take  their  rest, 
Whose  wearied  limbs  sound  sleep  had  then  oppress 'd; 
When,  well  in  order  comes  the  Grecian  fleet, 
From  Tenedon  towards  the  coasts  well  known. 
By  friendly  silence  of  the  quiet  moon. 

The  occasional  rimes  are  probably  accidental.  Blank 
verse  is  first  used  as  a  dramatic  medium  in  The  Tragidie 
of  Ferrex  and  Porrex  (also  called  Gorboduc)  by  Thomas 
Norton  and  Thomas  Sackville,  acted  in  1561.  Here  is  a 
specimen : 

Lo  here  the  end  of  Brutus'  royal  line, 
And  lo  the  entry  to  the  wofull  wrack 
And  utter  ruin  of  this  noble  realm. 

*  In  one  familiar  Valse  (Op.  42)  the  melody  line  is  accented 
so  as  to  move  in  twos  against  the  threes  of  the  accompaniment. 


INTRODUCTION 


Ixxxi 


— The  royal  king  and  eke  his  sons  are  slain, 

No  ruler  rests  within  the  regal  seat, 

The  heir,  to  whom  the  sceptre  longs  unknown... 

Who  seeth  not  now  how  many  rising  minds 

Do  feed  their  thoughts  with  hope  to  reach  a  realm? 

And  who  will  not  by  force  attempt  to  winne 

So  great  a  gain,  that  hope  persuades  to  have? 

Normal  blank  verse  (as  we  may  call  it)  reaches  its  height 
in  Marlowe,  after  whom  came  the  one  who  so  enlarged  its 
scope  and  force  that  he  remains  supreme  master  of  the 
measure  though  the  poets  of  three  centuries  have  tried  to 
bend  his  bow. 

Blank  verse  is  usually  described  as  a  series  of  five  iambic 
feet: 

Disdain     and  scorn     ride  spark     ling  in     her  eyes 


Sometimes  a  foot  is  reversed : 

Close  by     the  ground     to  hear    our  con     ference 


Sometimes  there  is  an  extra  syllable : 


I'll  shew 


thee  some 


attires 


and  have 


thy  coun 


sel 


Sometimes  there  are  two  extra  syllables : 


So  rare 


a  gen 


tleman 


as  Sign 


ior  Ben 


edick 


Sometimes  a  line  appears  a  syllable  short : 


Dear 


my  lord 


if  you 


in  your 


own  proof 


Sometimes  extra  syllables  appear  both  at  the  beginning 
and  the  end: 

Not    to  knit    my  soul    to  an  I  approv    ed  wan    ton 

(4)   Another  View 

But  the  traditional  scansion  of  Shakespeare's  verse  has 
recently  been  challenged,  notably  in  A  Study  of  Shake- 
speare's Versification,  by  the  late  Rev.  M.  A,  Bayfield,  M.A. 
(Cambridge,  1920).  He  declares  that  the  movement  of 
Shakespeare's  verse  is  not  iambic  at  all,  but  trochaic — 
that  the  blank  verse  line  is  a  series  of  five  trochees,  or 


Ixxxii       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 


resolutions  of  the  trochee.  Lines  of  verse,  like  pieces  of 
music,  often  begin  with  an  up-beat — anacrusis,  as  it  is 
technically  called,  the  line  so  beginning  being  called  ana- 
crustic.  According  to  Mr  Bayfield,  the  blank  verse  line  is 
not: 


And  on 


my  eye 


lids  shall 


Conjee 


ture  hang 


but 


And 


on  my 


eyelids 


shall  Con 


jecture 


hang 

-       A 

"And"  is  the  up-beat  {anacrusis)  and  A  the  sign  of  one 
beat  rest. 

But  we  must  be  careful.  If  |  -  -  |  is  accepted  in  the 
English  sense  as  being  the  same  as  s  s',  that  is,  purely  an 
affair  of  accents,  the  first  arrangement  is  entitled  to  stand. 
If  however  measuring  is  introduced,  then  the  second 
arrangement  must  be  adopted,  as  the  measures  go  from 
accent  to  accent.  That  is,  we  must  not  begin  by  saying 
that  we  will  regard  only  the  accents,  and  end  by  saying 
that  we  must  regard  only  the  measures.  With  measures  we 
introduce  the  idea  of  quantity. 

This  is  how  Mr  Bayfield  states  his  view: 

The  scheme  of  the  blan 


(I)    - 

(2) 


^    ^ 
^    ^ 


ik-verse  line  therefore  is 
^  -  I  -  -  II  (full) 
^  -  I  -^  A  II  (checked) 

(3)  The  up-beat  may  be  omitted,  leaving  the  first  foot  a 
trochee. 

(4)  The  up-beat  may  be  omitted  and  the  line  begin  with  a 
resolved  foot — the  usual  form  when  there  is  no  up-beat : 


(5)  Any  foot  may  be  trisyllabic. 

(6)  Any  foot  but  the  last  may  be  quadrisyllable. 

(7)  Any  foot  may  be  monosyllabic,  being  formed  either  by 
prolongation  of  the  stressed  syllable,  or  by  a  pause  after  it  in 
place  of  the  unstressed  one. 

{The  Measures  of  the  Poets,  Cambridge,  1919.) 

Let  us  illustrate  these  principles  as  far  as  we  can  from  the 
present  play,  which  happens  to  be  one  that  Mr  Bayfield 
barely  mentions  and  from  which  he  draws  very  few 
examples.  The  reader  will  remember  the  important  fact 
that  I  -  -  I  can  be  "resolved"  into  | ^  |  or  |  --  -  |. 


INTRODUCTION 


Ixxxiii 


Here  is  a  "full"  line: 


Then 

go  we 

near  her 

that  her 

ear  lose 

nothing 

Here  is  a  "checked"  line: 

O 

do  not 

do  your 

cousin 

such  a 

wrong. 

A 

(This  is  the  most  usual  form  of  blank  verse.) 
Here  is  a  line  with  a  double  up-beat : 


You  will 


say  she 


did  em 


brace  me 


as  a 


husband 


Here  is  a  line  without  up-beat  and  with  a  trochee  for 
the  first  foot : 


Dear  my 


lord,  if 


you  in     your  own 


proof 


The  same  line  exhibits  a  monosyllabic  foot  at  the  end, 
there  being  a  pause  in  place  of  the  unstressed  syllable — 
i.e.  one  beat  rest. 

Here  is  a  line  without  up-beat  and  with  a  resolved  foot 
for  the  first — a  very  common  form : 


Hero  it 


self  can 


blot  out 


Hero's 


virtue 


Here  are  further  examples  of  trisyllabic  feet : 
Resolution  in  the  first  foot : 


Saying  I 


lik'd  her 


ere  I 


went  to 


Resolution  in  the  second  foot: 


No 


truly 


Ursula  I  she  is  I  too  dis 


wars 

-      A 

dainful 


Resolution  in  the  third  foot: 


I'll 


make  her 


come  I 


warrant  you 


present 


ly 


Resolution  in  the  fourth  foot : 


If 


silent 


why  a 


block  I  moved  with 
Resolution  in  the  fifth  foot : 


Thou 


pure  im 


pie 


ty  and 


impious 


none 

-      A 


purity 


a  double  resolution,  the  third  foot  very  weak,  probably  | 
Here  are  examples  of  double  resolutions : 


Ixxxiv     MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 


Resolutions  in  the  first  and  second; 


Talk  with  a 


ruffian 


at  her 


chamber 


window 


A  similar  example ; 


That  were  im 


possible 


but  I 


pray  you 


both 


Resolutions  in  the  second  and  third: 


With  I  all  pre 


rogative 


hence  his  am 


bition 


Resolutions  in  the  third  and  fourth: 


growing 
{Tempest.] 


With 


out  of 


fence  to 


utter  them 


thus  pretty 


lady 


Resolutions  in  the  fourth  and  fifth: 


Thou 


pure  im 


pie 


ty  and 


impious 


purity 


Mr  Bayfield  cites  this  line  as  containing  a  quadrisyllabic 
foot.  In  that  case  the  line  would  contain  four  measures. 
See  p.  Ixxxiii. 

Resolutions  in  the  first  and  third,  and  two  monosyllabic 
feet : 


Out  of  my 


self 

-    A 


press  me  to 


death  with 


wit 


Resolutions  in  the  first  and  fourth  and  two  monosyllabic 
feet: 


What  shall  be 


come  of 


this 


what  will  this 


do 


Here  is  an  exceptional  line  with  three  monosyllabic  feet : 


Boys 

-  A 


apes 

-  A 


braggarts 


jacks 

-   A 


milksops 


There  are  few  clear  examples  of  quadrisyllabic  feet  in 
Much  Ado.  One  doubtful  instance  can  be  found  in  a 
speech  (iv.  i)  printed  as  prose,  but  plainly  metrical: 

O !  what  men  dare  do !  what  men  may  do !  what  men  daily 
do,  not  knowing  what  they  do. 

This  could  be  read  as  follows: 


O! 


what  men 


■A 


What  men 


dare  do 


what  men 


may  do ! 


daily  do  not 


knowing 


what  they 


do! 


INTRODUCTION  Ixxxv 

But  this,  as  I  said,  is  doubtful  in  several  respects.  A  much 
better  example  is : 


Valuing  of    her  why 


she  O 


she  is 


falne 

-  A 

Numerous  examples  of  resolutions  drawn  from  other 
plays  will  be  found  in  Mr  Bayfield's  volume,  which, 
whether  its  doctrine  and  notation  be  accepted  or  not, 
should  help  to  quicken  the  student's  ear  to  the  music  of 
Shakespeare's  verse. 

(5)   Rhythm  before  Metre 

The  wise  student  will  not  take  sides  in  a  party  war  of 
trochee  against  iambus,  or  commit  himself  at  once  to  any 
rigid  scheme  of  metrics.  There  is  no  evidence  that  Shake- 
speare had  any  scheme.  We  do  not  know  that  he  had  any 
theoretical  view  of  blank  verse,  but  we  do  know  that  he 
had  a  vital  sense  of  rhythm.  Shakespeare  was  the  master, 
not  the  servant  of  verse,  and  he  used  it  with  imperious 
freedom,  commanding  it  to  sound  what  music  he  willed, 
from  pleasing  intricacies  of  tune  hung  about  with  rimes, 
to  subtle  complexities  of  expression  shaped,  it  would  seem, 
by  inward  passion  rather  than  by  outward  law,  but  formal 
and  lawful  still,  even  though  form  and  law  do  not  lie  open 
and  evident.  Shakespeare's  development  in  verse  is  a 
passing  from  simplicity  to  complexity;  and  the  student  must 
therefore  think  of  the  poet's  rhythm  rather  than  of  his 
metre.  He  must  suit  the  action  to  the  words  rather  than 
the  words  to  the  action.  The  greater  verse  of  Shakespeare, 
like  some  of  the  music  of  Bach  and  of  certain  modern 
composers,  tends  to  be  unbarred,  that  is,  to  reject  mechanical 
spacing,  and  to  set  its  own  implicit  bars  and  measures ;  but 
we  must  never  forget  that  the  bars  and  measures  are  there 
for  us  to  discover.  If  we  take  pains  to  feel  where  the 
natural  pauses  and  accents  of  the  line  should  fall,  the 
bars  will  take  care  of  themselves.  Even  within  groups  of 
apparently  simple  movement  there  is  no  mechanical  rule. 
Bach,  the  most  Shakespearean  of  composers  in  many 
ways,  but  specially  in  the  wonderful  freedom  and  com- 
plexity of  his  rhythms,  can  again  be  cited  in  illustration. 


Ixxxvi      MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 


"  Four  semi-quavers  are  for  Bach  not  four  semi-quavers, 
but  the  raw  material  for  quite  varied  shapes,  according  to 
how  he  groups  them ;  thus : 


or 


or 


or 


or 


(jf.  S.  Bach,  by  Albert  Schweitzer.) 

(6)   Other  Measures 

Shakespeare   occasionally  uses   the   "Alexandrine,"   or 
verse  with  six  stresses.  The  only  example  in  Much  Ado 
occurs  at  the  end  of  the  rough  quatrain  that  closes  the 
church  scene  proper: 
Per    haps  is    but  pro    longed  have    patience    and  en    dure 


Shakespeare's  use  of  resolutions  in  his  verse  developed 
with  maturity,  and  he  shares  with  Swinburne  the  dis- 
tinction of  using  more  than  any  other  English  poet.  The 
resolutions  give  his  verse  its  wonderful  variety  of  move- 
ment and  "add  the  gleam"  that  only  the  lyrical  poets 
seem  to  catch.  Indeed,  his  combination  of  normal  and 
resolved  feet  often  gives  us  actual  lyric  metres.  Thus : 
Call  her    forth  brother  I  here's  the  I  Friar    ready  I 

resembles  the  "  hendecasyllabic  "  line, 

All  composed  in  a  metre  of  Catullus. 
This  from  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  (there  is  no  example 
in  Much  Ado) : 


Being 


is  a  Sapphic. 


nimble 


But 


you  are 


more  in 


ed  he 

hath  out 

run  us 

temperate 

in  your 

blood 

— • 

- 

— 

- 

A    I 

is  like  the  greater  Alcaic.  Parts  of  lines,  too,  seem  to  be 
lyric  metres ;  but  we  need  not  go  into  that  here. 

(7)   Organic  Verse 

So  far  we  have  considered  mainly  the  movement  of 
single  lines.  But  a  verse  passage  is  a  sequence  of  lines, 
and  its  beauty  depends  upon  the  way  in  which  those  lines 


INTRODUCTION  Ixxxvii 

become  symphonic,  that  is,  become  blended  into  a  unity 
with  a  movement  of  its  own,  A  passage  of  verse  should 
be  an  organic  whole,  not  an  assemblage  of  parts.  A 
reference  to  the  examples  quoted  from  Surrey  and  Gor- 
hoduc  will  show  that  these  passages  are,  for  the  most  part, 
separate  statements  one  line  long.  Such  lines  are  said  to 
be  "  end-stopped,"  because  each  line  is  complete  in  itself. 
Only  the  immature  or  inferior  poet  thinks  and  writes  in 
lines.  The  present  play,  though  certainly  not  immature, 
contains  many  examples  of  end-stopped  passages.  See, 
for  instance,  Pedro's  speech  (l.  i)  beginning,  "What  need 
the  bridge  much  broader  than  the  flood."  Long  stretches  of 
verse  thus  written  are  not  satisfying,  because  we  feel  that 
the  lines  are  merely  put  together  and  not  joined  together. 
A  poet's  skill  is  shown  in  his  power  to  weave  these  separate 
lines  into  oAe  texture  of  verse  doubly  beautiful  with  its 
pattern  of  the  parts  and  its  pattern  of  the  whole ;  just  as 
a  tapestry  is  made,  not  by  putting  beautiful  coloured  silks 
side  by  side,  but  by  joining  their  separate  beauties  into 
a  picture.  Shakespeare's  power  over  verse  grew  steadily, 
till  at  last  he  was  able  to  write  those  great  fugal  passages 
in  which  metre,  rhythm  and  content  unite  to  make  a  great 
dramatic  movement. 

Much  Ado,  weakest  in  its  verse,  has  no  such  passages. 
Here  and  there  we  find  lines  that  are  "run  on"  instead  of 
being  "end-stopped,"  but  they  do  not  run  very  far.  We 
get  a  passage  like  this : 

Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes, 
Misprising  what  they  look  on,  and  her  wit 
Values  itself  so  highly  that  to  her 
All  matter  else  seems  weak :  she  cannot  love 
Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection, 
She  is  so  self-endeared ; 

but  the  best  this  play  can  show  is  far  indeed  from  the 
large  utterance  of  The  Tempest  or  Macbeth.  However,  we 
must  not  be  ungrateful.  The  verse  of  Much  Ado  is  good 
of  its  kind,  even  though  its  kind  is  not  the  best. 


Ixxxviii    MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

(XIV)   LATER  HISTORY  OF  THE 
SHAKESPEARE  CANON 

(i)    The  Folios 

As  we  have  already  pointed  out,  Much  Ado  appeared 
first  in  1600  and  was  not  reprinted  till  it  appeared  in  the 
first  collected  edition  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  the  famous 
First  Folio  of  1623.  So  many  stupid  accusations  about 
English  neglect  of  Shakespeare  are  made  and  repeated  that 
the  recital  of  a  few  facts  may  be  useful  to  the  student. 
Shakespeare  was  the  most  highly  esteemed  and  most 
popular  dramatist  of  his  time.  Contemporary  tributes  to 
him  are  numerous  and  almost  always  highly  laudatory. 
Remembering  that  plays  were  written  for  performance  on 
the  stage  and  not  for  circulation  as  books,  we  should  note 
with  special  interest  that  the  first  collection  of  Shake- 
speare's scattered  plays  made  in  1623,  imperfect  though 
it  may  have  been,  was  a  great  tribute,  and  was  meant  to 
be  a  great  tribute,  to  the  dead  writer.  Only  one  such 
collection  had  been  made  before,  the  much  slighter  Ben 
Jonson  folio  of  1616.  The  First  Folio  Shakespeare  of  1623 
is  not  merely  that,  it  is  actually  the  first  folio  of  collected 
and  newly-printed  plays  in  the  history  of  English  literature. 
Another  edition  was  called  for  nine  years  later.  This  Second 
Folio  (1632)  is  little  more  than  a  reprint  of  the  first. 
The  Third  Folio  (1663)  is  remarkable  because  it  contains 
seven  extra  plays,  only  one  of  which,  Pericles,  is  generally 
accepted  as  Shakespearean.  The  Fourth  Folio  (1685)  is  a 
reprint  of  the  Third  in  later  spelling.  None  of  the  Folios 
included  the  poems  and  sonnets.  The  reader  will  notice, 
then,  that  within  seventy  years  of  Shakespeare's  death, 
four  separate  editions  of  a  very  large  and  costly  volume 
were  called  for.  Moreover,  Shakespeare  never  left  the 
stage.  True,  the  plays  were  often  mangled,  sometimes 
altered,  sometimes  coarsened,  sometimes  modernized  (as 
we  should  say),  sometimes  amalgamated  with  other  works 
— Davenant,  for  instance,  produced  for  the  public  of 
Charles  II's  time  a  blend  of  Much  Ado  and  Measure  for 
Measure;  still,  they  were  played,  and  the  name  of  Shake- 
speare  was   never   forgotten.     Even    in    the    present   en- 


INTRODUCTION  Ixxxix 

lightened  century  we  have  seen  in  London  a  performance 
of  The  Tempest  in  which  the  whole  of  Shakespeare's  first 
scene  was  ruthlessly  cut  out  to  make  room  for  a  realistic 
shipwreck.    It  is  not  for  us  to  call  other  centuries  names. 

(2)   Pepys  and  Shakespeare 

Let  us  cite  as  a  witness  that  ever  delightful  connoisseur, 
Samuel  Pepys,  a  man  whom  Shakespeare  would  have  loved 
and  would  almost  certainly  have  put  into  a  play:  Pepys 
saw  bad  versions  of  Shakespeare  on  the  stage,  and  some- 
times liked  him  and  sometimes  didn't ;  but  at  least  he  saw 
him  steadily,  even  though  he  did  not  see  him  whole.  He 
bought  one  of  the  Folios  in  1664.  He  saw  Hamlet  many 
times — thrice  in  one  year — and  could  never  speak  highly 
enough  of  Betterton's  acting  as  the  Prince;  he  bought  a 
quarto  of  Henry  IV  and,  having  formed  high  expectations 
from  his  reading,  was  disappointed  in  the  performance. 
Later,  however,  he  calls  it  "a  good  play,"  and  at  another 
performance  specially  enjoys  Falstaff's  speech  on  Honour. 
Henry  V  he  liked  less,  but  was  in  a  very  uncomfortable 
seat.  A  bad  seat  is  a  good  reason  for  disliking  any  play. 
Davenant's  version  of  Macbeth  he  saw  constantly  and 
greatly  enjoyed.  The  Merry  Wives  he  saw  two  or  three ' 
times  and  did  not  like.  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  he 
saw  once  only  and  denounced  it  as  insipid  and  ridiculous, 
which,  as  performed  in  1662  with  "good  dancing  and  some 
handsome  women,"  it  may  well  have  been,  though  we  are 
surprised  that  Pepys  should  say  so.  When  he  saw  Othello 
in  1660  "well  done,"  "a  very  pretty  lady  that  sat  by  me 
called  out  to  see  Desdemona  smothered."  True,  after 
reading  it  on  his  way  to  Deptford  by  water  he  found  it 
a  "mean  thing"  after  The  Adventures  of  Five  Houres. 
He  did  not  like  Romeo  and  Juliet,  which,  however,  he  con- 
fesses was  very  badly  acted.  A  perversion  of  The  Taming 
of  the  Shrew  he  found  silly.  The  Tempest  (a  dreadful 
adaptation)  he  saw  constantly  with  pleasure,  the  songs 
giving  special  delight  to  his  musician's  ear.  The  ever- 
delightful  Twelfth  Night  he  called  weak  and  silly — but  he 
saw  it  at  least  thrice.  Indeed,  we  may  scorn  the  critical 
faculty  of  our  seventeenth  century  Pepys  if  we  like;  but 

SUA  s 


xc  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

he  saw  very  nearly  fifty  performances  of  plays  derived 
immediately  or  remotely  from  Shakespeare.  How  many 
twentieth  century  playgoers  can  say  as  much? 

(3)    The  Unities 

English  criticism  in  the  late  Stuart  period  was,  like 
English  life  in  general,  largely  influenced  by  French  taste. 
The  French  classic  tragedies  of  Racine  and  Corneille  were 
imitations  of  the  Greek,  and  the  nature  of  a  Greek  dramatic 
performance  demanded  that  the  action  of  a  piece  should 
happen  in  one  short  space  of  time,  in  one  place,  and  be 
one  uninterrupted  story  without  second  or  third  plots. 
These  conditions  were  known  as  the  Unities  of  Time, 
Place  and  Action.  Out  of  these  was  evolved  a  fourth  Unity, 
the  Unity  of  Kind,  which  demanded  that  a  tragic  piece 
should  be  uniformly  tragic  and  a  comic  piece  uniformly 
comic,  with  no  mingling  of  the  kinds.  The  three  great 
Unities  rendered  necessary  by  the  conditions  of  Greek 
acting  were  taken  by  the  French  to  be  the  necessary  laws 
of  drama  in  general.  To  French  taste,  then,  such  dramas 
as  Shakespeare's,  where  time,  place,  action  and  kind  are 
handled  with  complete  freedom,  seemed  as  barbarous  as 
Liszt's  Dante  Symphony  would  have  appeared  to  an 
eighteenth  century  audience  in  Vienna  assembled  to  hear 
a  symphony  of  Haydn. 

(4)   Dryden 

Dryden,  greatest  of  our  early  critics,  and  one  of  the 
greatest  of  all  our  critics,  discusses  the  Unities  in  his  Essay 
of  Dramatick  Poesy:  but  though  his  predilection  for  "  regu- 
larity," and  for  Ben  Jonson  as  the  first  "regular"  English 
dramatist,  is  strong,  observe  his  remarks  on  Shakespeare 
in  an  essay  written  in  1668: 

It  will  be  first  necessary  to  speak  somewhat  of  Shakespear  and 
Fletcher,  his  [i.e.  Jonson's]  Rivals  in  Poesie;  and  one  of  them 
in  my  Opinion,  at  least  his  equal,  perhaps  his  superior. 

To  begin  then  with  Shakespear;  he  was  the  Man  who  of  all 
Modern  and  perhaps  Ancient  Poets,  had  the  largest  and  most 
comprehensive  Soul.  All  the  Images  of  Nature  were  still 
present  to  him,  and  he  drew  them  not  laboriously,  but  luckily: 


INTRODUCTION  xci 

When  he  describes  any  thing,  you  more  than  see  it,  you  feel  it 
too.  Those  who  accuse  him  to  have  wanted  learning,  gave  him 
the  greatest  commendation :  He  was  naturally  learn'd  :  He  needed 
not  the  Spectacles  of  Books  to  read  Nature:  he  look'd  inwards 
and  found  her  there.  I  cannot  say  he  is  every  where  alike ;  were 
he  so,  I  should  do  him  injur>'  to  compare  him  with  the  greatest 
of  Mankind.  He  is  many  times  flat,  insipid,  his  Comick  Wit 
degenerating  into  Clenches,  his  Serious  swelling  into  Bombast. 
But  he  is  always  great,  when  some  great  occasion  is  presented 
to  him :  No  man  can  say  he  ever  had  a  fit  subject  for  his  Wit, 
and  did  not  then  raise  himself  as  high  above  the  rest  of  Poets, 

Quantujn  lenta  solent,  inter  viburna  cupressi. 
The  consideration  of  this  made  Mr  Hales  of  Eaton  say,  That 
there  was  no  subject  of  which  any  Poet  ever  Writ,  but  he  would 
produce  it  much  better  treated  of  in  Shakespear ;  and  however 
others  are  now  generally  prefer'd  before  him,  yet  the  Age 
wherein  he  liv'd,  which  had  Contemporaries  with  him,  Fletcher 
and  Johnson,  never  equal'd  them  to  him  in  their  esteem:  And 
in  the  last  King's  Court  when  Ben's  reputation  was  at  highest. 
Sir  jfohn  Suckling,  and  with  him  the  greater  part  of  the  Courtiers 
set  our  Shakespear  far  above  him. 

That  is  not  bad  for  the  age  of  Elegance  and  Literary 
Deportment, — especially  when  we  consider  what  imperfect 
materials  Dryden  and  his  contemporaries  had  for  an  under- 
standing of  Shakespeare. 

(5)    The  bad  text 

Let  the  young  student  select  a  play  of  Shakespeare 
hitherto  unknown  to  him,  turn  to  a  facsimile  of  a  Quarto 
or  of  the  First  or  Second  Folio,  try  to  read  and  under- 
stand what  he  finds  printed,  and  he  will  begin  to  discover 
what  tremendous  impediments  there  were  to  a  true 
appreciation  of  Shakespeare  in  the  seventeenth  century. 
Not  only  was  the  language  difficult  in  itself,  it  was  archaic, 
and  it  was  presented  in  very  ill-printed  volumes  full  of 
errors.  Further,  a  point  often  overlooked,  many  of  the 
plays  had  no  act  or  scene  divisions  whatever.  Take  the 
present  play  for  example:  the  Quarto  Much  Ado  of  1600 
is  ostensibly  one  unbroken  composition  continuously 
printed,  without  the  least  mention  of  act  or  scene  or 
change  of  place.  Outwardly  it  appears  to  be  as  complete 
as  the  most  elegant  critic  could  desire.  A  late  seventeenth 

g2 


xcii  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

century  reader,  therefore,  finding  a  playunbrokenly  printed, 
would  probably  expect  continuity  (or  unity)  of  time, 
stability  (or  unity)  of  place,  and  congruity  (or  unity)  of 
action;  and,  finding  nothing  of  the  sort,  but,  instead,  sudden 
and  unindicated  changes  of  place,  leaps  of  time,  and  in- 
congruity of  spirit,  might  excusably  dismiss  the  whole 
thing  as  tiresomely  archaic,  uncouth,  incomprehensible  and 
barbarous. 

(6)    The  Early  Editors 

Not  till  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century  was  the 
problem  of  preparing  a  text  of  Shakespeare  for  ordinary 
readers  actually  faced.  The  first  editor  was  Nicholas  Rowe, 
who,  in  1709-10,  produced  an  edition  in  seven  volumes, 
with  a  biographical  sketch  incorporating  some  still  floating 
traditions.  It  is  to  Rowe  that  we  are  indebted  for  such 
aids  to  reading  as  the  lists  of  dramatis  personae,  the  division 
of  the  text  into  acts  and  scenes,  the  clearly  marked  exits 
and  entrances,  and  so  forth.  The  text  was  poor.  Rowe  was 
not  a  good  editor,  but  at  least  he  was  the  first,  and  all 
honour  to  him.  Later  critics  have  been  scornful  of  poor 
Rowe;  but  after  all,  it  was  Rowe  who  first  lit  the  candles, 
swept  the  room,  and  set  the  floor  for  better  editors,  who, 
thus  being  helped,  inhabit  there. 

The  second  editor  was  Pope,  whose  edition  appeared  in 
1725.  Pope,  too,  was  a  bad  editor  in  the  textual  sense,  but 
his  essay  on  Shakespeare  is  remarkably  sympathetic  when 
the  totally  different  poetic  ideals  of  the  writer  are  con- 
sidered. Pope  contributed  in  another  way  to  the  popularity 
of  Shakespeare,  for,  in  1734  Tonson,  the  publisher, 

issued  all  the  plays  in  Pope's  text  in  separate  i2mo.  volumes, 
which  were  distributed  by  book-pedlars  at  a  low  price  through- 
out the  country.  This  was  the  first  attempt  to  distribute 
Shakespeare's  works  in  a  cheap  form ;  it  proved  so  successful 
that  a  rival  publisher  started  a  like  venture.  (Lee,  Life  of 
Shakespeare.) 

The  tremendous  textual  problems  of  the  Folios  and 
Quartos  were  first  thoroughly  attacked  by  the  third  editor, 
Lewis  Theobald,  who  brought  out  an  edition  in  1733. 
Theobald  had,  with  much  justification,  dealt  harshly  with 


INTRODUCTION  xciii 

Pope's  editorial  failure,  and  Pope  retorted  with  The 
Dunciad.  But  Theobald  remains  the  first  great  editor. 
"Over  300  original  corrections  or  emendations  which  he 
made  in  his  edition  have  become  part  and  parcel  of  the 
authorised  canon"  (Lee,  op.  cit.).  The  fourth  editor  was 
Sir  Thomas  Hanmer  (1744),  the  fifth  the  preposterous 
Bishop  Warburton  (1759),  the  sixth,  the  great  Dr  Johnson 
(1765),  whose  Preface  is  a  landmark  in  Shakespearean 
criticism,  and  should  be  read  by  all  students  of  literature. 
The  seventh  editor  was  Edward  Capell  (1768),  who  did 
excellent  editorial  work.  We  need  not  pursue  the  tale. 
Steevens,  and  after  him,  Malone,  produced  editions  em- 
bodying the  best  features  of  all  the  preceding  issues,  and, 
by  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  text  of 
Shakespeare  was  well  in  hand  and  a  succession  of  Shake- 
spearean scholars  established.  The  reader  should  gather 
from  this  recital  two  facts,  first,  that,  with  varying  heights 
of  enthusiasm,  a  genuine  interest  in  Shakespeare  has  existed 
unbroken  since  his  own  time ;  and  next,  that  a  modern  text 
of  Shakespeare,  so  cheap  to  buy  and  easy  to  read,  embodies 
critical  labours  extending  over  two  centuries. 

(XV)  NEED  FOR  A  RETURN  TO  SHAKESPEARE 

And  now,  having  inherited  all  the  aids  to  reading  con- 
tributed by  the  first  editors  we  must  try  to  get  away  from 
them  and  back  to  Shakespeare.  The  well-intended  additions 
of  Rowe  and  his  successors  are  in  many  quarters  regarded 
as  part  of  the  genuine  text.  Theatrical  managers  open,  let 
us  say,  Henry  IV,  Pt  I,  and  find  "Act  i.  Sc.  i,  London, 
The  Palace,"  and  presently,  "Sc.  2,  London.  An  apart- 
ment of  the  Prince's  " ;  and  decide  that  they  must  have  a 
royal  setting  for  the  first  scene  and  a  princely  setting  for 
the  second — such  being  Shakespeare's  manifest  desire.  But 
those  stage-directions  are  not  Shakespeare's  at  all.  Indeed, 
they  are  not  even  stage-directions.  They  were  written  in 
by  Rowe  and  were  meant  as  helps  to  readers,  not  in- 
structions to  scene-painters.  So  much  attention  has  been 
paid  to  these  unauthentic  stage-directions  during  the  last 
century  of  stage-history  that  they  have  assumed  in  certain 


xciv         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

minds  an  importance  beyond  that  of  the  authentic  text. 
Actor-managers  have  always  been  ready  to  sacrifice  Shake- 
speare's verse  to  Rowe's  stage-directions.  In  fact,  the 
whole  of  their  stage  method  was  fatal  to  the  right  pro- 
duction of  a  Shakespeare  play — a  point  we  shall  recur  to 
later.  The  Globe  Shakespeare  gives  as  its  first  stage-direction 
in  the  present  play  "Before  Leonato's  house."  There  is 
no  direction  at  all  in  the  original  text  and  nothing  in  the 
scene  to  indicate  the  setting.  The  same  may  be  said  of 
the  next  two  directions,  "A  room  in  Leonato's  house," 
and  "A  hall  in  Leonato's  house."  In  the  present  text,  for 
the  sake  of  convenience,  we  have  followed  the  traditional 
division  into  acts  and  scenes;  but  the  reader  must  re- 
member, however,  that  such  divisions  are  editorial  and 
not  original,  and  that  precise  locality  in  any  scene  usually 
matters  very  little.  Almost  any  scene  in  any  play  of 
Shakespeare  can  be  acted  without  reference  to  place  or 
time. 

(XVI)    SHAKESPEAREAN  PUNCTUATION 

There  is  another  textual  point  of  considerable  importance, 
already  mentioned  in  the  Preface.  The  punctuation  of 
modern  English  is,  or  is  intended  to  be,  grammatical.  Thus, 
in  the  sentence,  "The  king,  whose  faults  were  numerous, 
hated  his  brother,  whose  faults  were  few,"  the  commas 
indicate  the  parentheses;  in  the  sentence,  "A  king  whose 
faults  are  numerous  will  rarely  forgive  a  brother  whose 
faults  are  few,"  there  are  no  commas,  because  the  qualifica- 
tion is  integral,  not  parenthetic.  Or  to  put  the  matter 
more  simply,  in  the  first  sentence  a  statement  is  made 
simply  about  "the  king,"  even  though  there  is  an  additional 
fact  recorded ;  in  the  second  sentence  a  statement  is  made 
about  "A  king  whose  faults  are  numerous."  That  is  to 
say,  in  modern  English,  stops  are  inserted  upon  principles 
of  grammar  or  logic.  But  in  the  text  of  Shakespeare  the 
stops  are  not  inserted  upon  such  principles.  Indeed,  at 
first  sight  they  appear  to  be  inserted  upon  no  principles 
whatever.  It  has  been  maintained,  however,  by  Mr  Percy 
Simpson  in  his  Shakespearian  Punctuation  that  the  stops 
are  a  guide  to  speech;  and  there  is  much  plausibility  in 


INTRODUCTION  xcv 

the  argument.  Thus,  in  the  Globe  text,  an  early  speech  of 
the  Messenger  is  printed  thus : 

I  have  already  delivered  him  letters,  and  there  appears  much 
joy  in  him ;  even  so  much  that  joy  could  not  show  itself  modest 
enough  without  a  badge  of  bitterness. 

In  Q.  and  F.  it  appears  thus: 

I  have  already  delivered  him  letters,  and  there  appeares  much 
joy  in  him,  even  so  much,  that  joy  could  not  shew  it  selfe  modest 
enough,  without  a  badge  of  bitternesse. 

It  will  easily  be  seen  by  actual  trial  that  the  modem 
version  cannot  be  read  intelligently  as  it  is  written,  and 
that  the  original  can.  The  same  is  true  of  the  sentence 
quoted  in  the  Preface.  It  is  further  alleged  that,  in  the 
original,  a  full  stop  indicates  a  more  decisive  arrest  of  voice 
than  a  colon ;  and  so  on.  We  need  not  consider  the  technical 
arguments  by  which  these  views  are  supported,  and,  indeed, 
we  need  not  accept  them  unless  we  wish.  The  real  reason 
for  the  use  of  the  Shakespearean  punctuation  in  the  present 
text  is  simply  that  the  punctuation  is  Shakespearean.  The 
student  of  Shakespeare  should  have  Shakespeare's  punctua- 
tion before  him,  not  an  editor's.  Though  it  seems  odd  at 
first,  practice  makes  it  natural.  The  reader  may  be  helped 
if  he  remembers  Uvo  old  rules,  still  inculcated  by  professors 
of  elocution:  "Use  a  downward  inflection  of  the  voice 
when  you  have  finished  a  statement,  and  do  not  use  a  falling 
inflection  if  you  have  not  finished."  The  present  text  gives 
mainly  the  punctuation  of  Q.,  with  occasional  readings 
from  F. 

(XVII)   THE  SHAKESPEARE  STAGE 

In  section  XV  we  remarked  that  producers  of  Shake- 
speare on  the  stage  have  often  failed  to  secure  a  good 
Shakespearean  representation,  simply  because  they  have 
followed  the  editorial  hints  to  readers  as  slavishly  as  if  they 
were  Shakespeare's  own  stage-instructions.  They  have 
attempted  to  give  visible  being  to  every  editorial  indication 
of  place,  and  have  cumbered  the  stage  with  their  much 
scenery.  Now,  in  itself,  scenery  on  the  stage  is  a  good 
thing,  rather  than  a  bad  thing,  and  not  to  be  condemned ; 


xcvi         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

scenery  is  bad  only  as  long  as  it  interferes  with  the  con- 
tinuity of  the  play  by  necessitating  intervals  for  the  setting; 
and  it  almost  invariably  does  that.  In  a  modem  play  the 
end  of  a  scene  means  a  descent  of  the  curtain,  a  raising  of 
the  lights,  and  an  interval.  In  a  Shakespeare  play  it  means 
nothing  of  the  sort.  A  play  of  Shakespeare  is  meant  to 
be  acted  continuously.  It  may  not  have  technical  unity, 
but  it  ought  to  have  theatrical  continuity.  When  a  play  of 
Shakespeare  is  produced  under  modern  scenic  conditions, 
people  sometimes  complain  that  the  piece  is  long  and 
tiresome.  But  it  is  not  the  play  that  is  tiresome,  it  is  the 
superfluity  of  "waits"  that  is  tiresome.  Changes  of  scene 
mean  breaches  of  action.  The  effect  of  all  the  scene-shifting 
is  that  the  play  appears  to  be  in  fifteen  or  twenty  acts.  No 
play,  by  whomsoever  written,  can  possibly  retain  its  interest 
when  it  is  thus  minced  into  fragments. 

A  short  consideration  of  the  stage  in  Shakespeare's  day 
should  help  us  to  understand  how  an  Elizabethan  play 
should  be  presented.  Certain  details  are  still  disputed  by 
enthusiasts,  but  the  major  features  are  fairly  well  agreed 
upon.  The  young  student  must  dismiss  from  his  mind  all 
ideas  of  a  modem  theatre.  It  will  help  him  if  he  thinks 
of  something  entirely  different,  namely,  a  Promenade 
Concert  at  the  Queen's  Hall  in  London — but  he  will  have 
to  suppose  that  the  central  part  of  the  roof  is  wanting. 
Now  here  we  have  a  circular  building  devoted  to  artistic 
pleasure.  The  cheapest  places  are  in  the  open  circular  area, 
where  the  auditors  can  stand  and  listen,  or  "promenade" 
and  listen.  One  must  be  youthful,  enthusiastic  and  perhaps 
even  a  little  insensitive  to  "promenade"  with  enjoyment. 
Some  of  the  auditors,  anxious  to  be  as  near  the  performers 
as  possible,  pay  more  money  and  take  seats  on  the  platform 
itself.  Others,  desirous  of  listening  with  more  comfort,  or 
of  being  away  from  promenaders  who  fidget  and  smoke 
cigarettes,  pay  still  more  money  and  are  accommodated  in 
two  balconies  that  run  round  the  building,  one  above  the 
other,  but  not  quite  round ;  for,  though  the  hall  is  circular, 
a  large  segment  is  occupied  by  a  platform,  several  feet 
above  the  floor,  and  rising  in  its  remoter  portions  to  a 
considerable  height. 


INTRODUCTION  xcvii 

The  performance  of  a  Shakespeare  play  at  the  Globe 
Theatre  on  Bankside  bore  a  much  greater  resemblance  to 
a  Promenade  Concert  than  to  a  performance  of  a  modem 
play  in  a  modern  theatre.    Don't  imagine  that  complete 
"illusion"  is  necessary  for  artistic  enjoyment.    At  a  Pro- 
menade Concert  you  can  see  an  enormous  crowd  rapt  in 
deep  enjoyment  of  the  first  act  of  Die  Walkiire  given  without 
the    faintest    attempt    at    illusion — with    Siegmund    and 
Sieglinde  in  modem  evening  dress,  with  no  scenery  and 
none  of  the  theatrical  "effects"  that  Wagner  loved  not 
wisely  but  too  well.    At  the  Globe  Theatre  Burbage  en- 
thralled his  auditors  in  Hamlet  in  circumstances  rather 
similar.  There  was  a  circular  building  with  a  part  occupied 
by  a  platform;  there  were  the  promenaders  or  "ground- 
lings" in  the  cheapest  places,  mostly  young,  enthusiastic 
and  rather  insensitive,  more  appreciative  of  broad  effects 
than   of  the   fine   shades.     And   no   doubt   they   "drank 
tobacco  " — though  not  in  the  form  of  cigarettes.   Just  as  at 
the  Promenade  Concerts  there  are  hot  devotees  of  Wagner 
or  Bach  or  Beethoven  or  Chaikovsky,  so  at  the   theatre 
there  were  the  aggressive  adherents  of  Marlowe  or  Shake- 
speare or  Ben  Jonson  or  Webster.  There  were  connoisseurs 
on  the  stage,  there  were  superior  persons  in  the  balconies, 
and  there  were  the  performers  themselves  on  something 
much  more  like  a  platform  than  what  we  call  a  stage.   In 
a  modem  theatre  the  proscenium  is  like  a  gigantic  picture- 
frame  with  a  curtain  over  it.  The  curtain  goes  up  and  you 
see  a  living  picture,  an  elaborate  imitation  of  a  room  or 
a  garden,  designed  to  produce  the  maximum  of  illusion. 
In  one  recent  play,  the  carved  wooden  ceiling  of  a  room 
played  an  important  part  in  the  story.  On  the  Shakespearean 
stage  there  was  no  proscenium  and  no  curtain  to  "go  up" 
— though  there  were  curtains  for  other  purposes.  There 
was  a  projecting  platform  upon  which  there  was  no  possi- 
bility of  illusion.  The  difference  between  a  platform  and 
a  stage  is  important,  because  plays  are  written  to  fit  the 
current  conditions  of  the  theatre.    On  the  modern  picture 
stage  you  have  the  illusion  of  natural  action  and  con- 
versation— you    get    artistic    conviction    from    the    very 
"naturalness"  of  the  properties;  on  the  old  platform  stage 


xcviii       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

you  could  have  no  such  illusion,  and  had  to  get  artistic 
conviction  from  oratory — the  rhetorical  heightening  of  a 
situation.  On  the  picture  stage  the  characters  talk;  on  the 
platform  stage  the  characters  make  speeches.  And  the 
actor  must  never  forget  that  he  has  to  make  speeches.  He 
has,  in  effect,  to  deliver  verse  solos.  He  must,  for  instance, 
in  Othello  deliver  Shakespeare's  "O  now  for  ever  Farewell 
the  tranquil  mind,"  as  Tamagno  used  to  deliver  Verdi's 
"Ora  e  per  sempre  addio  sante  memorie" — i.e.,  with  full 
reference  to  its  metre  and  rhythm.  As  Mr  William  Archer 
admirably  says,  Shakespeare  appears  long-winded  because 
actors  are  short-winded.  Opposite  is  one  of  several  present- 
ments of  the  Elizabethan  stage. 

You  will  observe  that  it  falls  into  four  main  divisions 
— the  Front  Stage  (the  platform),  the  Middle  Stage  (be- 
tween the  pillars  and  before  the  curtain),  the  Rear  Stage 
(behind  the  curtain),  the  Upper  Stage  (the  first  stoiy  of 
the  erection,  so  to  speak).  The  two  doors  are  also  im- 
portant. We  need  not  enter  into  details  of  description, 
partly  because  it  is  in  details  that  matter  for  controversy 
arises,  but  chiefly  because  the  details  are  unnecessary  for 
our  present  purpose,  which  is  to  urge  that,  on  a  stage  of 
this  general  construction,  a  Shakespeare  play  can  be  per- 
formed with  a  rapidity,  continuity,  and  rhetorical  intensity 
unknown  in  the  minced,  deliberate  and  protracted  per- 
formances of  the  elaborate  scenic  stage.  The  Notes  will 
indicate  which  is  a  "front  stage"  scene  and  which  a  "full 
stage"  scene  in  the  present  play. 

(XVni)   CONCLUSION 

Much  Ado  has  been  a  favourite  play  at  all  periods, 
although,  as  we  have  said,  it  is  far  less  rich  in  the  stuflf  of 
poetry  than  such  comedies  as  Twelfth  Night.  Garrick 
played  Benedick  with  great  success  to  Mrs  Pritchard's 
Beatrice.  The  most  striking  modem  performance  was  that 
at  the  Lyceum  in  1882  and  later  years  when  Ellen  Terry 
played  Beatrice,  Henry  Irving  Benedick,  and  Forbes- 
Robertson  Claudio,  the  Church  Scene  being  a  very  re- 
markable piece  of  elaborate  stage-decoration.    Much  Ado 


AN  ELIZABETHAN  STAGE 
as  imagined  by  a  modern  scholar 


c  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

has  proved  less  attractive  than  some  other  Shakespeare 
plays  to  musicians.  An  operatic  version  by  Stanford  was 
given  at  Covent  Garden  in  1900  with  moderate  success. 
Berlioz  composed  a  setting  to  a  libretto  written  by  himself. 
It  was  produced  in  1862,  but  has  scarcely  survived,  though 
its  loveliest  moment,  the  duet  between  Hero  and  Ursula — 
a  vocal  and  orchestral  nocturne — is  still  occasionally  heard 
at  concerts. 

Let  us  conclude  with  two  criticisms  of  the  play,  the 
earliest,  and  one  of  the  latest.  The  earliest  is  that  by  Charles 
Gildon  in  Rowe's  edition,  and  here  quoted  from  a  reprint 
of  Pope's  (1728).  The  student  desirous  of  getting  a  good 
idea  of  the  early  eighteenth  century  attitude  to  Shakespeare 
should  read  Gildon's  Essay  on  the  Art,  Rise,  and  Progress 
of  the  Stage,  in  Greece,  Rome,  and  Englatid,  contained  in 
some  of  the  old  editions.  This  essay  contains  the  "Rules" 
to  which  he  refers  in  his  later  "Remarks."  The  following 
passage  is  taken  from  the  "Remarks"  on  Much  Ado: 

This  Fable  is  as  full  of  Absurdities,  as  the  Writing  is  full  of 
Beauties :  The  first  I  leave  to  the  Reader  to  find  out  by  the  Rules 
I  have  laid  down;  the  second  I  shall  endeavour  to  shew,  and 
point  out  some  few  of  the  many  that  are  contain 'd  in  the  Play. 
Shakespear  indeed  had  the  misfortune,  which  other  of  our  Poets 
have  since  had,  of  laying  his  scene  in  a  warm  Climate,  where  the 
Manners  of  the  People  are  very  diflFerent  from  ours ;  and  yet 
has  made  them  talk  and  act  generally  like  Men  of  a  colder 
Country.... 

This  Play  we  must  call  a  Comedy,  tho  some  of  the  Incidents, 
and  Discourses  too,  are  Tnore  in  a  Tragick  Strain :  and  that  of 
the  Accusation  of  Hero  is  too  shocking  for  either  Tragedy  or 
Comedy;  nor  cou'd  it  have  come  off  in  Nature,  if  we  regard  the 
Country,  without  the  Death  of  more  than  Hero.  The  Imposition 
on  the  Prince  and  Claudio  seems  very  lame,  and  Claudia's 
Conduct  to  the  Woman  he  lov'd,  highly  contrary  to  the  very 
Nature  of  Love,  to  expose  her  in  so  barbarous  a  manner  and 
with  so  little  Concern  and  Struggle,  and  on  such  weak  Grounds, 
without  a  farther  Examination  into  the  matter;  yet  the  Passions 
this  produces  in  the  old  Father,  make  a  wonderful  amends  for 
the  Fault.  Besides  which,  there  is  such  a  pleasing  Variety  of 
Characters  in  the  Play,  and  those  perfectly  maintain 'd,  as  well 
as  distinguish'd,  that  you  lose  the  Absurdities  of  the  Conduct 
in  the  Excellence  of  the  Manners,  Sentiments,  Diction,  and 
Topicks.  Benedict  and  Beatrice  are  two  sprightly,  witty,  talkative 


INTRODUCTION  ci 

Characters;  and  tho  of  the  same  nature,  yet  perfectly  distin- 
guish'd :  and  you  have  no  need  to  read  the  Names  to  know  who 
speaks.  As  they  differ  from  each  other,  tho  so  near  of  kin,  so 
do  they  from  that  of  Liicio  in  Measure  for  Measure,  who  is  Hke- 
wise  a  very  talkative  Person:  but  there  is  a  gross  Abusiveness, 
Calumny,  Lying,  and  Lewdness  in  Lucio,  which  Benedict  is  free 
from.  One  is  a  Rake's  Mirth,  and  Tattle;  the  other  that  of  a 
Gentleman,  and  a  Man  of  Spirit  and  Wit. 

The  Stratagem  of  the  Prince  on  Benedict  and  Beatrice,  is 
manag'd  with  that  Nicety  and  address,  that  we  are  very  well 
pleas'd  with  the  Success,  and  think  it  very  reasonable  and  just. 
The  Character  of  Don  John  the  Bastard  is  admirably  distin- 
guish'd,  his  Manners  are  well  mark'd,  and  everywhere  con- 
venient or  agreeable.  Being  of  a  sour,  melancholy,  saturnine, 
envious,  selfish,  malicious  Temper,  Manners  necessary  to  pro- 
duce the  Villanous  Events  they  did;  these  were  productive  of 
the  Catastrophe :  for  he  was  not  a  Person  brought  in  to  fill  up 
the  Number  only,  because  without  him  the  Fable  could  not 
have  gone  on. 

To  quote  all  the  Comick  Excellencies  of  this  Play  would  be 
to  transcribe  three  parts  of  it.  For  all  that  passes  betwixt 
Benedict  and  Beatrice  is  admirable.  His  Discourse  against  Love 
and  Marriage,  in  the  latter  end  of  the  second  Act,  is  very 
pleasant  and  witty;  as  is  that  which  Beatrice  says  of  Wooing, 
Wedding  and  Repenting.  And  the  Aversion  that  the  Poet  gives 
Benedict  and  Beatrice  for  each  other  in  their  Discourse,  heightens 
the  Jest  of  making  them  in  love  with  one  another.  Nay,  the 
Variety  and  natural  Distinction  of  the  vulgar  Humours  of  this 
Play,  are  remarkable. 

The  Scenes  of  this  Play  are  something  obscure ;  for  you  can 
scarce  tell  where  the  Place  is  in  the  two  first  Acts,  tho  the  Scenes 
in  them  seem  pretty  entire,  and  unbroken.  But  those  are  things 
that  we  ought  not  to  look  much  for  in  Shakespear.  Yet  whilst 
he  is  out  in  the  Dramatick  Imitation  of  the  Fable,  he  always 
draws  Men  and  Women  so  perfectly,  that  when  we  read,  we 
can  scarce  persuade  ourselves  but  that  the  Discourse  is  real  and 
no  Fiction. 

One  of  the  latest  criticisms  is  that  by  John  Masefield, 
himself  a  poet  and  dramatist.  It  may  help  us  to  answer 
the  question  why  the  play  is  called  Much  Ado  about 
Nothing: 

In  this  play  Shakespeare  writes  of  the  power  of  report,  of 
the  thing  overheard,  to  alter  human  destiny.  Antonio's  man 
listening  behind  a  hedge,  overhears  Don  Pedro  telling  Claudio 


cii  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

that  he  will  woo  Hero.  The  report  of  his  eavesdropping  con- 
veys no  notion  of  the  truth,  and  leads,  no  doubt,  to  a  bitter 
moment  for  Hero.  Borachio,  hiding  behind  the  arras,  overhears 
the  truth  of  the  matter.  The  report  of  his  eavesdropping  leads 
to  the  casting  off  of  Hero  at  the  altar.  Don  John  and  Borachio 
vow  to  Claudio  that  they  overheard  Don  Pedro  making  love  to 
Hero.  The  report  gives  Claudio  a  bitter  moment.  Benedick, 
reporting  to  the  same  tune,  intensifies  his  misery. 

Benedick,  overhearing  the  report  of  Beatrice's  love  for  him, 
changes  his  mind  about  marriage.  Beatrice,  hearing  of  Bene- 
dick's love  for  her,  changes  her  mind  about  men.  Claudio, 
hearing  Don  John's  report  of  Hero,  changes  his  mind  about  his 
love.  The  watch  overhearing  Borachio 's  report  of  his  villainy, 
are  able  to  change  the  tragedy  to  comedy.  Leonato,  hearing 
Claudio 's  report  of  Hero  is  ready  to  cast  off  his  child.  Report 
is  shown  to  be  stronger  than  any  human  affection  and  any 
acquired  quality,  except  the  love  of  one  unmarried  woman  for 
another,  and  that  strongest  of  all  earthly  things,  the  fool  in 
authority.  The  wisdom  of  Shakespeare  is  greater  and  more 
various  than  the  brains  of  little  men  can  imagine.  It  is  one  of 
the  tragical  things,  that  this  great  man,  who  interpreted  the  ways 
of  fate  in  glorious,  many-coloured  vision,  should  be  set  aside 
in  our  theatres  for  the  mockers  and  the  accusers,  whose  vision 
scatters  dust  upon  the  brain  and  sand  upon  the  empty  heart. 

Though  the  play  is  not  one  of  the  most  passionate  of  the  plays, 
it  belongs  to  Shakespeare's  greatest  creative  period.  It  is  full 
of  great  and  wonderful  things.  The  character-drawing  is  so 
abundant  and  precise  that  those  who  know  how  hard  it  is  to 
convey  the  illusion  of  character  can  only  bow  down,  thankful 
that  such  work  may  be,  but  ashamed  that  it  no  longer  is.  Every 
person  in  the  play  is  passionately  alive  about  something.  The 
energy  of  the  creative  mood  in  Shakespeare  filled  all  these 
images  with  a  vitality  that  interests  and  compels.  The  wit  and 
point  of  the  dialogue... is  plain  to  all,  but  it  is  given  to  few  to 
see  with  what  admirable,  close,  constructive  art  this  dialogue  is 
written  for  the  theatre.  Of  poetry,  of  understanding  passionately 
put,  there  is  comparatively  little.  The  one  great  poetical  scene 
is  that  at  the  opening  of  the  fifth  act.  The  worst  lines  of  this 
scene  have  become  proverbial ;  the  best  are 

"  'tis  all  men's  office  to  speak  patience 
To  those  that  wring  under  the  load  of  sorrow, 
But  no  man's  virtue  nor  sufficiency. 
To  be  so  moral  when  he  shall  endure 
The  like  himself." 

There  is  little  in  the  play  written  thus,  but  there  are  many 


INTRODUCTION  ciii 

scenes  throbbingly  alive.^The  scene  in  the  church  shows  what 
power  to  understand  the  awakened  imagination  has.  The  scene 
is  a  quivering  eight  minutes  in  as  many  lives.  Shakespeare 
passes  from  thrilling  soul  to  thrilling  soul  with  a  touch  as 
delicate  as  it  is  certain. 

Shakespeare's  fun  is  liberally  given  in  the  comic  scenes.  In 
the  last  act  there  is  a  beautiful  example  of  the  effect  of  lyric  to 
heighten  a  solemn  occasion. 

Mr  Masefield's  interpretation  of  the  play  as  an  exempli- 
fication of  the  power  of  mere  report  to  change  human 
destiny  may  be  profitably  compared  with  the  essay  by 
Dr  F.  S.  Boas,  in  which  the  title  of  the  piece  is  shown  to 
be  actually  its  dramatic  theme.  To  some  of  Shakespeare's 
fanciful  plays  fanciful  titles  are  given;  but  here  the  title 
fits  the  circumstances.  At  the  end  of  almost  every  scene, 
grave  or  gay,  brief  or  elaborate,  in  this  play  of  mingled 
emotions  we  can  subscribe  as  a  footnote  to  its  tears  and 
entanglements,  "Much  ado  about  nothing!" 

G.S. 


MUCH  ADOE  ABOUT  NOTHING 

AS  IT  HATH  BEExV  SUNDRIE  TIMES  PUBLIKELY 

ACTED  BY  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE,  THE 

LORD  CHAMBERLAINE  HIS  SERUANTS 

WRITTEN  BY  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


LONDON 

PRINTED  BY  V.  S.  FOR  ANDREW  WISE, 

AND  WILLIAM  ASPLEY 

1600 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

Leonato,  Governor  of  Messina. 

Messenger,  sent  to  Leonato. 

Don  Pedro,  Prince  of  Arragon,  King  of  Sicily. 

Don  John,  half-brother  of  Pedro. 

Benedick,  a  Lord  from  Padua. 

Claudio,  a  Lord  from  Florence. 

Balthasar,  a  Lord  (with  Song). 

Old  Man  (Anthony),  brother  to  Leonato. 

His  Son,  muta  persona. 

Conrad,  a  retainer  of  Don  John. 

BoRACHio,  a  retainer  of  Don  John. 

A  Boy,  attendant  on  Benedick. 

DoGBERY,  the  Parish  Constable. 

Verges,  the  Headborough. 

(Unnamed),  the  first  Watchman. 

George  Seacoal,  the  second  Watchman. 

Francis,  a  Friar. 

Francis  Seacoal,  Town  Clerk  and  Sexton. 

A  Lord,  companion  of  Claudio. 

Hero,  daughter  to  Leonato. 

Beatrice,  niece  to  Leonato. 

Margaret,  attendant  to  Hero  and  Beatrice. 

Ursula,  attendant  to  Hero  and  Beatrice. 

Place — Messina. 
Time — 1282-3. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT 
NOTHING 

ACT  I. 

Scene  I.  A  Garden  before  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  Leonato  governor  of  Messina,  Innogen  his  wife. 
Hero  his  daughter,  and  Beatrice  his  niece,  tmth  a 
messenger. 

Leon.  I  learn  in  this  letter,  that  Don  Peter  of  Arragon 
comes  this  night  to  Messina. 

Mess.  He  is  very  near  by  this,  he  was  not  three  leagues 
off  when  I  left  him. 

Leon.  How  many  gentlemen  have  you  lost  in  this  5 
action  ? 

Mess.  But  few  of  any  sort,  and  none  of  name. 

Leon.  A  victory  is  twice  itself,  when  the  achiever 
brings  home  full  numbers:  I  find  here,  that  Don  Peter 
hath  bestowed   much  honour  on  a  young  Florentine  10 
called  Claudio. 

Mess.  Much  deserv'd  on  his  part,  and  equally  re- 
membred  by  Don  Pedro,  he  hath  borne  himself  beyond 
the  promise  of  his  age,  doing  in  the  figure  of  a  lamb,  the 
feats  of  a  lion,  he  hath  indeed  better  bettred  expectation  15 
than  you  must  expect  of  me  to  tell  you  how. 

Leon.  He  hath  an  uncle  here  in  Messina  will  be  very 
much  glad  of  it. 

Mess.  I  have  already  delivered  him  letters,  and  there 
appears  much  joy  in  him,  even  so  much,  that  joy  could  20 
not  show  itself  modest   enough,   without  a   badge  of 
bitterness. 

Leon.  Did  he  break  out  into  tears? 

Mess.  In  great  measure. 

I — 3 


4  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING       [act  i 

25  Leon.  A  kind  overflow  of  kindness,  there  are  no  faces 
truer  than  those  that  are  so  washt,  how  much  better  is  it 
to  weep  at  joy,  than  to  joy  at  weeping? 

Beat.  I  pray  you,  is  Signior  Mountanto  return'd  from 
the  wars  or  no? 
30      Mess.  I  know  none  of  that  name,  lady,  there  was  none 
such  in  the  army  of  any  sort. 

Leon.  What  is  he  that  you  ask  for  niece? 
Hero.  My  cousin  means  Signior  Benedick  of  Padua, 
Mess.  O  he's  return'd,  and  as  pleasant  as  ever  he  was. 
35      Beat.  He  set  up  his  bills  here  in  Messina,  and  chal- 
leng'd  Cupid  at  the  flight,  and  my  uncle's  fool  reading 
the  challenge  subscrib'd  for  Cupid,  and  challeng'd  him 
at  the  burbolt:  I  pray  you,  how  many  hath  he  kill'd  and 
eaten  in  these  wars?   but  how  many  hath  he  kill'd?  for 
40  indeed  I  promised  to  eat  all  of  his  killing. 

Leon.  Faith  niece  you  tax  Signior  Benedick  too  much, 
but  he'll  be  meet  with  you,  I  doubt  it  not. 

Mess.  He  hath  done  good  service  lady  in  these  wars. 
Beat.  You  had  musty  victual,  and  he  hath  holp  to  eat 
45  it,  he  is  a  very  valiant  trencherman,  he  hath  an  excellent 
stomach. 

Mess.  And  a  good  soldier  too,  lady. 
Beat.  And  a  good  soldier  to  a  lady,  but  what  is  he  to 
a  lord? 
50      Mess.  A  lord  to  a  lord,  a  man  to  a  man,  stufft  with  all 
honourable  virtues. 

Beat.  It  is  so  indeed,  he  is  no  less  than  a  stuflPt  man, 
but  for  the  stuffing  well,  we  are  all  mortal. 

Leon.  You  must  not,  sir,  mistake  my  niece,  there  is  a 
55  kind  of  merry  war  betwixt  Signior  Benedick  and  her, 
they  never  meet  but  there's  a  skirmish  of  wit  between 
them. 

Beat.  Alas  he  gets  nothing  by  that,  in  our  last  conflict, 

four  of  his  five  wits  went  halting  off,  and  now  is  the 

60  whole  man  govern'd  with  one,  so  that  if  he  have  wit 

enough  to  keep  himself  warm,  let  him  bear  it  for  a 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  5 

difference  between  himself  and  his  horse,  for  it  is  all 
the  wealth  that  he  hath  left,  to  be  known  a  reasonable 
creature,  who  is  his  companion  now?  he  hath  every 
month  a  new  sworn  brother.  65 

Mess.  Is't  possible? 

Beat.  Very  easily  possible,  he  wears  his  faith  but  as  the 
fashion  of  his  hat,  it  ever  changes  with  the  next  block. 

Mess.  I  see  lady  the  gentleman  is  not  in  your  books. 

Beat.  No,  an  he  were,  I  would  burn  my  study,  but  70 
I  pray  you  who  is  his  companion?  is  there  no  young 
squarer  now  that  will  make  a  voyage  with  him  to  the 
divell? 

Mess.  He  is  most  in  the  company  of  the  right  noble 
Claudio.  75 

Beat.  O  Lord,  he  will  hang  upon  him  like  a  disease, 
he  is  sooner  caught  than  the  pestilence,  and  the  taker 
runs  presently  mad,  God  help  the  noble  Claudio,  if  he 
have  caught  the  Benedick,  it  will  cost  him  a  thousand 
pound  ere  a  be  cured.  80 

Mess.  I  will  hold  friends  with  you  lady. 

Beat.  Do  good  friend. 

Leon.  You  will  never  run  mad  niece. 

Beat.  No,  not  till  a  hot  January. 

Mess.  Don  Pedro  is  approacht.  85 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  Claudio,  Benedick,  Balthasar, 
and  John  the  bastard. 

Pedro.  Good  Signior  Leonato,  are  you  come  to  meet 
your  trouble :  the  fashion  of  the  world  is,  to  avoid  cost, 
and  you  encounter  it. 

Leon.  Never  came  trouble  to  my  house  in  the  likeness 
of  your  Grace,  for  trouble  being  gone,  comfort  should  90 
remain:  but  when  you  depart  from  me,  sorrow  abides, 
and  happiness  takes  his  leave. 

Pedro.  You  embrace  your  charge  too  willingly :  I  think 
this  is  j-our  daughter. 

Leon.  Her  mother  hath  many  times  told  me  so.  95 


6  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING       [act  i 

Bene.  Were  you  in  doubt  sir  that  you  askt  her? 

Leoti.  Signior  Benedick,  no,  for  then  were  you  a  child. 

Pedro.  You  have  it  full  Benedick,  we  may  guess  by 
this,  what  you  are,  being  a  man,  truly  the  lady  fathers 
loo  herself:  be  happy  lady,  for  you  are  like  an  honourable 
father. 

Bene.  If  Signior  Leonato  be  her  father,  she  would 
not  have  his  head  on  her  shoulders  for  all  Messina,  as 
like  him  as  she  is. 
105      Beat.  I  wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking,  Signior 
Benedick,  nobody  marks  you. 

Bene.  What   my   dear   Lady   Disdain!   are   you   yet 
living? 

Beat.  Is  it  possible  Disdain  should  die,  while  she  hath 
no  such  meet  food  to  feed  it,  as  Signior  Benedick?  Courtesy 
itself  must  convert  to  Disdain,  if  you  come  in  her  pre- 
sence. 

Bene.  Then  is  courtesy  a  turncoat,  but  it  is  certain 
I  am  loved  of  all  ladies,  only  you  excepted:  and  I  would 
115  I  could  find  in  my  heart  that  I  had  not  a  hard  heart,  for 
truly  I  love  none. 

Beat.  A  dear  happiness  to  women,  they  would  else 

have   been  troubled  with  a  pernicious  suitor,  I  thank 

God  and  my  cold  blood,  I  am  of  your  humour  for  that, 

120  I  had  rather  hear  my  dog  bark  at  a  crow,  than  a  man  swear 

he  loves  me. 

Bene.  God  keep  your  ladyship  still  in  that  mind,  so 
some   gentleman   or   other   shall   scape   a   predestinate 
scratcht  face. 
125      Beat.  Scratching  could  not  make  it  worse,  an  'twere 
such  a  face  as  yours  were. 

Bene.  Well,  you  are  a  rare  parrot  teacher. 

Beat.  A  bird  of  my  tongue,  is  better  than  a  beast  of 
yours. 
130      Bene.  I  would  my  horse  had  the  speed  of  your  tongue, 
and  so  good  a  continuer,  but  keep  your  way  a  God's 
name,  I  have  done. 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  7 

Beat.  You  always  end  with  a  jade's  trick,  I  know  you 
of  old. 

Pedro.  That  is  the  sum  of  all:  Leonato,  Signior  135 
Claudio,  and  Signior  Benedick,  my  dear  friend  Leonato, 
hath  inyited  you  all,  I  tell  him  we  shall  stay  here,  at  the 
least  a  month,  and  he  heartily  prays  some  occasion  may 
detain  us  longer,  I  dare  swear  he  is  no  hypocrite,  but 
prays  from  his  heart.  140 

Leon.  If  you  swear,  my  lord,  you  shall  not  be  for- 
sworn, let  me  bid  you  welcome,  my  lord,  being  recon- 
ciled to  the  prince  your  brother :  I  owe  you  all  duty. 

John.  I  thank  you,  I  am  not  of  many  words,  but  I 
;hank  you.  145 

Leon.  Please  it  your  Grace  lead  on? 

Pedro.  Your  hand  Leonato,  we  will  go  together. 

[Exeunt.  Manent  Benedick  and  Claudio 

Claud.  Benedick,  didst  thou  note  the  daughter  of 
Signior  Leonato? 

Bene.  I  noted  her  not,  but  I  lookt  on  her.  150 

Claud.   Is  she  not  a  modest  young  lady? 

Bene.  Do  you  question  me  as  an  honest  man  should 
do,  for  my  simple  true  judgment?  or  would  you  haye  me 
speak  after  my  custom,  as  being  a  professed  tyrant  to 
their  sex?  155 

Claud.  No,  I  pray  thee  speak  in  sober  judgment. 

Bene.  Why  yfaith  methinks  she's  too  low  for  a  high 
praise,  too  brown  for  a  fair  praise,  and  too  little  for  a 
great  praise,  only  this  commendation  I  can  afford  her, 
that  were  she  other  than  she  is,  she  were  unhandsome,  160 
and  being  no  other,  but  as  she  is,  I  do  not  like  her. 

Claud.  Thou  thinkest  I  am  in  sport,  I  pray  thee  tell 
me  truly  how  thou  lik'st  her. 

Be7ie.  Would  you  buy  her  that  you  inquire  after  her? 

Claud.  Can  the  world  buy  such  a  jewel?  165 

Bene.  Yea,  and  a  case  to  put  it  into,  but  speak  you 
this  with  a  sad  brow?  or  do  you  play  the  flouting  Jack, 
to  tell  us  Cupid  is  a  good  hare-finder,  and  Vulcan  a  rare 


8  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING       [act  i 

carpenter :  Come,  in  what  key  shall  a  man  take  you  to  go 
170  in  the  song? 

Claud.  In  mine  eye,  she  is  the  sweetest  lady  that  ever 

I  lookt  on. 
Bene.  I  can  see  yet  without  spectacles,  and  I  see  no 

such  matter:  there's  her  cousin,  an  she  were  not  possest 
175  with  a  fury,  exceeds  her  as  much  in  beauty,  as  the  first 

of  May  doth  the  last  of  December:  but  I  hope  you  have 

no  intent  to  turn  husband,  have  you? 

Claud.  I   would  scarce  trust  myself,  though   I   had 

sworn  the  contrary,  if  Hero  would  be  my  wife. 
180      Bene.  Is't  come  to  this?  in  faith  hath  not  the  world 

one  man  but  he  will  wear  his  cap  with  suspicion?  shall 

I  never  see  a  bachelor  of  three-score  again?  go  to  yfaith, 

an  thou  wilt  needs  thrust  thy  neck  into  a  yoke,  wear  the 

print  of  it,  and  sigh  away  Sundays:  look,  Don  Pedro  is 
185  returned  to  seek  you. 

Enter  Don  Pedro. 

Pedro.  What  secret   hath   held   you   here,   that   you 
followed  not  to  Leonato's? 

Bene.  I  would  your  Grace  would  constrain  me  to  tell. 

Pedro.  I  charge  thee  on  thy  allegiance. 
190  Bene.  You  hear.  Count  Claudio,  I  can  be  secret  as  a 
dumb  man,  I  would  have  you  think  so  (but  on  my 
allegiance,  mark  you  this,  on  my  allegiance)  he  is  in 
love,  with  who?  now  that  is  your  Grace's  part:  mark 
how  short  his  answer  is,  with  Hero  Leonato's  short 
195  daughter. 

Claud.   If  this  were  so,  so  were  it  uttred. 

Bene.  Like  the  old  tale,  my  lord,  it  is  not  so,  nor  'twas 
not  so:  but  indeed,  God  forbid  it  should  be  so. 

Claud.  If  my  passion  change  not  shortly,  God  forbid 
200  it  should  be  otherwise. 

Pedro.  Amen,  if  you  love  her,  for  the  lady  is  very  well 
worthy. 

Claud.  You  speak  this  to  fetch  mc  in,  my  lord. 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  9 

Pedro.  By  my  troth  I  speak  my  thought. 

Claud.  And  in  faith,  my  lord,  I  spoke  mine.  205 

Bene.  And  by  my  two  faiths  and  troths,  my  lord, 
I  spoke  mine. 

Claud.  That  I  love  her,  I  feel. 

Pedro.  That  she  is  worthy,  I  know. 

Bene.  That  I  neither  feel  how  she  should  be  loved,  210 
nor  know  how  she  should  be  worthy,  is  the  opinion  that 
fire  cannot  melt  out  of  me,  I  will  die  in  it  at  the  stake. 

Pedro.  Thou  wast  ever  an  obstinate  heretic  in  the 
despite  of  beauty. 

Claud.  And  never  could  maintain  his  part,  but  in  the  215 
force  of  his  will. 

Bene.  That  a  woman  conceived  me,  I  thank  her:  that 
she  brought  me  up,  I  likewise  give  her  most  humble 
thanks :  but  that  I  will  have  a  rechate  winded  in  my  fore- 
head, or  hang  my  bugle  in  an  invisible  baldrick,  all  220 
women  shall  pardon  me :  because  I  will  not  do  them  the 
wrong  to  mistrust  any,  I  will  do  myself  the  right  to 
trust  none :  and  the  fine  is,  (for  the  which  I  may  go  the 
finer,)  I  will  live  a  bachelor. 

Pedro.  I  shall  see  thee  ere  I  die,  look  pale  with  love.    225 

Bene.  With  anger,  with  sickness,  or  with  hunger,  my 
lord,  not  with  love:  prove  that  ever  I  lose  more  blood 
with  love  than  I  will  get  again  with  drinking,  pick  out 
mine  eyes  with  a  ballad-maker's  pen,  and  hang  me  up 
at  a  door  for  the  sign  of  blind  Cupid.  230 

Pedro.  Well,  if  ever  thou  dost  fall  from  this  faith,  thou 
wilt  prove  a  notable  argument. 

Bene.  If  I  do,  hang  me  in  a  bottle  like  a  cat,  and  shoot 
at  me,  and  he  that  hits  me,  let  him  be  clapt  on  the 
shoulder,  and  call'd  Adam.  235 

Pedro.  Well,  as  time  shall  tr^^: 
In  time  the  savage  bull  doth  bear  the  yoke. 

Bene.  The  savage  bull  may,  but  if  ever  the  sensible 
Benedick  bear  it,  pluck  off  the  bull's  horns,  and  set  them 
in  mv  forehead,  and  let  me  be  vildly  painted,  and  in  240 


10  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING       [act  i 

such  great  letters  as  they  write,  Here  is  good  horse  to 
hire:  let  them  signify  under  my  sign,  Here  you  may  see 
Benedick  the  married  man. 

Claud.  If  this  should  ever  happen,  thou  wouldst  be 
245  horn-mad. 

Pedro.  Nay,  if  Cupid  have  not  spent  all  his  quiver  in 
Venice,  thou  wilt  quake  for  this  shortly. 

Bene.  I  look  for  an  earthquake  too  then. 

Pedro.  Well,  you  will  temporize  with  the  hours,  in  the 
250  meantime,  good  Signior  Benedick,  repair  to  Leonato's, 
commend  me  to  him,  and  tell  him  I  will  not  fail  him  at 
supper,  for  indeed  he  hath  made  great  preparation. 

Bene.  I  have  almost  matter  enough  in  me  for  such  an 
embassage,  and  so  I  commit  you. 
255      Claud.  To  the  tuition  of  God:  from  my  house  if  I 
had  it. 

Pedro.  The  sixth  of  July :  your  loving  friend  Benedick. 

Bene.  Nay  mock  not,  mock  not,  the  body  of  your 

discourse  is  sometime  guarded  with  fragments,  and  the 

260  guards  are  but  slightly  basted  on  neither,  ere  you  flout 

old  ends  any  further,  examine  your  conscience,  and  so 

I  leave  you.  [Exit 

Claud.  My  liege,  your  highness  now  may  do  me  good. 

Pedro.  My  love  is  thine  to  teach,  teach  it  but  how, 
265  And  thou  shalt  see  how  apt  it  is  to  learn 
Any  hard  lesson  that  may  do  thee  good. 

Claud.  Hath  Leonato  any  son,  my  lord? 

Pedro.  No  child  but  Hero,  she's  his  only  heir: 
Dost  thou  affect  her  Claudio? 
270      Claud.  O  my  lord, 

When  you  went  onward  on  this  ended  action, 
I  lookt  upon  her  with  a  soldier's  eye, 
That  lik'd,  but  had  a  rougher  task  in  hand. 
Than  to  drive  liking  to  the  name  of  love: 
275  But  now  I  am  return'd,  and  that  war-thoughts, 
Have  left  their  places  vacant:  in  their  rooms. 
Come  thronging  soft  and  delicate  desires. 


sc.  II]      MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  ii 

All  prompting  me  how  fair  young  Hero  is, 
Saying  I  lik'd  her  ere  I  went  to  wars. 

Pedro.  Thou  wilt  be  like  a  lover  presently,  280 

And  tire  the  hearer  with  a  book  of  words, 
If  thou  dost  love  fair  Hero,  cherish  it. 
And  I  will  break  with  her,  and  with  her  father, 
And  thou  shalt  have  her:  was't  not  to  this  end, 
That  thou  began'st  to  twist  so  fine  a  story?  285 

Claud.  How  sweetly  you  do  minister  to  love, 
That  know  love's  grief  by  his  complexion ! 
But  lest  my  liking  might  too  sudden  seem, 
I  would  have  salv'd  it  with  a  longer  treatise. 

Pedro.  What  need  the  bridge  much  broader  than  the  290 
flood? 
The  fairest  grant  is  the  necessity : 
Look  what  will  serve  is  fit :  'tis  once,  thou  lovest, 
And  I  will  fit  thee  with  the  remedy, 
I  know  we  shall  have  revelling  to-night, 
I  will  assume  thy  part  in  some  disguise,  295 

And  tell  fair  Hero  I  am  Claudio, 
And  in  her  bosom  I'll  unclasp  my  heart. 
And  take  her  hearing  prisoner  with  the  force 
And  strong  encounter  of  my  amorous  tale : 
Then  after  to  her  father  will  I  break,  302 

And  the  conclusion  is,  she  shall  be  thine. 
In  practice  let  us  put  it  presently.  [Exeunt 

Scene  II.  In  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  Leonato  and  an  old  man  (Anthony) 
brother  to  Leonato. 

Leon.  How  now  brother,  where  is  my  cousin  your 
son,  hath  he  provided  this  music? 

Ant.  He  is  very  busy  about  it,  but  brother,  I  can  tell 
yoj  strange  news  that  you  yet  dreamt  not  of. 

Leon.  Are  they  good?  5 

Ant.  As  the  event  stamps  them,  but  they  have  a  good 


13  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING       [act  i 

cover:  they  show  well  outward,  the  prince  and  Count 
Claudio  walking  in  a  thick-pleached  alley  in  mine  or- 
chard, were  thus  much  overheard  by  a  man  of  mine:  the 

lo  prince  discovered  to  Claudio  that  he  loved  my  niece  your 
daughter,  and  meant  to  acknowledge  it  this  night  in  a 
dance,  and  if  he  found  her  accordant,  he  meant  to  take 
the  present  time  by  the  top,  and  instantly  break  with  you 
of  it. 

IS      Leon.  Hath  the  fellow  any  wit  that  told  you  this? 

A7it.  A  good  sharp  fellow,  I  will  send  for  him,  and 
question  him  yourself. 

Leon.  No,  no,  we  will  hold  it  as  a  dream  till  it  appear 
itself:  but  I  will  acquaint  my  daughter  withal,  that  she 

20  may  be  the  better  prepared  for  an  answer,  if  peradventure 
this  be  true :  go  you  and  tell  her  of  it :  [etiter  Musician 
and  others]  cousins,  you  know  what  you  have  to  do, 

0  I  cry  you  mercy  friend,  go  you  with  me  and  I  will  use 
your  skill :  good  cousin  have  a  care  this  busy  time. 

[Exeunt 
Scene  HI.  In  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  Sir  John  the  bastard,  and  Conrad  his  companion. 

Con.  What  the  good-year  my  lord,  why  are  you  thus 
out  of  measure  sad? 

John.  There  is  no  measure  in  the  occasion  that  breeds, 
therefore  the  sadness  is  without  limit. 
5      Con.  You  should  hear  reason. 

John.  And  when  1  have  heard  it,  what  blessing  brings 
it? 

Con.  If  not  a  present  remedy,  at  least  a  patient  suffer- 
ance. 
10      John.  I  wonder  that  thou  (being  as  thou  sayst  thou 
art,  born  under  Saturn)  goest  about  to  apply  a  moral 
medicine,  to  a  mortifying  mischief:  I  cannot  hide  what 

1  am :  I  must  be  sad  when  I  have  cause,  and  smile  at  no 
man's  jests,  eat  when  I  have  stomach,  and  wait  for  no 

15  man's  leisure:  sleep  when  I  am  drowsy,  and  tend  on  r.'O 


sc.  Ill]    MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  13 

man's  business,  laugh  when  I  am  merry,  and  claw  no 
man  in  his  humour. 

Con.  Yea  but  you  must  not  make  the  full  show  of  this 
till  you  may  do  it  without  controlment,  you  have  of 
late  stood  out  against  your  brother,  and  he  hath  ta'en  20 
you  newly  into  his  grace,  where  it  is  impossible  you 
should  take  true  root,  but  by  the  fair  weather  that  you 
make  yourself,  it  is  needful  that  you  frame  the  season 
for  your  own  harvest. 

Johi.  I  had  rather  be  a  canker  in  a  hedge,  than  a  rose  25 
in  his  grace,  and  it  better  fits  my  blood  to  be  disdain'd 
of  all,  than  to  fashion  a  carriage  to  rob  love  from  any:  in 
this  (though  I  cannot  be  said  to  be  a  flattering  honest 
man)  it  must  not  be  denied  but  I  am  a  plain-dealing 
villain,  I  am  trusted  with  a  muzzle,  and  enfranchis'd  30 
with  a  clog,  therefore  I  have  decreed,  not  to  sing  in  my 
cage :  if  I  had  my  mouth  I  would  bite:  if  I  had  my  liberty 
I  would  do  my  liking:  in  the  mean  time,  let  me  be  that 
I  am,  and  seek  not  to  alter  me. 

Con.  Can  you  make  no  use  of  your  discontent.^  35 

John.  I  make  all  use  of  it,  for  I  use  it  only, 
Who  comes  here?   what  news  Borachio.'' 

Enter  Borachio. 

Bora,  I  came  yonder  from  a  great  supper,  the  prince 
your  brother  is  royally  entertain'd  by  Leonato,  and  I 
can  give  you  intelligence  of  an  intended  marriage.  40 

John.  Will  it  serve  for  any  model  to  build  mischief 
on?  what  is  he  for  a  fool  that  betroths  himself  to  unquiet- 
ness? 

Bora.  Marry  it  is  your  brother's  right  hand. 

John.  Who,  the  most  exquisite  Claudio?  45 

Bora.  Even  he. 

John.  A  proper  squire,  and  who,  and  who,  which  way 
looks  he? 

Bora.  Marry  on  Hero  the  daughter  and  heir  of 
Leonato.  50 


14  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  ii 

JoJm.  A  very  forward  March-chick,  how  came  you 
to  this? 

Bora.   Being   entertain'd   for  a   perfumer,   as   I    was 

smoking  a  musty  room,  comes  me  the  prince  and  Claudio, 

55  hand  in  hand  in  sad  conference :  I  whipt  me  behind  the 

arras,  and  there  heard  it  agreed  upon,  that  the  prince 

should  woo  Hero  for  himself,  and  having  obtain'd  her, 

give  her  to  Count  Claudio. 

John.  Come,  come,  let  us  thither,  this  may  prove  food 

60  to  my  displeasure,  that  young  start-up  hath  all  the  glory 

of  my  overthrow:  if  I  can  cross  him  any  way,  I  bless 

myself  every  way,  you  are  both  sure,  and  will  assist  me. 

Con.  To  the  death  my  lord. 

John.  Let  us  to  the  great  supper,  their  cheer  is  the 
65  greater  that  I  am  subdued,  would  the  cook  were  a  my 
mind:  shall  we  go  prove  what's  to  be  done? 

Bora.  We'll  wait  upon  your  lordship,  {Exeunt 


ACT  n. 

Scene  I.  A  Room  or  the  Garden  of  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  Leonato,  his  brother,  his  wife.  Hero  his  daughter, 
and  Beatrice  his  niece,  and  a  kinsman  {also  Ursula 
and  Margaret). 

Leon.  Was  not  Count  John  here  at  supper? 

Ant.  I  saw  him  not. 

Beat.  How  tartly  that  gentleman  looks,  I  never  can 
see  him  but  I  am  heart-burn'd  an  hour  after. 
5      Hero.  He  is  of  a  very  melancholy  disposition. 

Beat.  He  were  an  excellent  man  that  were  made  just 
in  the  mid-way  between  him  and  Benedick,  the  one  is 
too  like  an  image  and  says  nothing,  and  the  other  too  like 
my  lady's  eldest  son,  evermore  tattling. 
10  Leon.  Then  half  Signior  Benedick's  tongue  in  Count 
John's  mouth,  and  half  Count  John's  melancholy  in 
Signior  Benedick's  face. 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  15 

Beat.  With  a  good  leg  and  a  good  foot  uncle,  and 
money  enough  in  his  purse,  such  a  man  would  win  any 
woman  in  the  world  if  a  could  get  her  good  will.  15 

Leon.  By  my  troth  niece  thou  wilt  never  get  thee  a 
husband,  if  thou  be  so  shrewd  of  thy  tongue. 
Ant.  In  faith  she's  too  curst. 

Beat.  Too  curst  is  more  than  curst,  I  shall  lessen 
God's  sending  that  way,  for  it  is  said,   God  sends  a  20 
curst  cow  short  horns,  but  to  a  cow  too  curst,  he  sends 
none. 

Leon.  So,  by  being  too  curst,  God  will  send  you  no 
horns. 

Beat.  Just,  if  he  send  me  no  husband,  for  the  which  25 
blessing  I  am  at  him  upon  my  knees  every  morning  and 
evening:  Lord,  I  could  not  endure  a  husband  with  a 
beard  on  his  face,  I  had  rather  lie  in  the  woollen ! 

Leon.  You  may  light  on  a  husband  that  hath  no  beard. 
Beat.  What  should  I  do  with  him,  dress  him  in  my  30 
apparel  and  make  him  my  waiting-gentlewoman?  he  that 
hath  a  beard,  is  more  than  a  youth :  and  he  that  hath  no 
beard,  is  less  than  a  man:  and  he  that  is  more  than  a 
youth,  is  not  for  me,  and  he  that  is  less  than  a  man,  I  am 
not  for  him,  therefore- 1  will  even  take  sixpence  in  earnest  35 
of  the  berrord,  and  lead  his  apes  into  hell. 
Leon.  Well  then,  go  you  into  hell. 
Beat.  No  but  to  the  gate,  and  there  will  the  divell 
meet  me  with  horns  on  his  head,  and  say,  '  Get  you  to 
heaven  Beatrice,  get  you  to  heaven,  here's  no  place  for  40 
you  maids,'  so  deliver  I  up  my  apes  and  away  to  Saint 
Peter:  for  the  heavens,  he  shews  me  where  the  bachelors 
sit,  and  there  live  we  as  merry  as  the  day  is  long. 

Ant.  Well  niece,  I  trust  you  will  be  rul'd  by  your 
father.  45 

Beat.  Yes  faith,  it  is  my  cousin's  duty  to  make  curtsy 
and  say,  'Father,  as  it  please  you:'  but  yet  for  all  that 
cousin,  let  him  be  a  handsome  fellow,  or  else  make 
another  curtsy,  and  say,  '  Father,  as  it  please  me.' 


i6  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  ii 

50  Leon.  Well  niece,  I  hope  to  see  you  one  day  fitted  with 
a  husband. 

Beat.  Not  till  God  make  men  of  some  other  metal 
than  earth,  would  it  not  grieve  a  woman  to  be  over- 
master'd  with  a  piece  of  valiant  dust?  to  make  an  account 

55  of  her  life  to  a  clod  of  wayward  marl?  No  uncle,  I'll 
none:  Adam's  sons  are  my  brethren,  and  truly  I  hold  it 
a  sin  to  match  in  my  kindred. 

Leon.  Daughter,  remember  what  I  told  you,  if  the 
prince  do  solicit  you  in  that  kind,  you  know  your  answer. 

60  Beat.  The  fault  will  be  in  the  music  cousin,  if  you 
be  not  wooed  in  good  time :  if  the  prince  be  too  important, 
tell  him  there  is  measure  in  every  thing,  and  so  dance 
out  the  answer,  for  hear  me  Hero,  wooing,  wedding,  and 
repenting,  is  as  a  Scotch  jig,  a  measure,  and  a  cinque- 

65  pace:  the  first  suit  is  hot  and  hasty  like  a  Scotch  jig 
(and  full  as  fantastical)  the  wedding  mannerly-modest 
(as  a  measure)  full  of  state  and  ancientry,  and  then 
comes  Repentance,  and  with  his  bad  legs  falls  into  the 
cinquepace  faster  and  faster,  till  he  sink  into  his  grave. 

70      Leon.  Cousin  you  apprehend  passing  shrewdly. 

Beat.  I  have  a  good  eye  uncle,  I  can  see  a  church  by 
daylight. 

Leon.  The  revellers  are  entring  brother,  make  good 
room. 

Enter  Prince  Pedro,  Claudio,  Benedick,  Balthasar, 
[Don  John,  and  Borachio.] 

75      Pedro.  Lady  will  you  walk  about  with  your  friend? 
Hero.  So,  you  walk  softly,  and  look  sweetly,  and  say 
*  nothing,  I  am  yours  for  the  walk,  and  especially  when 
I  walk  away. 

Pedro.  With  me  in  your  company. 
80      Hero.  I  may  say  so  when  I  please. 

Pedro.  And  when  please  you  to  say  so? 
Hero.  When  I  like  your  favour,  for  God  defend  the 
lute  should  be  like  the  case. 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  17 

Pedro.  My  visor  is  Philemon's  roof,  within  the  house 
is  Jove. 

Hero.  Why  then  your  visor  should  be  thatcht. 

P^dro.  Speak  low  if  you  speak  love.  85 

Balth.  Well,  I  would  you  did  like  me. 

Marg.  So  would  not  I  for  your  own  sake,  for  I  have 
many  ill  qualities. 

Balth.  Which  is  one? 

Marg.  I  say  my  prayers  aloud.  00 

Balth.  I  love  you  the  better,  the  hearers  may  cry  Amen. 

Marg.  God  match  me  with  a  good  dancer. 

Balth.  Amen. 

Marg.  And  God  keep  him  out  of  my  sight  when  the 
dance  is  done:  answer  Clerk.  or 

Balth.  No  more  words,  the  Clerk  is  answered. 

Urs.  I  know  you  well  enough,  you  are  Signior  An- 
thonio. 

Ant.  At  a  word  I  am  not. 

Urs.  I  know  you  by  the  waggling  of  your  head.  ico 

Ant.  To  tell  you  true,  I  counterfeit  him. 

Urs.  You  could  never  do  him  so  ill  well,  unless  you 
were  the  very  man:  here's  his  dry  hand  up  and  down, 
you  are  he,  you  are  he. 

Ant.  At  a  word,  I  am  not.  105 

Urs.  Come,  come,  do  you  think  I  do  not  know  you 
by  your  excellent  wit.''  can  virtue  hide  itself?  go  to,  mum, 
you  are  he,  graces  will  appear,  and  there's  an  end. 

Beat.  Will  you  not  tell  me  who  told  you  so? 

Bene.  No,  you  shall  pardon  me.  no 

Beat.  Nor  will  you  not  tell  me  who  you  are? 

Bene.  Not  now. 

Beat.  That  I  was  disdainful,  and  that  I  had  my  good 
wit  out  of  the  'Hundred  Merry  Tales':  well,  this  was 
Signior  Benedick  that  said  so.  115 

Bene.  What's  he? 

Beat.  I  am  sure  you  know  him  well  enough. 

Bene.  Not  I,  believe  me. 


.S  M  A 


i8  iMUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  ii 

Beat.  Did  he  never  make  you  laugh? 
1 20      Bene.  I  pray  you  what  is  he? 

Beat.  Why  he  is  the  prince's  jester,  a  very  dull  fool, 
only  his  gift  is,  in  devising  impossible  slanders,  none  but 
libertines  delight  in  him,  and  the  commendation  is  not 
in  his  wit,  but  in  his  villainy,  for  he  both  pleases  men 
125  and  angers  them,  and  then  they  laugh  at  him,  and  beat 
him:  I  am  sure  he  is  in  the  fleet,  I  would  he  had  boarded 
me. 

Bene.  When  I  know  the  gentleman,  I'll  tell  him  what 
you  say. 
130  Beat.  Do,  do,  he'll  but  break  a  comparison  or  two  on 
me,  which  peradventure  (not  markt,  or  not  laught  at) 
strikes  him  into  melancholy  and  then  there's  a  partridge 
wing  saved,  for  the  fool  will  eat  no  supper  that  night: 
we  must  follow  the  leaders. 
135      Bene.  In  every  good  thing. 

Beat.  Nay,  if  they  lead  to  any  ill,  I  will  leave  them  at 
the  next  turning.  [Dance — exeunt 

John,  Boraciiio  and  Claudio  remain. 

John.  Sure  my  brother  is  amorous  on  Hero,  and  hath 
withdrawn  her  father  to  break  with  him  about  it :  the 
140  ladies  follow  her,  and  but  one  visor  remains. 

Bora.  And  that  is  Claudio,  I  know  him  by  his  bearing. 
John.  Are  not  you  Signior  Benedick? 
Chmd.  You  know  me  well,  I  am  he. 
Jo/ui.  Signior,  you  are  very  near  my  brother  in  his 
14s  love,  he  is  enamour'd  on  Hero,  I  pray  you  dissuade  him 
from  her,  she  is  no  equal  for  his  birth,  you  may  do  the 
part  of  an  honest  man  in  it. 

Claud.   How  know  you  he  loves  her? 
John.   I  heard  him  swear  his  aft'ection. 
150      Bora.  So  did  I  too,  and  he  swore  he  would  marry  her 
to-night. 
John.   Come  let  us  to  the  banquet. 

[E.xeunl:  Mane/  Claud. 


155 


sc.  I]      MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  19 

Claud.  Thus  answer  I  in  name  of  Benedick, 
But  hear  these  ill  news  with  the  ears  of  Claudio : 
'Tis  certain  so,  the  prince  woos  for  himself, 
Friendship  is  constant  in  all  other  things, 
Save  in  the  office  and  affairs  of  love  : 
Therefore  all  hearts  in  love  use  their  own  tongues. 
Let  every  eye  negotiate  for  itself. 

And  trust  no  agent:  for  Beauty  is  a  witch,  163 

Against  whose  charms,  faith  melteth  into  blood: 
This  is  an  accident  of  hourly  proof, 
Which  I  mistrusted  not:  farewell  therefore  Hero. 

Enter  Benedick. 

Bene.  Count  Claudio. 

Claud.  Yea,  the  same.  165 

Bene.  Come,  will  you  go  with  me.^ 

Claud.  Whither? 

Bene.  Even  to  the  next  willow,  about  your  own  busi- 
ness, county:  what  fashion  will  you  wear  the  garland  of? 
about  your  neck,  like  an  usurer's  chain?  or  under  your  170 
arm,  like  a  lieutenant's  scarf?  you  must  wear  it  one  way, 
for  the  prince  hath  got  your  Hero. 

Claud.  I  wish  him  joy  of  her. 

Bene.  Why  that's  spoken  like  an  honest  drovier,  so 
they  sell  bullocks:  but  did  you  think  the  prince  would  175 
have  served  you  thus? 

Claud.  I  pray  you  leave  me. 

Bene.  Ho  now  you  strike  like  the  blind  man,  'twas 
the  boy  that  stole  your  meat,  and  vou'll  beat  the 
post.  180 

Claud.  If  it  will  not  be,  I'll  leave  you.  [Exit 

Bene.  Alas  poor  hurt  fowl,  now  will  he  creep  into 
sedges :  but  that  my  lady  Beatrice  should  know  me,  and 
not  know  me :  the  prince's  fool !  hah,  it  may  be  I  go  under 
that  title  because  I  am  merry:  yea  but  so  I  am  apt  to  do  1S5 
myself  wrong:  I  am  not  so  reputed,  it  is  the  base  (though 
bitter)  disposition  of  Beatrice,  that  puts  the  world  into 

2 — 2 


20  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  ii 

her  person,  and  so  gives  me  out:  wqjl,  I'll  be  revenged 
as  I  may. 

Enter  the  Prince. 

190      Pedro.  Now  signior,  where's  the  count,  did  you  see 
him? 

Bene.  Troth  my  lord,  I  have  played  the  part  of  Lady 
Fame,  I  found  him  here  as  melancholy  as  a  lodge  in  a 
warren,  I  told  him,  and  I  think  I  told  him  true,  that 
195  your  Grace  had  got  the  goodwill  of  this  young  lady,  and 
I  offred  him  my  company  to  a  willow  tree,  either  to  make 
him  a  garland,  as  being  forsaken,  or  to  bind  him  up  a 
rod,  as  being  worthy  to  be  whipt. 

Pedro.  To  be  whipt,  what's  his  fault? 
200      Bene.  The   flat  transgression  of  a  school-boy,  who 
being  overjoyed  with  finding  a  bird's  nest,  shews  it  his 
companion,  and  he  steals  it. 

Pedro.  Wilt  thou  make  a  trust  a  transgression?  the 
transgression  is  in  the  stealer. 
205      Bene.  Yet  it  had  not  been  amiss  th^  rod  had  been 
made,  and  the  garland  too,  for  the  garland  he  might 
have  worn  himself,  and  the  rod  he  might  have  bestowed 
on  you,  who  (as  I  take  it)  have  stolne  his  bird's  nest. 
Pedro.  I  will  but  teach  them  to  sing,  and  restore  them 
210  to  the  owner. 

Bene.  If  their  singing  answer  your  saying,  by  my 
faith  you  say  honestly. 

Pedro.  The  Lady  Beatrice  hath  a  quarrel  to  you,  tiic 
gentleman  that  danc'd  with  her,  told  her  she  is  much 
215  wrong'd  by  you. 

Bene.  O  she  misus'd  me  past  the  endurance  of  a 
block:  an  oak  but  with  one  green  leaf  on  it,  would  have 
answered  her:  my  very  visor  began  to  assume  life,  and 
scold  with  her:  she  told  me,  not  thinking  I  had  been 
220  myself,  that  I  was  the  prince's  jester,  that  I  was  duller 
than  a  great  thaw,  huddling  jest  upon  jest,  with  such 
impossible  conveyance  upon  me,  that  I  stood  like  a  man 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  21 

at  a  mark,  with  a  \s^hole  army  shooting  at  me:  she  speaks 
poniards,  and  every  word  stabs:  if  her  breath  were  as 
terrible  as  her  terminations,  there  were  no  Hving  near  225 
her,  she  would  infect  to  the  north  star :  I  would  not  marry 
her,  though  she  were  endowed  with  all  that  Adam  had 
left  him  before  he  transgrest,  she  would  have  made 
Hercules  have  turn'd  spit,  yea,  and  have  cleft  his  club 
to  make  the  fire  too :  come,  talk  not  of  her,  you  shall  find  230 
her  the  infernal  Ate  in  good  apparel,  I  would  to  God  some 
scholar  would  conjure  her,  for  certainly,  while  she  is 
here,  a  man  may  live  as  quiet  in  hell  as  in  a  sanctuary, 
and  people  sin  upon  purpose,  because  they  would  go 
thither,  so  indeed  all  disquiet,  horror,  and  perturbation  235 
follows  her. 

Enter  Claudio,  Beatrice,  Hero,  arid  Leonato. 

Pedro.  Look  here  she  comes. 

Bene.  Will  your  Grace  command  me  any  service  to  the 
world's  end?  I  will  go  on  the  slightest  errand  now  to  the 
Antipodes  that*you  can  devise  to  send  me  on :  I  will  fetch  240 
you  a  tooth-picker  now  from  the  furthest  inch  of  Asia : 
bring  you  the  length  of  Prester  John's  foot :  fetch  you  a 
hair  off  the  Great  Cham's  beard;  do  you  any  embassage 
to  the  Pigmies,  rather  than  hold  three  w^ords  conference, 
with  this  harpy,  you  have  no  employment  for  me?  245 

Pedro.  None,  but  to  desire  your  good  company. 

Bene.  O  God  sir,  here's  a  dish  I  love  not,  I  cannot 
endure  my  Lady  Tongue.  [Exit 

Pedro.  Come  lady,  come,  you  have  lost  the  heart  of 
Signior  Benedick.  250 

Beat.  Indeed,  my  lord,  he  lent  it  me  awhile,  and  I 
g'ave  him  use  for  it,  a  double  heart  for  a  single  one,  marry 
once  before  he  won  it  of  me,  with  false  dice,  therefore 
your  Grace  may  well  say  I  have  lost  it. 

Pedro.  You  have  put  him  down  lady,  you  have  put  255 
him  down. 

Beat.  So  I  would  not  he  should  do  me,  my  lord,  lest 


22  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  ii 

I  should  prove  the  mother  of  fools:   I   have  brought 
Count  Claudio,  whom  you  sent  me  to  seek. 
260      Pedro.  Why  how  now  count,  wherefore  are  you  sad? 
Claud.  Not  sad  my  lord. 
Pedro.  How  then?  sick? 
Count.  Neither,  my  lord. 

Beat.  The  count  is  neither  sad,  nor  sick,  nor  merry, 
265  nor  well:  but  civil  count,  civil  as  an  orange,  and  some- 
thing of  that  jealous  complexion. 

Pedro.  Yfaith  lady,  I  think  your  blazon  to  be  true, 

though  I'll  be  sworn,  if  he  be  so,  his  conceit  is  false: 

here  Claudio,  I  have  wooed  in  thy  name,  and  fair  Hero 

270  is  won,  I  have  broke  with  her  father,  and  his  good  will 

obtained,  name  the  day  of  marriage,  and  God  give  thee 

joy- 

Leon.  Count  take  of  me  my  daughter,  and  with  her 
my  fortunes:  his  Grace  hath  made  the  match,  and  all 
275  grace  say  Amen  to  it. 

Beat.  Speak  count,  'tis  your  cue. 

Claud.  Silence  is  the  perfectest  herald  of  joy,  I  were 
but  little  happy  if  I  could  say,  how  much?  Lady,  as  you 
are  mine,  I  am  yours,  I  give  away  myself  for  you,  and 
280  dote  upon  the  exchange. 

Beat.  Speak  cousin,  or  (if  you  cannot)  stop  his  mouth 
with  a  kiss,  and  let  not  him  speak  neither. 

Pedro.  In  faith  lady  you  have  a  merry  heart. 

Beat.  Yea  my  lord  I  thank  it,  poor  fool  it  keeps  on 
285  the  windy  side  of  Care,  my  cousin  tells  him  in  his  ear 
that  he  is  in  her  heart. 

Claud.  And  so  she  doth  cousin. 

Beat.  Good  Lord  for  alliance:  thus  goes  every  one  to 
the  world  but  I,  and  I  am  sui\burnt,  I  may  sit  in  a  corner 
290  and  cry.  Heigh-ho  for  a  husband. 

Pedro.  Lady  Beatrice,  I  will  get  you  one. 

Beat.  I  would  rather  have  one  of  your  father's  getting : 
hath  your  Grace  ne'er  a  brother  like  you?  your  father 
got  excellent  husbands  if  a  maid  could  come  by  them. 


sc.  i]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  23 

Pedro.  Will  you  have  me?  lady.  295 

Beat.  No  my  lord,  unless  I  might  have  another  for 
working-days,  your  Grace  is  too  costly  to  wear  every  day: 
but  I  beseech  your  Grace  pardon  me,  I  was  born  to 
speak  all  mirth,  and  no  matter. 

Pedro.  Your  silence  most  offends  me,  and  to  be  merry,  300 
best  becomes  you,  for  out  of  question,  you  were  born 
in  a  merry  hour. 

Beat.  No  sure  my  lord,  my  mother  cried,  but  then 
there  was  a  star  danc'd,  and  under  that  was  I  born, 
cousins  God  give  you  joy.  3^5 

Leon.  Niece,  will  you  look  to  those  things  I  told  you 
of? 

Beat.  I  cry  you  mercy  uncle,  by  your  Grace's  pardon. 

[Exit  Beatrice 

Pedro.  By  my  troth  a  pleasant  spirited  lady. 

Leo7i.  There's  little  of  the  melancholy  element  in  her  310 
my  lord,  she  is  never  sad,  but  when  she  sleeps,  and  not 
ever  sad  then:  for  I  have  heard  my  daughter  say,  she 
hath  often  dreamt  of  unhappiness,  and  wak'd  herself  with 
laughing. 

Pedro.  She  cannot  endure  to  hear  tell  of  a  husband.     315 

Leon.  O  by  no  means,  she  mocks  all  her  wooers  out 
of  suit. 

Pedro.  She  were  an  excellent  wife  for  Benedick. 

Leon.  O  Lord,  my  lord,  if  they  were  but  a  week  married, 
they  would  talk  themselves  mad.  320 

Pedro.  Count  Claudio,  when  mean  you  to  go  to  church  ? 

Claud.  To-morrow  my  lord,  Time  goes  on  crutches, 
till  Love  have  all  his  rites. 

Leon.  Not  till  Monday,  my  dear  son,  which  is  hence 
a  just  seven-night,  and  a.time  too  brief  too,  to  have  all  325 
things  answer  my  mind. 

Pedro.  Come,  you  shake  the  head  at  so  long  a  breathing, 
but  I  warrant  thee  Claudio,  the  time  shall  not  go  dully 
by  us,  I  will  in  the  interim,  undertake  one  of  Hercules' 
labours,  which  is,  to  bring  Signior  Benedick  and  the  33° 


24  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  ii 

J^ady  Beatrice  into  a  mountain  of  afYection,  th'one  with 
th'other,  I  would  fain  have  it  a  match,  and  I  doubt  not 
but  to  fashion  it,  if  you  three  will  but  minister  such 
assistance  as  I  shall  give  you  direction. 

335  Leon.  My  lord,  I  am  for  you,  though  it  cost  me  ten 
nights'  watchings. 

Claud.  And  I  my  lord. 

Pedro.  And  you  too  gentle  Hero? 

Hero.  I  will  do  any  modest  office,  my  lord,  to  help 

340  my  cousin  to  a  good  husband. 

Pedro.  And  Benedick  is  not  the  unhopefullest  husband 
that  I  know:  thus  far  can  I  praise  him,  he  is  of  a  noble 
strain,  of  approved  valour,  and  confirm'd  honesty,  I  will 
teach  you  how  to  humour  your  cousin,  that  she  shall 

345  fall  in  love  with  Benedick,  and  I,  with  your  two  helps, 
will  so  practise  on  Benedick,  that  in  despite  of  his  quick 
wit,  and  his  queasy  stomach,  he  shall  fall  in  love  with 
Beatrice :  if  we  can  do  this,  Cupid  is  no  longer  an  Archer, 
his  glory  shall  be  ours,  for  we  are  the  only  love-gods, 

350  go  in  with  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  my  drift.  [Exeunt 

Scene  H.  In  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  John  and  Borachio. 

John.  It  is  so,  the  Count  Claudio  shall  marry  the 
daughter  of  Leonato. 

Bora.  Yea  my  lord,  but  I  can  cross  it. 

John.  Any  bar,  any  cross,  any  impediment,  will  be 
5  medcinable  to  me,  I  am  sick  in  displeasure  to  him,  and 
whatsoever  comes  athwart  his  affection,  ranges  evenly 
with  mine,  how  canst  thou  cross  this  marriage .'' 

Bora.  Not  honestly  my  lord,  but  so  covertly,  that  no 
dishonesty  shall  appear  in  me. 
10      John.  Show  me  briefly  how. 

Bora.  I  think  I  told  your  lordship  a  year  since,  how 
much  I  am  in  the  favour  of  Margaret,  the  waiting-gentle- 
woman to  Hero. 


sc.  II]      MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  25 

John.-  I  remember. 

Bora.  I  can  at  any  unseasonable  instant  of  the  night,  15 
appoint  her  to  look  out  at  her  lady's  chamber-window. 

Jo/in.  What  life  is  in  that  to  be  the  death  of  this 
marriage? 

Bora.  The  poison  of  that  lies  in  you  to  temper,  go 
you  to  the  prince  your  brother,  spare  not  to  tell  him,  20 
that  he  hath  wronged  his  honour  in  marrying  the  re- 
nowned Claudio,  whose  estimation  do  you  mightily  hold 
up,  to  a  contaminated  stale,  such  a  one  as  Hero. 

Johti.  What  proof  shall  I  make  of  that? 

Bora.  Proof  enough,  to  misuse  the  prince,  to  vex  25 
Claudio,  to  undo  Hero,  and  kill  Leonato,  look  you  for 
any  other  issue? 

Joh?t.  Only  to  despite  themi  I  will  endeavour  any  thing. 

Bora.  Go  then,  find  me  a  meet  hour,  to  draw  Don 
Pedro  and  the  Count  Claudio  alone,  tell  them  that  you  30 
know  that  Hero  loves  me,  intend  a  kind  of  zeal  both  to 
the  prince  and  Claudio  (as  in  love  of  your  brother's 
honour  who  hath  made  this  match,  and  his  friend's 
reputation,  who  is  thus  like  to  be  cozen'd  with  the  sem- 
blance of  a  maid)  that  you  have  discover'd  thus :  they  35 
will  scarcely  believe  this  without  trial:  offer  them  in- 
stances which  shall  bear  no  less  likelihood,  than  to  see 
me  at  her  chamber-window,  hear  me  call  Margaret  Hero, 
hear  Margaret  term  me  Claudio,  and  bring  them  to  see 
this  the  very  night  before  the  intended  wedding,  for  in  40 
the  meantime,  I  will  so  fashion  the  matter,  that  Hero 
shall  be  absent,  and  there  shall  appear  such  seeming 
truth  of  Hero's  disloyalty,  that  jealousy  shall  be  call'd 
assurance,  and  all  the  preparation  overthrown. 

John.  Grow  this  to  what  adverse  issue  it  can,  I  will  45 
put  it  in  practice:  be  cunning  in  the  working  this,  and 
thy  fee  is  a  thousand  ducats. 

Bora.  Be  you   constant   in  the  accusation,   and   my 
cunning  shall  not  shame  me. 

John.  I  M'ill  presently  go  learn  their  day  of  marriage.    50 

[Exeunt 


26  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  ii 

Scene  HI.    The  Garden. 

Enter  Benedick  alone. 
Bene.  Boy. 

{Enter  Boy.) 
Boy.  Signior, 

Bene.  In  my  chamber-window  lies  a  book,  bring  it 
hither  to  me  in  the  orchard. 
5      Boy.  I  am  here  already  sir. 

Bene.  I  know  that,  but  I  would  have  thee  hence  and 
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 

lo  laught  at  such  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 

15  when  he  would  have  walkt  ten  mile  afoot,  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)  and 
now  is  he  turn'd  orthography,  his  words  are  a  very 

20  fantastical  banquet,  just  so  many  strange  dishes:  may 
I  be  sp  converted  and  see  with  these  eyes?  I  cannot  tell, 
I  think  not:  I  will  not  be  sworn  but  love  may  transform 
me  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 

25  fool :  one  woman  is  fair,  yet  I  am  well :  another  is  wise, 
yet  I  am  well,  another  virtuous,  yet  I  am  well:  but  till 
all  graces  be  in  one  woman,  one  woman  shall  not  come 
in  my  grace:  rich  she  shall  be  that's  certain,  wise,  or 
I'll  none,  virtvious,  or  I'll  never  cheapen  her:  fair,  or 

30  I'll  never  look  on  her,  mild,  or  come  not  near  me,  noble, 
or  not  I  for  an  angel,  of  good  discourse,  an  excellent 
musician,-  and  her  hair  shall  be  of  what  colour  it  please 
God.  Hah!  the  prince  and  Monsieur  Love,  I  will  hide 
me  in  the  arbour. 


sc.  Ill]    MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  27 

Enter  Prince,  Leonato,  Claudio,  Music. 

Pedro.  Come  shall  we  hear  this  music?  35 

Claud.  Yea  my  good  lord:  how  still  the  evening  is, 
As  husht  on  purpose  to  grace  harmony ! 

Pedro.  See  you  where  Benedick  hath  hid  himself? 

Claud.  O  very  well  my  lord :  the  rnusic  ended, 
We'll  fit  the  hid-fox  with  a  penny-worth.  40 

Enter  Balthasar  with  music. 

Pedro.  Come  Balthasar,  we'll  hear  that  song  again. 

Balth.  O  good  my  lord,  tax  not  so  bad  a  voice. 
To  slander  music  any  more  than  once. 

Pedro.  It  is  the  witness  still  of  excellency. 
To  put  a  strange  face  on  his  own  perfection,  45 

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

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  woos. 
Yet  will  he  swear  he  loves, 

Pedro.  Nay  pray  thee  come,  50 

Or  if  thou  wilt  hold  longer  argument, 
Do  it  in  notes. 

Balth.  Note  this  before  my  notes, 

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

Pedro.  Why  these  are  very  crotchets  that  he  speaks, 
Note  notes  forsooth,  and  nothing.  55 

Bene.  Now  divine  air,  now  is  his  soul  ravisht,  is  it 
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. 

Sigh  no  more  ladies,  sigh  no  more. 

Men  were  deceivers  ever,  60 

One  foot  in  sea,  and  one  on  shore, 
To  one  thing  constant  never. 


28  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  ii 

Then  sigh  not  so, 
But  let  them  go, 
65  And  be  you  bhthe  and  bonny, 

Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe, 
Into  hey  nonny  n,onny. 

Sing  no  mpre  ditties,  sing  no  moe, 
Of  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy, 
70  The  fraud  of  men  \vas  ever  so. 

Since  summer  first  was  lea\'y. 
Then  sigh  not  so,  &c. 

Pedro.  By  my  troth  a  good  song. 

Balth.  And  an  ill  singer  my  lord. 
75      Pedro.  Ha,  no  no  faith,  thou  singst  well  enough  for 
a  shift. 

Bene.  An  he  had  bin  a  dog  that  should  have  howl'd 

thus,  they  would  have  hang'd  him,  and  I  pray  God  his 

bad  voice  bode  no  mischief,  I  had  as  lief  have  heard  the 

So  night-raven,  come  what  plague  could  have  come  after  it. 

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

Balth.  The  best  I  can  my  lord.  {Exit  Balthasar 

85  Pedro.  Do  so,  farewell.  Come  hither  Leonato,  what 
was  it  you  told  me  of  to-day,  that  your  niece  Beatrice  was 
in  love  with  Signior  Benedick? 

Claud.  O  ay,  stalk  on,  stalk  on,  the  fowl  sits.    I  did 
never  think  that  lady  would  have  loved  any  man. 
90      Leon.  No  nor  I  neither,  but  most  wonderful,  that  she 
should  so  dote  on  Signior  Benedick,  whom  she  hath  in 
all  outward  behaviours  seem'd  ever  to  abhor. 

Bene.  Is't  possible?  sits  the  wind  in  that  corner? 

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

Pedro.  May  be  she  doth  but  counterfeit. 

(Jiaiid.    Faith  like  enough. 


sc.  Ill]    MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  29 

Leon.  O  God!  counterfeit?  there  was  never  counter- 
feit of  passion,  came  so  near  the  hfe  of  passion  as  she  100 
discovers  it. 

Pedro.  Why  what  effects  of  passion  shews  she? 

Claud.  Bait  the  hook  well,  this  fish  will  bite. 

Leofi.  What  effects  my  lord?  she  will  sit  you,  you 
heard  my  daughter  tell  you  how.  105 

Claud.  She  did  indeed. 

Pedro.  How,  how  I  pray  you!  you  amaze  me,  I  would 
have  thought  her  spirit  had  been  invincible  against  all 
assaults  of  affection. 

Leon.  I  would  have  sworn  it  had,  my  lord,  especially  no 
against  Benedick. 

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

Claud.  He  hath  ta'en  th'infection,  hold  it  up.  115 

Pedro.  Hath  she  made  her  affection  known  to  Bene- 
dick? 

Leon.  No,  and  swears  she  never  will,  that's  her 
torment. 

Claud.   'Tis  true  indeed,  so  your  da^jghter  says:  Shall  120 
I,  says  she,  that  have  so  oft  encountred  him  with  scorn, 
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  125 
of  paper:  my  daughter  tells  us  all. 

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

Leon.  O  when  she  had  writ  it,  and  was  reading  it 
over,  she   found    Benedick   and    Beatrice  between  the  130 
sheet. 

Claud.  That. 

Leon.  O  she  tore  the  letter  into  a  thousand  halfpence, 
rail'd  at  herself,  that  she  should  be  so  immodest  to  write, 
to  one  that  she  knew  would  flout  her,  *I  measure  him,'  135 


30  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  ii 

says  she, '  by  my  own  spirit,  for  I  should  flout  him,  if  he 
writ  to  me,  yea  though  I  love  him  I  should.' 

Claud.  Then  down  upon  her  knees  she  falls,  weeps, 
sobs,   beats  her  heart,   tears    her    hair,  prays,    curses, 
140  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  sometime  afeard  she  will  do  a  desperate  outrage  to 
herself,  it  is  very  true. 
145  Pedro.  It  were  good  that  Benedick  knew  of  it  by  some 
other,  if  she  will  not  discover  it. 

Claud.  To  what  end:  he  would  but  make  a  sport  of  it, 
and  torment  the  poor  lady  worse. 

Pedro.  An  he  should,  it  were  an  alms  to  hang  him, 
150  she's  an  excellent  sweet  lady,  and  (out  of  all  suspicion,) 
she  is  virtuous. 

Claud.  And  she  is  exceeding  wise. 

Pedro.   In  everything  but  in  loving  Benedick. 

Leon.  O  mv  lord,  wisdom  and  blood  combating  in  so 
155  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. 

Pedro.  I  would  she  had  bestowed  this  dotage  on  me, 
I  would  have  dafi:'t  all  other  respects,  and  made  her  half 
160  myself:  I  pray  you  tell  Benedick  of  it,  and  hear  what 
a  will  say. 

Leon.  Were  it  good  think  you? 

Claud.  Hero  thinks  surely  she  will  die,  for  she  says 

she  will  die,  if  he  love  her  not,  and  she  will  die  ere  she 

165  make  her  love  known,  and  she  will  die  if  he  woo  her, 

rather  than  she  will  bate  one  breath  of  her  accustomed 

crossness. 

Pedro.  She  doth  well,  if  she  should  make  tender  of 
her  love,  'tis  very  possible  he'll  scorn  it,  for  the  man  (as 
170  you  know  all)  hath  a  contemptible  spirit. 

Claud.   He  is  a  very  proper  man. 

Pedro.  He  hath  indeed  a  good  outward  happiness. 


sc.  Ill]    xMUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  31 

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

Pedro.  He  doth  indeed  show  some  sparks  that  are 
Hke  wit.  175 

Leon.  And  I  take  him  to  be  vahant. 

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

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. 

Pedro.  And  so  will  he  do,  for  the  man  doth  fear  God, 
howsoever  it  seems  not  in  him,  by  some  large  jests  he  185 
will  make:  well  I  am  sorry  for  your  niece,  shall  we  go 
seek  Benedick,  and  tell  him  of  her  love? 

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

Leon.  Nay  that's  impossible,  she  may  wear  her  heart  190 
out  first. 

Pedro.  Well,  we  will  hear  further  of  it  by  your  daughter, 
let  it  cool  the  while.  I  love  Benedick  well,  and  I  could 
wish  he  would  modestly  examine  himself,  to  see  how 
much  he  is  unworthy  so  good  a  lady.  195 

Leon.  ISly  lord,  will  you  walk.'  dinner  is  ready. 

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

Pedro.  Let  there  be  the  same  net  spread  for  her,  and 
that  must  your  daughter  and  her  gentlewoman  carry :  200 
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-shew: 
let  us  send  her  to  call  him  in  to  dinner.  [Exeunt 

Bene.  This  can  be  no  trick,  the  conference  was  sadly  205 
borne,  they  have  the  truth  of  this  from  Hero,  they  seem 
to  pity  the  lady:  it  seems  her  affections  ha\'e  their  full 
bent :  love  me?  why  it  must  be  requited ;  I  hear  how  I  am 
censur'd,  they  say  I  will  bear  myself  proudly,  if  I  perceive 


32  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  hi 

2IO  the  love  come  from  her:  they  say  too,  that  she  will  rather 
die  than  give  any  sign  of  affection:  1  did  never  think  to 
marry,  I  must  not  seem  proud,  happy  are  they  that  hear 
their  detractions,  and  can  put  them  to  mending:  they 
say  the  lady  is  fair,  'tis  a  truth,  I  can  bear  them  witness: 

215  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  will  be  horribly 
in  love  with  her,  I  may  chance  have  some  odd  quirks 
and  remnants  of  wit  broken  on  me,  because  I  have  railed 

220  so  long  against  marriage:  but  doth  not  the  appetite  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  of  his 
humour?   No,  the  world  must  be  peopled.   When  I  said 

225  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. 

Beat.  Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  bid  you  come  in  to 
dinner. 
230      Bene.  Fair  Beatrice,  I  thank  you  for  your  pains. 

Beat.  1  took  no  more  pains  for  those  thanks,  than  you 
take  pains  to  thank  me,  if  it  had  bin  painful  I  would  not 
have  come. 

Bene.  You  take  pleasure  then  in  the  message. 
235      Beat.  Yea  just  so  much  as  you  may  take  upon   a 
knife's  point,  and  choke  a  daw  withal:  you  have  no 
stomach  signior,  fare  you  well.  [£"^7^ 

Bene.  Ha, '  Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  bid  you  come 
in  to  dinner':  there's  a  double  meaning  in  that:  'I  took 
240  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  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  her  picture.  [Exit 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  ^^ 

ACT  HI. 

Scene  I.   The  Garden. 

Enter  Hero  and  two  Gentlewomen,  Margaret 
and  Ursley. 

Hero.  Good  jNIargaret  run  thee  to  the  parlour, 
There  shalt  thou  find  my  cousin  Beatrice, 
Proposing  with  the  prince  and  Claudio, 
Whisper  her  ear,  and  tell  her,  I  and  Ursley, 
Walk  in  the  orchard,  and  our  w^hole  discourse  c 

Is  all  of  her,  say  that  thou  overheardst  us. 
And  bid  her  steal  into  the  pleached  bower 
Where  honey-suckles  ripened  by  the  sun, 
Forbid  the  sun  to  enter :  like  favourites, 
Made  proud  by  princes,  that  advance  their  pride,  lo 

Against  that  power  that  bred  it,  there  will  she  hide  her. 
To  listen  our  propose,  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,  15 

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,  20 

Is  sick  in  love  with  Beatrice :  of  this  matter. 
Is  little  Cupid's  crafty  arrow  made. 
That  onlv  wounds  by  hearsay:  now  begin. 
For  look  where  Beatrice  like  a  lapwing  runs 
Close  by  the  ground,  to  hear  our  conference.  25 

Enter  Beatrice. 

Urs.  The  pleasantst  angling  is  to  see  the  fish 
Cut  with  her  golden  oars  the  silver  stream, 
And  greedily  devour  the  treacherous  bait : 

S  M  A  3 


34  iMUCH  AUO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  hi 

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

Hero.  Then  go  we  near  her  that  her  ear  lose  nothing, 
Of  the  false  sweet  bait  that  we  lay  for  it : 
No  truly  Ursula,  she  is  too  disdainful, 
35  I  know  her  spirits  are  as  coy  and  wild, 
As  haggerds  of  the  rock. 

Urs.  But  are  you  sure, 

That  Benedick  loves  Beatrice  so  entirely.^ 

Hero.  So  says  the  prince,  and  my  new-trothed  lord. 
Urs.  And  did  they  bid  you  tell  her  of  it,  madam? 
40      Hero.  They  did  entreat  me  to  acquaint  her  of  it. 
But  I  persuaded  them,  if  they  lov'd  Benedick, 
To  wish  him  wrastle  with  affection, 
And  never  to  let  Beatrice  know  of  it. 

Urs.  Why  did  you  so,  doth  not  the  gentleman 
45  Deserve  as  full  as  fortunate  a  bed. 
As  ever  Beatrice  shall  couch  upon? 

Hero.  O  god  of  love !  I  know  he  doth  deserve, 
As  much  as  may  be  yielded  to  a  man : 
But  nature  never  fram'd  a  woman's  heart, 
50  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  matter  else  seems  weak :  she  cannot  love, 
55  Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection, 
She  is  so  self-endeared. 

Urs.  Sure  I  think  so, 

And  therefore  certainly  it  were  not  good. 
She  knew  his  love  lest  she'll  make  sport  at  it. 

Hero.  Why  you  speak  truth,  I  never  yet  saw  man, 
60  How  wise,  how  noble,  young,  how  rarely  featured, 
But  she  would  spell  him  backward :  if  fair-faced. 
She  would  swear  the  gentleman  should  be  her  sister: 
If  black,  Avhv  Nature  drawing  of  an  antic, 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  35 

Made  a  foul  blot:  if  tall,  a  lance  ill-headed: 

If  low,  an  agot  very  vildly  cut:  65 

If  speaking,  why  a  vane  blown  with  all  winds : 

If  silent,  why  a  block  moved  with  none: 

So  turns  she  even,^  man  the  wrong  side  out, 

And  never  gives  to  Truth  and  Virtue,  that 

Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth.  70 

Urs.  Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not  commendable. 

Hero.  No  not  to  be  so  odd,  and  from  all  fashions, 
As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable. 
But  who  dare  tell  her  so?   If  I  should  speak, 
She  would  mock  me  into  air,  O  she  would  laugh  me  75 

Out  of  myself,  press  me  to  death  with  wit, 
Therefore  let  Benedick  like  cover'd  fire. 
Consume  away  in  sighs,  waste  inwardly: 
It  were  a  better  death,  than  die  with  mocks, 
Which  is  as  bad  as  die  with  tickling.  80 

Urs.  Yet  tell  her  of  it,  hear  what  she  will  say. 

Hero.  No  rather  I  will  go  to  Benedick, 
And  counsel  him  to  fight  against  his  passion. 
And  truly  I'll  devise  some  honest  slanders, 
To  stain  my  cousin  with,  one  doth  not  know,  85 

How  much  an  ill  word  may  impoison  liking. 

Urs.  O  do  not  do  your  cousin  such  a  wrong. 
She  cannot  be  so  much  without  true  judgment. 
Having  so  swift  and  excellent  a  wit. 

As  she  is  pris'd  to  have,  as  to  refuse  9° 

So  rare  a  gentleman  as  Signior  Benedick. 

Hero.  He  is  the  only  man  of  Italy, 
Always  excepted  my  dear  Claudio. 

Urs.  I  pray  you  be  not  angry  with  me,  madam, 
Speaking  my  fancy :  Signior  Benedick,  95 

For  shape,  for  bearing,  argument  and  valour. 
Goes  foremost  in  report  through  Italy. 

Hero.  Indeed  he  hath  an  excellent  good  name. 

Urs.  His  excellence  did  earn  it,  ere  he  had  it: 
When  are  vou  married  madam.?  ioq 

3—2 


36  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  hi 

Heru.  Why  every  day  to-morrow,  come  go  in, 
I'll  shew  thee  some  attires,  and  have  thy  counsel, 
Which  is  the  best  to  furnish  me  to-morrow. 

Urs.  She's  limed  I  warrant  you,  we  have  caught  her 
madam. 
105      Hero.  If  it  prove  so,  then  loving  goes  by  haps, 
Some  Cupid  kills  with  arrows,  some  with  traps. 

{Exeunt 
Beat.  What  fire  is  in  mine  ears?   Can  this  be  true? 
Stand  I  condemn'd  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much? 
Contempt,  farewell,  and  maiden  pride,  adieu, 
no      No  glory  lives  behind  the  back  of  such. 
And  Benedick,  love  on,  I  will  requite  thee, 

Taming  my  wild  heart  to  thy  loving  hand : 
If  thou  dost  love,  my  kindness  shall  incite  thee 
To  bind  our  loves  up  in  a  holy  band. 
115  For  others  say  thou  dost  deserve,  and  I 

Believe  it  better  than  reportingly.  [Exit 

Scene  II.  In  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  Prince,  Claudio,  Benedick,  and  Leonato. 

Pedro.  I  do  but  stay  till  your  marriage  be  consummate, 
and  then  go  I  toward  Arragon. 

Claud.  I'll  bring  you  thither  my  lord,  if  you'll  vouch- 
safe me. 
5  Pedro.  Nay  that  would  be  as  great  a  soil  in  the  new 
gloss  of  your  marriage,  as  to  shew  a  child  his  new  coat 
and  forbid  him  to  wear  it,  I  will  only  be  bold  with 
Benedick  for  his  company,  for  from  the  crown  of  his 
head,  to  the  sole  of  his  foot,  he  is  all  mirth,  he  hath  twice 
10  or  thrice  cut  Cupid's  bow-string,  and  the  little  hangman 
dare  not  shoot  at  him,  he  hath  a  heart  as  sound  as  a  bell, 
and  his  tongue  is  the  clapper,  for  what  his  heart  thinks, 
his  tongue  speaks. 

Bene.  Gallants,  I  am  not  as  I  have  bin. 
15      Leon.  So  say  I,  methinks  you  are  sadder. 


sc.  II]      MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  37 

Claud.  I  hope  he  be  in  love. 

Pedro.  Hang  him  truant,  there's  no  true  drop  of 
blood  in  him  to  be  truly  toucht  with  love,  if  he  be  sad, 
he  wants  money. 

Bene.  I  have  the  tooth-ache.  20 

Pedro.  Draw  it. 

Bene.  Hang  it. 

Claud.  You  must  hang  it  first,  and  draw  it  after- 
wards. 

Pedro.  What?  sigh  for  the  tooth-ache.  25 

Leon.  Where  is  but  a  humour  or  a  worm. 

Bene.  Well,  ever}'  one  cannot  master  a  grief,  but  he 
that  has  it. 

Claud.  Yet  say  I,  he  is  in  love. 

Pedro.  There  is  no  appearance  of  fancy  in  him,  unless  30 
it  be  a  fancy  that  he  hath  to  strange  disguises,  as  to  be  a 
Dutchman  to-day,  a  Frenchman  to-morrow,  or  in  the 
shape  of  two  countries  at  once,  as  a  German  from  the 
waist  downward,  all  slops,  and  a  Spaniard  from  the  hip 
upward,  no  doublet:  unless  he  have  a  fancy  to  this  35 
foolery,  as  it  appears  he  hath,  he  is  no  fool  for  fancy,  as 
you  would  have  it  appear  he  is. 

Claud.  If  he  be  not  in  love  with  some  woman,  there 
is  no  believing  old  signs,  a  brushes  his  hat  a  mornings, 
what  should  that  bode?  40 

Pedro.  Hath  any  man  seen  him  at  the  barber's? 

Claud.  No,  but  the  barber's  man  hath  bin  seen  with 
him,  and  the  old  ornament  of  his  cheek  hath  already 
stufft  tennis-balls. 

Leon.  Indeed  he  looks  younger  than  he  did,  by  the  45 
loss  of  a  beard. 

Pedro.  Nay  a  rubs  himself  with  civet,  can  you  sm.ell 
him  out  by  that? 

Claud.  That's  as  much  as  to  say,  the  sweet  youth's 
in  love.  50 

Pedro.  The  greatest  note  of  it  is  his  melancholy. 

Claud.  And  when  was  he  wont  to  wash  his  face? 


38  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  hi 

Pedro.  Yea  or  to  paint  himself?  for  the  which  I  hear 
what  they  say  of  him. 
55      Claud.  Nay  but  his  jesting  spirit,  which  is  now  crept 
into  a  lute-string,  and  now  govern'd  by  stops. 

Pedro.  Indeed  that  tells  a  heavy  tale  for  him :  conclude, 
conclude,  he  is  in  love. 

Claud.  Nay  but  I  know  who  loves  him. 
60      Pedro.  That  would  I  know  too,  I  warrant,  one  that 
knows  him  not. 

Claud.  Yes,  and  his  ill  conditions,  and  in  despite  of  all, 
dies  for  him. 

Pedro.  She  shall  be  buried  with  her  face  upwards. 

65      Bene.  Yet  is  this  no  charm  for  the  tooth-ache.    Old 

signior,  walk  aside  with  me,  I  have  studied  eight  or  nine 

wise  words  to  speak  to  you,  which  these  hobby-horses 

must  not  hear.  [Exeunt  Benedick  and  Leonato 

Pedro.  For  my  life  to  break  with  him  about  Beatrice. 

70      Claud.   'Tis  even  so.  Hero  and  IVIargaret  have  by  this 

played  their  parts  with  Beatrice,  and  then  the  two  bears 

will  not  bite  one  another  when  they  meet. 

Enter  John  the  Bastard. 

John.  My  lord  and  brother,  God  save  you. 

Pedro.  Good  den  brother. 
75      John.  If  your  leisure  serv'd,  I  would  speak  with  you. 

Pedro.  In  private? 

John.  If  it  please  you,  yet  Count  Claudio  may  hear, 
for  what  I  would  speak  of,  concerns  him. 

Pedro.  What's  the  matter? 
80     John.  Means  your  lordship  to  be  married  to-morrow? 

Pedro.  You  know  he  does. 

John.   I  know  not  that  when  he  knows  what  I  know. 

Claud.  If  there  be  any  impediment,  I  pray  you  dis- 
cover it. 
85      John.  You  may  think  I  love  you  not,  let  that  appear 
hereafter,  and  aim  better  at  me  by  that  I  now  will  mani- 
fest, for  my  brother  (I  think,  he  holds  you  well,  and  in 


sc.  II]      MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  39 

clearness   of  heart)   hath   holp   to   effect   your  ensuing 
marriage:  surely  suit  ill  spent,  and  labour  ill  bestowed. 

Pedro.  Why  what's  the  matter?  90 

John.  I  came  hither  to  tell  you,  and  circumstances 
shortned  (for  she  hath  bin  too  long  a  talking  of)  the  lady 
is  disloyal. 

Claud.  Who  Hero? 

John.  Even  she,  Leonato's  Hero,  your  Hero,  every  95 
man's  Hero. 

Claud.  Disloyal? 

John.  The  word  is  too  good  to  paint  out  her  wicked- 
ness, I  could  say  she  were  worse,  think  you  of  a  worse 
title,  and  I  will  fit  her  to  it:  wonder  not  till  further  100 
warrant:  go  but  with  me  to-night,  you  shall  see  her 
chamber- window  entred,  even  the  night  before  her 
wedding-day,  if  you  love  her,  then  to-morrow  wed  her : 
but  it  would  better  fit  your  honour  to  change  your  mind. 

Claud.  May  this  be  so?  105 

Pedro.   I  will  not  think  it. 

John.  If  you  dare  not  trust  that  you  see,  confess  not 
that  you  know:  if  you  will  follow  me,  I  will  shew  you 
enough,  and  when  you  have  seen  more,  and  heard  more, 
proceed  accordingly.  no 

Claud.  If  I  see  any  thing  to-night,  why  I  should  not 
marry  her  to-morrow  in  the  congregation,  where  I  should 
wed,  there  will  I  shame  her. 

Pedro.  And  as  I  wooed  for  thee  to  obtain  her,  I  will 
join  with  thee,  to  disgrace  her.  115 

John.  I  will  disparage  her  no  further,  till  you  are  my 
witnesses,  bear  it  coldly  but  till  midnight,  and  let  the 
issue  shew  itself. 

Pedro.  O  day  untowardly  turned! 

Claud.  O  mischief  strangely  thwarting !  120 

John.  O  plague  right  well  prevented !  So  will  you  say, 
when  you  have  seen  the  sequel.  [Exeunt 


4©  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  hi 

Scene  HI.  A  Street  or  Square. 
Enter  Dogbery  and  his  conipartner  with  the  Watch. 

Dogb.  Are  you  good  men  and  true? 

Verg.  Yea,  or  else  it  were  pity  but  they  should  suffer 
salvation  body  and  soul. 

Dogb.  Nay,  that  were  a  punishment  too  good  for  them, 
5  if  they  should  have  any  allegiance  in  them,  being  chosen 
for  the  prince's  watch. 

Verg.  Well,  give  them  their  charge,  neighbour  Dog- 
bery. 

Dogb.  First,  who  think  you  the  most  desartless  man 
lo  to  be  constable? 

Watch  I.  Hugh  Oatcake  sir,  or  George  Seacoal,  for 
they  can  write  and  read. 

Dogb.  Come   hither   neighbour   Seacoal.     God  •  hath 
blest  you  with  a  good  name:  to  be  a  well-favoured  man, 
15  is  the  gift  of  Fortvme,  but  to  write  and  read,  comes  by 
nature. 

Watch  2.  Both  which,  master  Constable 

Dogb.  You  have:  I  knew  it  would  be  your  answer: 
well,  for  your  favour  sir,  why  give  God  thanks,  and  make 
20  no  boast  of  it,  and  for  your  writing  and  reading,  let  that 
appear  when  there  is  no  need  of  such  vanity,  you  are 
thought  here  to  be  the  most  senseless  and  fit  man  for  the 
Constable  of  the  watch :  therefore  bear  you  the  lantern : 
this  is  your  charge,  You  shall  comprehend  all  vagrom 
25  men,  you  are  to  bid  any  man  stand,  in  the  Prince's  name. 

Watch  2.  How  if  a  will  not  stand? 

Dogb.  Why  then  take  no  note  of  him,  but  let  him  go, 
and  presently  call  the  rest  of  the  watch  together,  and 
thank  God  you  are  rid  of  a  knave. 
30      Verg.  If  he  will  not  stand  when  he  is  bidden,  he  is 
none  of  the  prince's  subjects. 

Dogb.  True,  and  they  are  to  meddle  with  none  but 
the  prince's  subjects:  you  shall  also  make  no  noise  in  the 


sc.  Ill]    MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  41 

streets :  for,  for  the  watch  to  babble  and  to  talk,  is  most 
tolerable,  and  not  to  be  endured.  35 

Watch.  We  will  rather  sleep  than  talk,  we  know  what 
belongs  to  a  watch. 

Dogb.  Why  you  speak  like  an  ancient  and  most  quiet 
watchman,  for  I  cannot  see  how  sleeping  should  offend: 
only  have  a  care  that  your  bills  be  not  stolne':  well,  you  40 
are  to  call  at  all  the  alehouses,  and  bid  those  that  are  drunk 
get  them  to  bed. 

Watch.  How  if  they  will  not? 

Dogb.  Why  then  let  them  alone  till  they  are  sober, 
if  they  make  you  not  then  the  better  answer,  you  may  45 
say,  they  are  not  the  men  you  took  them  for. 

Watch.  Well  sir. 

Dogb.  If  you  meet  a  thief,  you  may  suspect  him,  by 
virtue  of  your  office,  to  be  no  true  man:  and  for  such 
kind  of  men,  the  less  you  meddle  or  make  with  them,  50 
why  the  more  is  for  your  honesty. 

Watch.  If  we  know  him  to  be  a  thief,  shall  we  not  lay 
hands  on  him.'' 

Dogb.  Truly  by  your  office  you  may,  but  I  think  they 
that  touch  pitch  will  be  defil'd:  the  most  peaceable  way  55 
for  you,  if  you  do  take  a  thief,  is,  to  let  him  shew  himself 
what  he  is,  and  steal  out  of  your  company. 

Verg.  You  have  been  always  called  a  merciful  man, 
partner. 

Dogb.  Truly  I  would  not  hang  a  dog  by  my  will,  much  60 
more  a  man  who  hath  any  honesty  in  him. 

Verg.  If  you  hear  a  child  cry  in  the  night  you  must  call 
to  the  nurse  and  bid  her  still  it. 

Watch.  How  if  the  nurse  be  asleep  and  will  not 
hear  us  ?  65 

Dogb.  Why  then  depart  in  peace,  and  let  the  child 
wake  her  with  crying,  for  the  ewe  that  will  not  hear  her 
Iamb  when  it  baes,  will  never  answer  a  calf  when  he 
bleats. 

Verg.  'Tis  very  true.  70 


42  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  hi 

Dogb.  This  is  the  end  of  the  charge:  you  constable 
are  to  present  the  prince's  own  person,  if  you  meet  the 
prince  in  the  night,  you  may  stay  him. 
Verg.  Nay  birlady  that  I  think  a  cannot. 
75      Dogb.  Five  shilUngs  to  one  on't  with  any  man  that 
knows  the  statutes,  he  may  stay  him,  marry  not  without 
the  prince  Be  wilhng,  for  indeed  the  watch  ought  to  offend 
no  man,  and  it  is  an  offence  to  stay  a  man  against  his  will. 
Verg.  Birlady  I  think  it  be  so. 
80      Dogb.  Ha  ah  ha,  well  masters  good  night,  an  there 
be  any  matter  of  weight  chances,  call  up  me,  keep  your 
fellows'  counsels,  and  your  own,  and  good  night,  come 
neighbour. 

Watch.  Well  masters,  we  hear  our  charge,  let  us  go  sit 

85  here  upon  the  church-bench  till  two,  and  then  all  to  bed. 

Dogb.  One  word  more,  honest  neighbours,  I  pray  you 

watch  about  Signior  Leonato's  door,  for  the  wedding 

being  there  to-morrow,  there  is  a  great  coil  to-night, 

adieu,  be  vigitant  I  beseech  you. 

[Exeunt  Dogbery  and  Verges 

Enter  Borachio  and  Conrad. 

90      Bora.  What  Conrad.'' 

Watch.  Peace,  stir  not. 

Bora.  Conrad  I  say. 

Con.  Here  man,  I  am  at  thy  elbow. 

Bora.  Mass  and  my  elbow  itcht,  I  thought  there  would 
95  a  scab  follow. 

Con.  I  will  owe  thee  an  answer  for  that,  and  now 
forward  with  thy  tale. 

Bora.  Stand  thee  close  then  under  this  pent-house,  for 
it  drizzles  rain,  and  I  will,  like  a  true  drunkard,  utter  all 
100  to  thee. 

Watch.  Some  treason  masters,  yet  stand  close. 

Bora.  Therefore  know,  I  have  earned  of  Don  John 
a  thousand  ducats. 

Con.  Is  it  possible  that  any  villainy  should  be  so  dear? 


sc.  Ill]    MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  43 

Bora.  Thou  shouldst  rather  ask  if  it  were  possible  105 
any  villainy  should  be  so  rich?  for  when  rich  villains 
have  need  of  poor  ones,  poor  ones  may  make  what  price 
they  will. 

Con.  I  wonder  at  it. 

Bora.  That  shews  thou  art  unconfirm'd,  thou  knowest  no 
that  the  fashion  of  a  doublet,  or  a  hat,  or  a  cloak,  is  nothing 
to  a  man. 

Con.  Yes  it  is  apparel. 

Bora.  I  mean  the  fashion. 

Con.  Yes  the  fashion  is  the  fashion.  115 

Bora.  Tush,  I  may  as  well  say  the  fool's  the  fool,  but 
seest  thou  not  what  a  deformed  thief  this  fashion  is  ? 

Watch.  I  know  that  Deformed,  a  has  bin  a  vile  thief, 
this  seven  year,  a  goes  up  and  down  like  a  gentleman: 
I  remember  his  name.  120 

Bora.  Didst  thou  not  hear  somebody.'' 

Con.  No,  'twas  the  vane  on  the  house. 

Bora.  Seest  thou  not  (I  say)  what  a  deformed  thief 
this  fashion  is,  how  giddily  a  turns  about  all  the  hot  bloods, 
between  fourteen  and  five-and-thirty,  sometimes  fashion-  125 
ing  them  like  Pharaoh's  soldiers  in  the  reechy  painting, 
sometime  like  god  Bel's  priests  in  the  old  church-window, 
sometime  like  the  shaven  Hercules  in  the  smircht  worm- 
eaten  tapestry. 

Con.  All  this  I  see,  and  I  see  that  the  fashion  wears  130 
out  more  apparel  than  the  man,  but  art  not  thou  thyself 
giddy  with  the  fashion  too,  that  thou  hast  shifted  out 
of  thy  tale  into  telling  me  of  the  fashion? 

Bora.  Not  so  neither,  but  know  that  I  have  to-night 
wooed  Margaret  the  Lady  Hero's  gentlewoman,  by  the  135 
name  of  Hero,  she  leans  me  out  at  her  mistress'  chamber- 
window,  bids  me  a  thousand  times  good  night:  I  tell 
this  tale  vildly,  I  should  first  tell  thee  how  the  prince 
Claudio  and  my  master  planted,  and  placed,  and  pos- 
sessed, by  my  master  Don  John,  saw  afar  off  in  the  140 
orchard  this  amiable  encounter. 


44  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  hi 

Con.  And  thought  they  Margaret  v»as  Hero? 

Bora.  Two  of  them  did,  the  prince  and  Claudio,  but 

the  divell  my  master  knew  she  was  IVIargaret,  and  partly 

145  by  his  oaths,  which  first  possest  them,  partly  by  the 

dark  night  which  did  deceive  them,  but  chiefly,  by  my 

villainy,  which  did  confirm  any  slander  that  Don  John 

had  made,  away  went  Claudio  enrag'd,  swore  he  would 

meet  her  as  he  was  appointed  next  morning  at  the  Temple, 

150  and  there,  before  the  whole  congregation  shame  her,  with 

what  he  saw  o'er  night,  and  send  her  home  again  without 

a  husband. 

Watch  I.  We  charge  you  in  the  prince's  name  stand. 
Watch  2.  Call  up  the  right  master  Constable,  we  have 
155  here  recover 'd  the  most  dangerous  piece  of  lechery,  that 
ever  was  known  in  the  commonwealth. 

Watch  I.  And  one  Deformed  is  one  of  them,  I  know 
him,  a  wears  a  lock. 
Con.  Masters,  masters. 
160      Watch  2.  You'll   be  made   bring   Deformed   forth   I 
warrant  you. 
Con.  Masters. 

Watch  I.  Never  speak,  we  charge  you,  let  us  obey 
you  to  go  with  us. 
165      Bora.  We  are  like  to  prove  a  goodly  commodity,  being 
taken  up  of  these  men's  bills. 

Con.  A  commodity  in  question,  I  warrant  you,  come 
we'll  obey  you.  [Exeunt 

Scene  IV.   Hero's  Room. 

Enter  Hero,  and  Margaret,  and  Ursula. 

Hero.  Good  Ursula  wake  my  cousin   Beatrice,  and 
desire  her  to  rise. 
Urs.  I  will  lady. 
Hero.  And  bid  her  come  hither. 
5      Urs.  Well.  [Exit 

Marg.  Troth  I  think  your  other  rebato  were  better. 


sc.iv]    MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  45 

Hero.  No  pray  thee  good  Meg,  I'll  wear  this. 

Marg.  By  my  troth's  not  so  good,  and  I  warrant  your 
cousin  will  say  so. 

Hero.  My  cousin's  a  fool,  and  thou  art  another,  I'll  10 
wear  none  but  this. 

Marg.  I  like  the  new  tire  within  excellently,  if  the 
hair  were  a  thought  browner:  and  your  gown's  a  most 
rare  fashion  y faith,  I  saw  the  Duchess  of  Millaine's  gown 
that  they  praise  so.  15 

Hero.  O  that  exceeds  they  say. 

Marg.  By  my  troth's  but  a  night-gown  in  respect  of 
yours,  cloth  a  gold  and  cuts,  and  lac'd  with  silver,  set 
with  pearls,  down  sleeves,  side  sleeves,  and  skirts,  round 
underborne  with  a  bluish  tinsel,  but  for  a  fine  quaint  20 
graceful  and  excellent  fashion,  yours  is  worth  ten  on't. 

Hero.  God  give  me  joy  to  wear  it,  for  my  heart  is 
exceeding  heavy... 

Enter  Beatrice. 

Hero.   Good  morrow  coz. 

Beat.  Good  morrow  sweet  Hero.  25 

Hero.  Why  how  now.^  do  you  speak  in  the  sick  tune.^ 

Beat.  I  am  out  of  all  other  tune,  methinks. 

Marg.  Clap's  into  'Light  o'  love,'  (that  goes  without 
a  burden,)  do  you  sing  it,  and  I'll  dance  it... 

Beat.   'Tis  almost  five  a  clock  cousin,  'tis  time  you  30 
were  ready.  By  my  troth  I  am  exceeding  ill,  hey  ho. 

Marg.  For  a  hawk,  a  horse,  or  a  husband? 

Beat.  For  the  letter  that  begins  them  all,  H. 

Marg.  Well,  an  you  be  not  turn'd  Turk,  there's  no 
more  sailing  by  the  star.  .       35 

Beat.  What  means  the  fool  trow? 

Marg.  Nothing  I,  but  God  send  every  one  their 
heart's  desire. 

Hero.  These  gloves  the  count  sent  me,  they  are  an 
excellent  perfume.  40 

Beat,  I  am  stuflFt  cousin,  I  cannot  smell. 


46  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  iij 

Marg.  A  maid  and  stufft!  there's  goodly  catching  of 
cold. 

Beat.  O  God  help  me,  God  help  me,  how  long  have 
45  you  professt  apprehension? 

Marg.  Ever  since  you  left  it,  doth  not  my  wit  become 
me  rarely? 

Beat.  It  is  not  seen  enough,  you  should  wear  it  in 
your  cap,  by  my  troth  I  am  sick. 
50      Marg.  Get  you  some  of  this  distill'd  cardmis  benedictus, 
and  lay  it  to  your  heart,  it  is  the  only  thing  for  a  qualm. 

Hero.  There  thou  prickst  her  with  a  thistle. 

Beat.  Benedictus,    why    benedictus}    you    have    some 
moral  in  this  benedictus. 
55      Marg.  Moral?    no    by   my   troth    I    have   no    moral 
meaning,  I  meant  plain  holy  thistle,  you  may  think  per- 
chance that  I  think  you  are  in  love  nay  birlady  I  am  not 
such  a  fool  to  think  what  I  list,  nor  I  list  not  to  think 
what  I  can,  nor  indeed  I  cannot  think,  if  I  would  think 
60  my  heart  out  of  thinking,  that  you  are  in  love,  or  that 
you  will  be  in  love,  or  that  you  can  be  in  love:  yet  Bene- 
dick was  such  another  and  now  is  he  become  a  man,  he 
swore  he  would  never  marry,  and  yet  now  in  despite  of 
his  heart  he  eats  his  meat  without  grudging,  and  how 
65  you  may  be  converted  I  know  not,  but  methinks  you 
look  with  your  eyes  as  other  women  do. 

Beat.  What  pace  is  this  that  thy  tongue  keeps? 

Marg.  Not  a  false  gallop. 

Enter  Ursula. 

Urs.  Madam  withdraw,  the  prince,  the  count,  Signior 
70  Benedick,  Don  John,  and  all  the  gallants  of  the  town  are 
come  to  fetch  you  to  church. 

Hero.  Help  to  dress  me  good  coz,  good  Meg,  good 
Ursula. 


sc.  v]      MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  47 

Scene  V.   In  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  Leonato,  and  the  Constable,  and  the  Headborough. 

Leon.  What  would  you  with  me,  honest  neighbour? 

Dogb.  Marry  sir  I  would  have  some  confidence  with 
you,  that  decerns  you  nearly. 

Leon.  Brief  I  pray  you,  for  you  see  it  is  a  busy  time 
with  me.  5 

Dogb.  Marry  this  it  is  sir. 

Verg.  Yes  in  truth  it  is  sir. 

Leon.  What  is  it  my  good  friends? 

Dogb.  Goodman  Verges   sir  speaks   a  little   off  the 
matter,  an  old  man  sir,  and  his  wits  are  not  so  blunt,  as  10 
God  help  I  would  desire  they  were,  but  in  faith  honest, 
as  the  skin  between  his  brows. 

Verg.  Yes  I  thank  God,  I  am  as  honest  as  any  man 
living,  that  is  an  old  man,  and  no  honester  than  I. 

Dogb.  Comparisons  are  odorous,  palabras,  neighbour  15 
Verges. 

Leon.  Neighbours,  you  are  tedious. 

Dogb.  It  pleases  your  worship  to  say  so,  but  we  are 
the  poor  duke's  officers,  but  truly  for  mine  own  part 
if  I  were  as  tedious  as  a  king,  I  could  find  in  my  heart  20 
to  bestow  it  all  of  your  worship. 

Leon.  All  thy  tediousness  on  me,  ah? 

Dogb.  Yea,  an  'twere  a  thousand  pound  more  than 
'tis,  for  I  hear  as  good  exclamation  on  your  worship  as 
of  any  man  in  the  city,  and  though  I  be  but  a  poor  man,  25 
I  am  glad  to  hear  it. 

Verg.  And  so  am  I. 

Leon.  I  would  fain  know  what  you  have  to  say. 

Verg.  Marry  sir  our  watch  to-night,  excepting  your 
worship's  presence,  ha'  ta'en  a  couple  of  as  arrant  knaves  30 
as  any  in  Messina. 

Dogb.  A  good  old  man  sir,  he  will  be  talking  as  they 
say,  when  the  age  is  in,  the  wit  is  out,  God  help  us,  it  is 
a  world  to  see:  well  said  yfaith  neighbour  Verges,  well, 


48  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  iv 

35  God's  a  good  man,  an  two  men  ride  of  a  horse,  one  must 
ride  behind,  an  honest  soul  yfaith  sir,  by  my  troth  he  is, 
as  ever  broke  bread,  but  God  is  to  be  worshipt,  all  men 
are  not  alike,  alas  good  neighbour. 

Leon.  Indeed  neighbour  he  comes  too  short  of  you. 
40      Dogb.  Gifts  that  God  gives. 

Leon.  I  must  leave  you. 

Dogb.  One  word  sir,  our  watch  sir  have  indeed  com- 
prehended two  aspitious  persons,  and  we  would  have 
them  this  morning  examined  before  5'^our  worship. 
45      Leon.  Take  their  examination  yourself,  and  bring  it 
me,  I  am  now  in  great  haste,  as  it  may  appear  unto  you. 

Dogb.  It  shall  be  suffigance. 

Leon.  Drink  some  wine  ere  you  go :  fare  you  well. 

A  Messenger  {entering).  My  lord,  they  stay  for  you,  to 
50  give  your  daughter  to  her  husband. 

Leon.  I'll  wait  upon  them,  I  am  ready.  [Exeunt 

Dogb.  Go  good  partner,  go  get  you  to  Francis  Seacoal, 
bid  him  bring  his  pen  and  inkhorn  to  the  gaol :  we  are 
now  to  examination  these  men. 
55       Verg.  And  we  must  do  it  wisely. 

Dogb.  We  will  spare  for  no  wit  I  warrant  you:  here's 
that  shall  drive  some  of  them  to  a  non-come,  only  get 
the  learned  writer  to  set  down  our  excommunication, 
and  meet  me  at  the  gaol. 

ACT  IV. 

Scene  I.   A  Church. 

Enter  Prince,  Bastard,  Leonato,  Friar,  Claudio, 
Benedick,  Hero,  and  Beatrice. 

Leon.  Come  Friar  Francis,  be  brief,  only  to  the  plain 
form  of  marriage,  and  you  shall  recount  their  particular 
duties  afterwards. 

Friar.  You  come  hither,  my  lord,  to  marry  this  lady. 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  49 

Claud.  No.  5 

Leon.  To  be  married  to  her:  Friar,  you  come  to  marry 
her. 

Friar.  Lady,  you  come  hither  to  be  married  to  this 
count. 

Hero.  I  do.  10 

Friar.  If  either  of  you  know  any  inward  impediment 
why  you  should  not  be  conjoined,  I  charge  you  on  your 
souls  to  utter  it. 

Claud.  Know  you  any.  Hero? 

Hero.  None  my  lord.  15 

Friar.  Know  you  any,  count? 

Leon.  I  dare  make  his  answer,  None. 

Claud.  O !  what  men  dare  do !  what  men  may  do !  what 
men  daily  do,  not  knowing  what  they  do! 

Bene.  How  now !  Interjections  ?  Why  then,  some  be  of  20 
laughing,  as,  ah,  ha,  he. 

Claud.   Stand  thee  by  Friar,  father,  by  your  leave, 
Will  you  with  free  and  unconstrained  soul 
Give  me  this  maid  your  daughter? 

Leon.  As  freely  son  as  God  did  give  her  me.  25 

Claud.  And  what  have  I  to  give  you  back  whose  worth 
May  counterpoise  this  rich  and  precious  gift? 

Pedro.  Nothing,  unless  you  render  her  again. 

Claud.  Sweet  prince,  you  learn  me  noble  thankfulness : 
There  Leonato,  take  her  back  again,  30 

Give  not  this  rotten  orange  to  your  friend, 
She's  but  the. sign  and  semblance  of  her  honour: 
Behold  how  like  a  maid  she  blushes  here ! 
O  what  authority  and  shew  of  truth 

Can  cunning  sin  cover  itself  withal !  35 

Comes  not  that  blood,  as  modest  evidence, 
To  witness  simple  Virtue?  would  you  not  swear. 
All  you  that  see  her,  that  she  were  a  maid, 
By  these  exterior  shews  ?   But  she  is  none : 
She  knows  the  heat  of  a  luxurious  bed :  40 

Her  blush  is  guiltiness,  not  modesty. 


50  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  iv 

Leon.  What  do  you  mean,  my  lord? 

Claud.  Not  to  be  married, 

Not  to  knit  my  soul  to  an  approved  wanton. 

Leon.  Dear  my  lord,  if  you  in  your  own  proof, 
45  Have  vanquisht  the  resistance  of  her  youth, 
And  made  defeat  of  her  virginity, 

Claud.  I  know  what  you  would  say :  if  I  have  known  her, 
You  will  say,  she  did  embrace  me  as  a  husband, 
And  so  extenuate  the  'forehand  sin :   No  Leonato, 
50  I  never  tempted  her  with  word  too  large. 
But  as  a  brother  to  his  sister,  shewed 
Bashful  sincerity  and  comely  love. 

Hero.  And  seem'd  I  ever  otherwise  to  you? 

Claud.  Out  on  thee  seeming,  I  will  write  against  it, 
55  You  seem  to  me  as  Dian  in  her  orb. 
As  chaste  as  is  the  bud  ere  it  be  blown : 
But  you  are  more  intemperate  in  your  blood, 
Than  Venus,  or  those  pampred  animals. 
That  rage  in  savage  sensuality. 
60      Hero.  Is  my  lord  well  that  he  doth  speak  so  wide? 

Leon.  Sweet  prince,  why  speak  not  you? 

Pedro.  What  should  I  speak? 

I  stand  dishonour'd  that  have  gone  about. 
To  link  my  dear  friend  to  a  common  stale. 

Leon.  Are  these  things  spoken,  or  do  I  but  dream? 
65     John.  Sir,  they  are  spoken,  and  these  things  are  true. 

Bene.  This  looks  not  like  a  nuptial. 

Hero.  True,  O  God ! 

Claud.  Leonato,  stand  I  here? 
Is  this  the  prince?   Is  this  the  prince's  brother? 
Is  this  face  Hero's?  are  our  eyes  our  own? 
70      Leon.  All  this  is  so,  but  what  of  this  my  lord? 

Claud.  Let  me  but  move  one  question  to  your  daughter, 
And  by  that  fatherly  and  kindly  power. 
That  you  have  in  her,  bid  her  answer  truly. 

Leon.  I  charge  thee  do  so,  as  thou  art  my  child. 
75      Hero.  O  God  defend  me  how  am  I  beset. 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  51 

What  kind  of  catechizing  call  you  this  ? 

Claud.  To  make  you  answer  truly  to  your  name. 

Hero.  Is  it  not  Hero,  who  can  blot  that  name 
With  any  just  reproach? 

Claud.  Marry  that  can  Hero, 

Hero  itself  can  blot  out  Hero's  virtue.  80 

What  man  was  he  talkt  with  you  yesternight. 
Out  at  your  window  betwixt  twelve  and  one  ? 
Now  if  you  are  a  maid,  answer  to  this. 

Hero.  I  talkt  with  no  man  at  that  hour  my  lord. 

Pedro.  Why  then  are  you  no  maiden.   Leonato,  85 

I  am  sorry  you  must  hear :  upon  mine  honour, 
Myself,  my  brother,  and  this  grieved  count 
Did  see  her,  hear  her,  at  that  hour  last  night. 
Talk  with  a  ruffian  at  her  chamber-window, 
Who  hath  indeed  most  like  a  liberal  villain,  90 

Confest  the  vile  encounters  they  have  had 
A  thousand  times  in  secret. 

John.  Fie,  fie,  they  are  not  to  be  named  my  lord, 
Not  to  be  spoke  of. 

There  is  not  chastity  enough  in  language,  95 

Without  offence  to  utter  them :  thus  pretty  lady, 
I  am  sorry  for  thy  much  misgovernment. 

Claud.  O  Hero !  what  a  Hero  hadst  thou  bin. 
If  half  thy  outward  graces  had  bin  placed. 
About  thy  thoughts  and  counsels  of  thy  heart  ?  100 

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  eyehds  shall  Conjecture  hang, 
To  turn  all  beauty  into  thoughts  of  harm,  105 

And  never  shall  it  more  be  gracious. 

Leon.  Hath  no  man's  dagger  here  a  point  for  me. 

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

John.  Come  let  us  go :  these  things  come  thus  to  light. 
Smother  her  spirits  up.  no 

[Exeunt  Don  Pedro,  Don  John  and  Claudio 

4—2 


52           MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  [act  iv       i 

Bene.  How  doth  the  lady?  1 

Beat.                                       Dead  I  think,  help  uncle, 

Hero,  why  Hero,  Uncle,  Signior  Benedick,  Friar,  ; 

Leon.  O  Fate!  take  not  away  thy  heavy  hand,  I 

Death  is  the  fairest  cover  for  her  shame 

115  That  may  be  wisht  for.  1 

Beat.   How  now  cousin  Hero?  | 

Friar.                                             Have  comfort  lady.  i 

Leon.  Dost  thou  look  up?  I 

Friar.                        Yea,  wherefore  should  she  not?  j 

Leon.  Wherefore!     Why    doth     not     every  earthly       i 

thing  I 

Cry  shame  upon  her?   Could  she  here  deny  ! 

120  The  story  that  is  printed  in  her  blood?  ; 

Do  not  live  Hero,  do  not  ope  thine  eyes:  ! 

For  did  I  think  thou  wouldst  not  quickly  die, 

Thought  I  thy  spirits  were  stronger  than  thy  shames,  . 

Myself  would  on  the  rearward  of  reproaches 

125  Strike  at  thy  life.   Grieved  I  I  had  but  one?  1 

Chid  I  for  that  at  frugal  nature's  frame? 

0  one  too  much  by  thee:  why  had  I  one?  i 
Why  ever  wast  thou  lovely  in  mine  eyes?  ; 
Why  had  I  not  with  charitable  hand,  " 

130  Took  up  a  beggar's  issue  at  my  gates, 

Who  smirched  thus,  and  mired  with  infamy,  \ 

1  might  have  said,  '  No  part  of  it  is  mine,  ; 
This  shame  derives  itself  from  unknown  loins,'  \ 
But  mine,  and  mine  I  loved,  and  mine  I  prais'd,  I 

135  And  mine  that  I  was  proud  on,  mine  so  much,  5 

That  I  myself,  was  to  myself  not  mine :  \ 

Valuing  of  her,  why  she,  O  she  is  falne  ; 

Into  a  pit  of  ink,  that  the  wide  sea  i 

Hath  drops  too  few  to  wash  her  clean  again,  j 

140  And  salt  too  little,  which  may  season  give 
To  her  foul  tainted  flesh. 

Bene.  Sir,  sir,  be  patient. 

For  my  part  I  am  so  attired  in  wonder, 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  53 

I  know  not  what  to  say. 

Beat.  O  on  my  soul  my  cousin  is  belied. 

Bene.  Lady,  were  you  her  bedfellow  last  night?  145 

Beat.  No  truly,  not  although  until  last  night, 
I  have  this  twelvemonth  bin  her  bedfellow. 

Leon.  Confirm'd,  confirm'd,  O  that  is  stronger  made, 
Which  was  before  barr'd  up  with  ribs  of  iron. 
Would  the  two  princes  lie,  and  Claudio  lie,  150 

Who  lov'd  her  so,  that  speaking  of  her  foulness, 
Washt  it  with  tears!   Hence  from  her,  let  her  die. 

Friar.  Hear  me  a  little, 
For  I  have  only  bin  silent  so  long, 

And  given  way  unto  this  course  of  fortune,  155 

By  noting  of  the  lady,  I  have  markt, 
A  thousand  blushing  apparitions, 
To  start  into  her  face,  a  thousand  innocent  shames. 
In  angel  whiteness  beat  away  those  blushes. 
And  in  her  eye  there  hath  appear'd  a  fire,  160 

To  burn  the  errors  that  these  princes  hold 
Against  her  maiden  truth :  call  me  a  fool, 
Trust  not  my  reading,  nor  my  observations. 
Which  with  experimental  seal  doth  warrant 
The  tenour  of  my  book:  trust  not  my  age,  165 

My  reverence,  calling,  nor  divinity. 
If  this  sweet  lady  lie  not  guiltless  here, 
Under  some  biting  error. 

Leon.  Friar,  it  cannot  be, 

Thou  seest  that  all  the  grace  that  she  hath  left. 
Is,  that  she  will  not  add  to  her  damnation,  170 

A  sin  of  perjury,  she  not  denies  it : 
Why  seekst  thou  then  to  cover  with  excuse, 
That  which  appears  in  proper  nakedness? 

Friar.  Lady,  what  man  is  he  you  are  accus'd  of? 

Hero.  They  know  that  do  accuse  me,  I  know  none,      175 
If  I  know  more  of  any  man  alive 
Than  that  which  maiden  modesty  doth  warrant. 
Let  all  my  sins  lack  mercy,  O  my  father,  , 


54  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  iv        j 

Prove  you  that  any  man  with  me  converst, 
iSo  At  hours  unmeet,  or  that  I  yesternight 

Maintain'd  the  change  of  words  with  any  creature, 
Refuse  me,  hate  me,  torture  me  to  death. 

Friar.  There  is  some  strange  misprision  in  the  princes. 
Bene.  Two  of  them  have  the  very  bent  of  honour, 
185  And  if  their  wisdoms  be  misled  in  this,  : 

The  practice  of  it  lives  in  John  the  bastard,  I 

Whose  spirits  toil  in  frame  of  villanies. 

Leon.  I  know  not,  if  they  speak  but  truth  of  her, 
These  hands  shall  tear  her,  if  they  wrong  her  honour, 
190  The  proudest  of  them  shall  well  hear  of  it.  1 

Time  hath  not  yet  so  dried  this  blood  of  mine,  i 

Nor  age  so  eat  up  my  invention,  ] 

Nor  Fortune  made  such  havoc  of  my  means, 
Nor  my  bad  life  reft  me  so  much  of  friends,  ' 

19s  But  they  shall  find  awak'd  in  such  a  kind, 

Both  strength  of  limb,  and  policy  of  mind,  1 

Ability  in  means,  and  choice  of  friends,  I 

To  quit  me  of  them  throughly.  | 

Friar.  Pause  awhile,  I 

And  let  my  counsel  sway  you  in  this  case,  ■ 

200  Your  daughter  here  the  princess  (left  for  dead,) 

Let  her  awhile  be  secretly  kept  in, 

And  publish  it,  that  she  is  dead  indeed, 

Maintain  a  mourning  ostentation,  i 

And  on  your  family's  old  monument,  1 

205  Hang  mournful  epitaphs,  and  do  all  rites,  j 

That  appertain  unto  a  burial.  1 

Leon.  What  shall  become  of  this?   what  will  this  do?        ; 

Friar.  Marry  this  well  carried,  shall  on  her  behalf,  j 

Change  slander  to  remorse,  that  is  some  good,  ' 

210  But  not  for  that  dream  I  on  this  strange  course,  I 

But  on  this  travail  look  for  greater  birth :  ' 

She  dying,  as  it  must  be  so  maintain'd. 

Upon  the  instant  that  she  was  accus'd,  ' 

Shall  be  lamented,  pitied,  and  excus'd  ; 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  55 

Of  every  hearer:  for  it  so  falls  out,  215 

That  what  we  have,  we  prize  not  to  the  worth, 

Whiles  we  enjoy  it,  but  being  lackt  and  lost, 

Why,  then  we  rack  the  value,  then  we  find 

The  virtue  that  possession  would  not  shew  us 

Whiles  it  was  ours,  so  will  it  fare  with  Claudio:  220 

When  he  shall  hear  she  died  upon  his  words, 

Th'Idaea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep. 

Into  his  study  of  imagination. 

And  every  lovely  organ  of  her  life, 

Shall  come  apparell'd  in  more  precious  habit,  225 

More  moving  delicate,  and  full  of  life. 

Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul 

Than  when  she  liv'd  indeed :  then  shall  he  mourn, 

If  ever  love  had  interest  in  his  liver. 

And  wish  he  had  not  so  accused  her :  230 

No,  though  he  thought  his  accusation  true: 

Let  this  be  so,  and  doubt  not  but  success 

Will  fashion  the  event  in  better  shape. 

Than  I  can  lay  it  down  in  likelihood. 

But  if  all  aim  but  this  be  levell'd  false,  235 

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,  240 

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  honour,  I  will  deal  in  this,  245 

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,  250 


56  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTIIliNG     [act  iv 

Come  lady,  die  to  live,  this  wedding  day 

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

[Exit  with  Leonatu  and  Hero 
Bene.  Lady  Beatrice,  have  you  wept  all  this  while? 
Beat.  Yea,  and  I  will  weep  a  while  longer. 
255      Befte.  I  will  not  desire  that. 

Beat.  You  have  no  reason,  I  do  it  freely. 
Bene.  Surely  I  do  believe  your  fair  cousin  is  wronged. 
Beat.  Ah,  how  much  might  the  man  deserve  of  me 
that  would  right  her! 
260      Bene.  Is  there  any  way  to  shew  such  friendship.'^ 
Beat.  A  very  even  way,  but  no  such  friend. 
Bene.  May  a  man  do  it? 
Beat.  It  is  a  man's  office,  but  not  yours. 
Bene.  I  do  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  well  as  you, 
265  is  not  that  strange? 

Beat.  As  strange  as  the  thing  I  know  not,  it  were  as 
possible  for  me  to  say,  I  loved  nothing  so  well  as  you, 
but  believe  me  not,  and  yet  I  lie  not,  I  confess  nothing, 
nor  I  deny  nothing,  I  am  sorry  for  my  cousin. 
270      Bene.  By  my  sword  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me. 
Beat.  Do  not  swear  and  eat  it. 

Bene.  I  will  swear  by  it  that  you  love  nic,  and  1  will 
make  him  eat  it  that  says  I  love  not  j'ou. 
Beat.  Will  you  not  eat  your  word? 
275      Bene.  With  no  sauce  that  can   be  devised  to  it,   I 
protest  I  love  thee. 

Beat.  Why  then  God  forgive  me. 
Bene.  What  offence  sweet  Beatrice? 
Beat.  You  have  stayed  mc  in  a  happy  hour,  I  was 
280  about  to  protest  I  loved  you. 

Bene.  And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart. 
Beat.  I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart,  that  none 
is  left  to  protest. 

Bene.  Come  bid  me  do  anything  for  thee. 
285      Beat.  Kill  Claudio. 

Bene.  Ha,  not  for  the  wide  world. 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  57 

Beat.  You  kill  me  to  deny  it,  farewell. 

Bene.  Tarry  sweet  Beatrice. 

Beat.  I  am  gone,  though  I  am  here,  there  is  no  love 
in  you,  nay  I  pray  you  let  me  go.  290 

Bene.  Beatrice. 

Beat.  In  faith  I  will  go. 

Bene.  We'll  be  friends  first. 

Beat.  You  dare  easier  be  friends  with  me,  than  iight 
with  mine  enemy.  295 

Bene.  Is  Claudio  thine  enemy? 

Beat.  Is  a  not  approved  in  the  height  a  villain,  that 
hath  slandered,  scorned,  dishonoured  my  kinswoman? 

0  that  I  were  a  man!  what,  bear  her  in  hand,  until  they 
come  to  take  hands,  and  then  with  public  accusation,  300 
uncover 'd  slander,  unmitigated  rancour?   O  God  that  I 
were  a  man!  I  would  eat  his  heart  in  the  market-place. 

Bene.  Hear  me  Beatrice. 

Beat.  Talk  with  a  man  out  at  a  window,  a  proper 
saying.  305 

Bene.  Nay  but  Beatrice. 

Beat.  Sweet  Hero,  she  is  wrong'd,  she  is  slandred,  she 
is  undone. 

Bene.  Beat — 

Beat.  Princes  and  counties!  Surely  a  princely  testi-  310 
mony,  a  goodly  Count,  Count  Comfect,  a  sweet  gallant 
surely,  O  that  I  were  a  man  for  his  sake!  or  that  I  had 
any  friend  would  be  a  man  for  my  sake !  But  manhood 
is  melted  into  curtsies,  valour  into  compliment,  and  men 
are  only  turn'd  into  tongue,  and  trim  ones  too:  he  is  315 
now  as  valiant  as  Hercules,  that  only  tells  a  lie,  and 
swears  it.    I  cannot  be  a  man  with  wishing,  therefore 

1  will  die  a  woman  with  grieving. 

Bene.  Tarry  good  Beatrice,  by  this  hand  I  love  thee. 

Beat.  Use  it  for  my  love  some  other  way  than  swearing  320 
by  it. 

Bene.  Think  you  in  your  soul  the  Count  Claudio  hath 
wrong'd  Hero? 


58  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  iv 

Beat.  Yea,  as  sure  as  I  have  a  thought,  or  a  soul. 
325  Bene.  Enough,  I  am  engag'd,  I  will  challenge  him, 
I  will  kiss  your  hand,  and  so  I  leave  you:  by  this  hand, 
Claudio  shall  render  me  a  dear  account:  as  you  hear  of 
me,  so  think  of  me:  go  comfort  your  cousin,  I  must  say 
she  is  dead,  and  so  farewell.  [Exeunt 

Scene  H.   The  Constable's  Room. 

Enter  the  Constables  and  the  Town  Clerk  in  gowns,  with 
the  Watch,  Conrad  and  Borachio. 

Dogb.  Is  our  whole  dissembly  appear'd? 
Verg.  O  a  stool  and  a  cushion  for  the  Sexton. 
Sexton.  Which  be  the  malefactors? 
Dogb.  Marry  that  am  I,  and  my  partner. 
5      Verg.  Nay  that's  certain,  we  have  the  exhibition  to 
examine. 

Sexton.  But  which  are  the  offenders,  that  are  to  be 
examined?  let  them  come  before  master  Constable. 
Dogb.  Yea  marry,  let  them  come  before  me,  what  is 
10  your  name,  friend? 
Bora.  Borachio. 

Dogb.  Pray  write  down  Borachio.  Yours  sirrah. 
Con.  I  am  a  gentleman  sir,  and  my  name  is  Conrad. 
Dogb.  Write  down  Master  gentleman  Conrad :  mas- 
15  ters,  do  you  serve  God? 
Both.  Yea  sir  we  hope. 

Dogb.  Write  down,  that  they  hope  they  serve  God :  and 

write  God  first,  for  God  defend  but  God  should  go 

before  such  villains:  masters,  it  is  proved  already  that 

20  you  are  little  better  than  false  knaves,  and  it  will  go  near 

to  be  thought  so  shortly,  how  answer  you  for  yourselves? 

Con.  Marry  sir  we  say,  we  are  none. 

Dogb.  A  marvellous  witty  fellow  I  assure  you,  but 

I  will  go  about  with  him :  come  you  hither  sirrah,  a  word 

25  in  your  ear  sir,  I  say  to  you,  it  is  thought  you  are  false 

knaves. 


sc.  II]      MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  59 

Bora.  Sir,  I  say  to  you,  we  are  none. 

Dogb.  Well,  stand  aside,  fore  God,  they  are  both  in 
a  tale:  have  you  writ  down,  that  they  are  none? 

Sexton.  Master   constable,   you   go   not   the  way  to  30 
examine,  you  must  call  forth  the  watch  that  are  their 
accusers. 

Dogb.  Yea  marry,  that's  the  eftest  way,  let  the  watch 
come  forth:  masters,  I  charge  you  in  the  prince's  name 
accuse  these  men.  ^r 

Watch  I .  This  man  said  sir,  that  Don  John  the  prince's 
brother  was  a  villain. 

Dogb.  Write  down.  Prince  John  a  villain:  why  this  is 
flat  perjury,  to  call  a  prince's  brother  villain. 

Bora.  Master  constable.  40 

Dogb.  Pray  thee  fellow  peace,  I  do  not  like  thy  look 
I  promise  thee. 

Sexton.  What  heard  you  him  say  else? 

Watch  2.  Marry  that  he  had  received  a  thousand  ducats 
of  Don  John,  for  accusing  the  Lady  Hero  wrongfully.      45 

Dogb.  Flat  burglary  as  ever  was  committed. 

Verg.  Yea  by  mass  that  it  is. 

Sexton.  What  else  fellow? 

Watch  I .  And  that  Count  Claudio  did  mean  upon  his 
words,  to  disgrace  Hero  before  the  whole  assembly,  and  50 
not  marry  her. 

Dogb.  O  villain!  thou  wilt  be  condemn'd  into  ever- 
lasting redemption  for  this. 

Sexton.  What  else? 

Watch  I.  This  is  all.  55 

Sexton.  And  this  is  more  masters  than  you  can  deny. 
Prince  John  is  this  morning  secretly  stolne  away:  Hero 
was  in  this  manner  accus'd,  in  this  very  manner  refus'd, 
and  upon  the  grief  of  this  suddenly  died :  Master  con- 
stable, let  these  men  be  bound,  and  brought  to  Leonato's,  60 
I  will  go  before  and  shew  him  their  examination.     [Exit 

Dogb.  Come  let  them  be  opinion'd. 

Verg.  Let  them  be,  in  the  hands. 


6o  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHLNG       [act  v 

Con.  Off  coxcomb. 
65      Dugb.  God's  my  life,  where's  the  Sexton?  let  him 
write  down  the  prince's  officer  Coxcomb:  come,  bind 
them:  thou  naughty  varlet. 

Con.  Away,  you  are  an  ass,  you  are  an  ass. 
Dogb.  Dost  thou  not  suspect  my  place?  dost  thou  not 
70  suspect  my  years?  O  that  he  were  here  to  write  me  down 
an  ass!  but  masters,  remember  that  I  am  an  ass,  though 
it  be  not  written  down,  yet  forget  not  that  I  am  an  ass: 
No  thou  villain,  thou  art  full  of  piety  as  shall  be  prov'd 
upon  thee  by  good  witness.    I  am  a  wise  fellow,  and 
75  which  is  more,  an  officer,  and  which  is  more,  a  house- 
holder, and  which  is  more,  as  pretty  a  piece  of  flesh  as  any 
is  in  Messina,  and  one  that  knows  the  Law,  go  to,  and 
a  rich  fellow  enough,  go  to,  and  a  fellow  that  hath  had 
losses,  and  one  that  hath  two  gowns,  and  everything 
80  handsome  about  him :  bring  him  away :  O  that  I  had  bin 
writ  down  an  ass!  [Exeunt 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I.    A  Street  or  Square. 

Enter  Leonato  and  his  brother. 

Ant.  If  you  go  on  thus,  you  will  kill  yourself. 
And  'tis  not  wisdom  thus  to  second  grief. 
Against  yourself. 

Leon.  I  pray  thee  cease  thy  counsel. 

Which  falls  into  mine  ears  as  profitless, 

5  As  water  in  a  sieve:  give  not  me  counsel. 
Nor  let  no  comforter  delight  mine  ear, 
But  such  a  one  whose  wrongs  do  suit  with  mine. 
Bring  me  a  father  that  so  lov'd  his  child, 
Whose  joy  of  her  is  overwhelm'i-l  like  mine, 

10  And  bid  him  speak  of  patience, 

Measure  his  woe  the  length  and  breadth  of  mine, 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  6i 

And  let  it  answer  every  strain  for  strain, 

As  thus  for  thus,  and  such  a  grief  for  such, 

In  every  hneament,  branch,  shape,  and  form : 

If  such  a  one  will  smile  and  stroke  his  beard,  15 

And  sorrow,  wag,  cry  'hem,'  when  he  should  groan. 

Patch  grief  with  proverbs,  make  misfortune  drunk, 

With  candle-wasters :  bring  him  yet  to  me. 

And  I  of  him  will  gather  patience : 

But  there  is  no  such  man,  for  brother,  men  20 

Can  counsel  and  speak  comfort  to  that  grief, 

Which  they  themselves  not  feel,  but  tasting  it. 

Their  counsel  turns  to  passion,  which  before. 

Would  give  preceptial  medicine  to  rage. 

Fetter  strong  madness  in  a  silken  thread,  25 

Charm  ache  with  air,  and  agony  with  words. 

No,  no,  'tis  all  men's  office,  to  speak  patience 

To  those  that  wring  under  the  load  of  sorrow, 

But  no  man's  virtue  nor  sufficiency 

To  be  so  moral,  when  he  shall  endure  30 

The  like  himself:  therefore  give  me  no  counsel. 

My  griefs  crj^  louder  than  advertisement. 

Ant.  Therein  do  men  from  children  nothing  differ. 

Leon.  I  pray  thee  peace,  I  will  be  flesh  and  blood, 
For  there  was  never  yet  philosopher,  35 

That  could  endure  the  toothache  patiently. 
However  they  have  writ  the  style  of  gods. 
And  made  a  push  at  chance  and  sufferance. 

Ant.  Yet  bend  not  all  the  harm  upon  yourself, 
Alake  those  that  do  offend  you,  suffer  too.  40 

Leon.  There  thou  speakst  reason,  nay  I  will  do  so. 
My  soul  doth  tell  me,  Hero  is  belied, 
And  that  shall  Claudio  know,  so  shall  the  prince. 
And  all  of  them  that  thus  dishonour  her. 


62  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  v 

Enter  Prince  and  Claudio. 

45      Ant.  Here  comes  the  prince  and  Claudio  hastily. 

Pedro.  Good  den,  good  den. 

Claud.  Good  day  to  both  of  you. 

Leoji.  Hear  you  my  lords? 

Pedro.  We  have  some  haste  Leonato. 

Leon.  Some  haste  my  lord !  well,  fare  you  well  my  lord, 
Are  yon  so  hasty  now.^  well,  all"  is  one. 
50      Pedro.  Nay  do  not  quarrel  with  us,  good  old  man. 

Ant.  If  he  could  right  himself  with  quarrelling, 
Some  of  us  would  lie  low. 

Claud.  Who  wrongs  him? 

Leon.  Marry  thou  dost  wrong  me,  thou  dissembler, 
thou: 
Nay,  never  lay  thy  hand  upon  thy  sword, 
55  I  fear  thee  not. 

Claud.  Marry  beshrew  my  hand, 

If  it  should  give  your  age  such  cause  of  fear, 
In  faith  my  hand  meant  nothing  to  my  sword. 

Leon.  Tush,  tush  man,  never  fleer  and  jest  at  me, 
I  speak  not  like  a  dotard,  nor  a  fool, 
60  As  under  privilege  of  age  to  brag. 

What  I  have  done  being  young,  or  what  would  do, 
Were  I  not  old,  know  Claudio  to  thy  head. 
Thou  hast  so  wrong'd  mine  innocent  child  and  me. 
That  I  am  forct  to  lay  my  reverence  by, 
65  And  with  grey  hairs  and  bruise  of  many  days. 
Do  challenge  thee  to  trial  of  a  man, 
I  say  thou  hast  belied  mine  innocent  child. 
Thy  slander  hath  gone  through  and  through  her  heart, 
And  she  lies  buried  with  her  ancestors : 
70  O  in  a  tomb  where  never  scandal  slept, 
Save  this  of  hers,  fram'd  by  thy  villany. 

Claud.  My  villany? 

Leon.  Thine  Claudio,  thine  I  say. 

P.^drn.  You  say  not  right  old  man. 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  63 

Leon.  Aly  lord,  my  lord, 

I'll  prove  it  on  his  body  if  he  dare, 

Despite  his  nice  fence,  and  his  active  practice,  75 

His  May  of  youth,  and  bloom  of  lustihood. 

Claud.  Away,  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  you. 

Leo7i.  Canst  thousodaff  me?  Thou  hast  kill'd  my  child, 
If  thou  killst  me,  boy,  thou  shalt  kill  a  man. 

Atit.  He  shall  kill  two  of  us,  and  men  indeed,  80 

But  that's  no  matter,  let  him  kill  one  first : 
"  Win  me  and  wear  me,"  let  him  answer  me. 
Come  follow  me  boy,  come  sir  boy,  come  follow  me 
Sir  boy,  I'll  whip  you  from  5'our  foining  fence. 
Nay,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will.  85 

Leon.  Brother. 

Ant.  Content  yourself,  God  knows,  I  loved  my  niece. 
And  she  is  dead,  slander'd  to  death  by  villains. 
That  dare  as  well  answer  a  man  indeed. 
As  I  dare  take  a  serpent  by  the  tongue.  90 

Boys,  apes,  braggarts.  Jacks,  milksops. 

Leon.  Brother  Anthony. 

Ant.  Hold  vou  content,  what  man!  I  know  them,  vea 
And  what  they  weigh,  even  to  the  utmost  scruple, 
Scambling,  out-facing,  fashion-monging  boys,  95 

That  lie,  and  cog,  and  flout,  deprave,  and  slander. 
Go  anticly,  and  shew  outward  hideousness. 
And  speak  off  half  a  dozen  dang'rous  words. 
How  they  might  hurt  their  enemies,  if  they  durst. 
And  this  is  all.  100 

Leon.  But  brother  Anthony. 

Ant.  Come  'tis  no  matter, 

Do  not  you  meddle,  let  me  deal  in  this. 

Pedro.  Gentlemen    both,    we    will    not    wake    your 
patience, 
IVIy  heart  is  sorry  for  your  daughter's  death : 
But  on  my  honour  she  was  charg'd  with  nothing  105 

But  what  was  true,  and  very  full  of  proof. 

Leon.  My  lord,  my  lord. 


64  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING       [act  v 

Pedro.  i  will  not  hear  you. 

Leon.    No  come  brother,  away,  1  will  be  heard. 
Afit.  And  shall,  or  some  of  us  will  smart  for  it. 

[Exeunt  Leonato  and  Antonio 

Enter  Benedick. 

I  lo      Pedro.  See    see,    here    comes   the  man   we  went  to 
seek. 

Claud.  Now  signior,  what  news? 
Bene.  Good  day  my  lord : 

Pedro.  Welcome  signior,  you  are  almost  come  to  part 
115  almost  a  fray. 

Claud.  We  had  lik'd  to  have  had  our  two  noses  snapt 
off  with  two  old  men  without  teeth. 

Pedro.  Leonato  and  his  brother,  what  thinkst  thou? 
had  we  fought,  I  doubt  we  should  have  been  too  young 
120  for  them. 

Bene.   In  a  false  quarrel  there  is  no  true  valour,  I  came 
to  seek  you  both. 

Claud.  We  have  been  up  and  down  to  seek  thee,  for 
we  are  high-proof  melancholy,  and  would  fain  have  it 
125  beaten  away,  wilt  thou  use  thy  wit? 

Bene.  It  is  in  my  scabbard,  shall  I  draw  it? 
Pedro.  Dost  thou  wear  thy  wit  by  thy  side? 
Claud.  Never  any  did  so,  though  very  many  have 
been  beside  their  wit,  I  will  bid  thee  draw,  as  we  do  the 
130  minstrels,  draw  to  pleasure  us. 

Pedro.  As  I  am  an  honest  man  he  looks  pale,  art  thou 
sick,  or  angry? 

Claud.  What  courage  man:  what  though  care  kill'd 

a  cat,  thou  hast  mettle  enough  in  thee  to  kill  care. 

135      Bene.   Sir,  I  shall  meet  your  wit  in  the  career,  an  you 

charge  it  against  me,  I  pray  you  choose  another  subject. 

Claud.  Nay  then  give  him  another  staff,  this  last  was 

broke  cross. 

Pedro.   By   this   light    he   changes   more   and    more, 
140  I  think  he  be  angry  indeed. 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  65 

Claud.  If  he  be,  he  knows  how  to  turn  his  girdle. 

Bene.  Shall  I  speak  a  word  in  your  ear? 

Claud.  God  bless  me  from  a  challenge. 

Bene.  You  are  a  villain,  I  jest  not,  I  will  make  it  good 
how  you  dare,  with  what  you  dare,  and  when  you  dare:  145 
do  me  right,  or  I  will  protest  your  cowardice:  you  have 
kill'd  a  sweet  lady,  and  her  death  shall  fall  heavy^  on  you, 
let  me  hear  from  you. 

Claud.  Well  I  will  meet  you,  so  I  may  have  good 
cheer.  1^0 

Pedro.  What,  a  feast,  a  feast? 

Claud.  Ay  faith  I  thank  him,  he  hath  bid  me  to  a  calf's- 
head  and  a  capon,  the  which  if  I  do  not  carvx  most 
curiously,  say  my  knife's  naught,  shall  I  not  find  a 
woodcock  too?  irr 

Bene.  Sir  your  wit  ambles  well,  it  goes  easily. 

Pedro.  I'll  tell  thee  how  Beatrice  prais'd  thy  wit  the 
other  day:  I  said  thou  hadst  a  fine  wit,  true  said  she, 
a  fine  little  one:  no  said  I,  a  great  wit:  right  says  she,  a 
great  gros?  one:  nay  said  I,  a  good  wit:  just  said  she,  160 
it  hurts  nobody:  nay  said  I,  the  gentleman  is  wise: 
certain  said  she,  a  wise  gentleman:  nay  said  I,  he  hath 
the  tongues:  that  I  believe  said  she,  for  he  swore  a  thing 
to  me  on  Monday  night,  which  he  forswore  on  Tuesday 
morning,  there's  a  double  tongue,  there's  two  tongues,  165 
thus  did  she  an  hour  together  trans-shape  thy  particular 
virtues,  yet  at  last  she  concluded  with  a  sigh,  thou  wast 
the  properst  man  in  Italy.  , 

Claud.  For  the  which  she  wept  heartily  and  said  she 
cared  not.  170 

Pedro.  Yea  that  she  did,  but  yet  for  all  that,  an  if  she 
did  not  hate  him  deadly,  she  would  love  him  dearly, 
the  old  man's  daughtei  told  us  all. 

Claud.  All  all,  and  moreover,  God  saw  him  when  he 
was  hid  in  the  garden.  175 

Pedro.  But  when  shall  we  set  the  savage  bull's  horns 
on  the  sensible  Benedick's  head? 


SKA 


66  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  v 

Claud.  Yea  and  text  underneath,  '  Here  dwells  Bene- 
dick the  married  man.' 

i8o  Bene.  Fare  you  well,  boy,  you  know  my  mind,  I  will 
leave  you  now  to  your  gossip-like  humour,  you  break 
jests  as  braggarts  do  their  blades,  which  God  be  thanked 
hurt  not:  my  lord,  for  your  many  courtesies  I  thank  you, 
I  must  discontinue  your  company,  your  brother  the 

185  bastard  is  fled  from  Messina:  you  have  among  you,  kill'd 
a  sweet  and  innocent  lady :  for  my  Lord  Lack-beard  there, 
he  and  I  shall  meet,  and  till  then  peace  be  with  him. 

[Exit 

Pedro.  He  is  in  earnest. 

Claud.  In  most  profound  earnest,  and  I'll  warrant  you, 
190  for  the  love  of  Beatrice. 

Pedro.  And  hath  challeng'd  thee? 
Claud.  Most  sincerely. 

Pedro.  What  a  pretty  thing  man  is,  when  he  goes  in 
his  doublet  and  hose,  and  leaves  off  his  wit ! 

Enter  Constables,  Conrad  and  Borachio. 

195      Claud.  He  is  then  a  giant  to  an  ape,  but  then  is  an 
ape  a  doctor  to  such  a  man. 

Pedro.  But  soft  you,  let  me  be,  pluck  up  my  heart,  and 
be  sad,  did  he  not  say  my  brother  was  fled? 

Dogb.  Come  you  sir,  if  justice  cannot  tame  you,  she 
200  shall  ne'er  weigh  more  leasons  in  her  balance,  nay,  an 
you  be  a  cursing  hypocrite  once,  you  must  be  lookt  to. 

Pedro.  How  now,  two  of  my  brother's  men  bou.id? 
Borachio  one. 

Claud.  Hearken  after  their  offence  my  lord. 
205      Pedro.  Officers,  what  offence  have  these  men  done? 
Dogb.  Marry  sir,  they  have  committed  false  report, 
moreover  they  have  spoken  untruths,  secondarily  they 
are  slanders,  sixth  and  lastly,  they  have  belied  a  lady, 
thirdly  they  have  verified  unjust  things,  and  to  conclude, 
2IO  they  are  lying  knaves. 

Pedro.  First  I  ask  thee  what  they  have  done,  thirdly  I 


sc.  I]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  67 

ask  thee  what's  their  offence,  sixth  and  lastly  why  they  are 
committed,  and  to  conclude,  what  you  lay  to  their  charge. 

Claud.  Rightly  reasoned,  and  in  his  own  division,  and 
by  my  troth  there's  one  meaning  well  suited.  215 

Pedro.  Who  have  you  offended  masters,  that  you  are 
thus  bound  to  your  answer.?  this  learned  constable  is  too 
cunning  to  be  understood,  what's  your  offence? 

Bora.  Sweet  prince,  let  me  go  no  further  to  mine 
answer :  do  you  hear  me,  and  let  this  count  kill  me :  I  have  220 
deceived  even  your  very  eyes :  what  your  wisdoms  could 
not  discover,  these  shallow  fools  have  brought  to  light, 
who  in  the  night  overheard  me  confessing  to  this  man, 
how  Don  John  your  brother  incensed  me  to  slander  the 
Lady  Hero,  how  you  were  brought  into  the  orchard,  225 
and  saw  me  court  Margaret  in  Hero's  garments,  how  you 
disgrac'd  her  when  you  should  marry  her:  my  villainy 
they  have  upon  record,  which  I  had  rather  seal  with  my 
death,  than  repeat  over  to  my  shame:  the  lady  is  dead 
upon  mine  and  my  master's  false  accusation :  and  briefly,  230 
I  desire  nothing  but  the  reward  of  a  villain. 

Pedro.  Runs  not  this  speech  like  iron  through  your 
blood } 

Claud.  I  have  drunk  poison  whiles  he  utter'd  it. 

Pedro.  But  did  my  brother  set  thee  on  to  this.-*  235 

Bora.  Yea,  and  paid  me  richly  for  the  practice  of  it. 

Pedro.  He  is  compos'd  and  fram'd  of  treachery, 
And  fled  he  is  upon  this  villainy. 

Claud.  Sweet  Hero,  now  thy  image  doth  appear 
In  the  rare  semblance  that  I  lov'd  it  first.  240 

Dogb.  Come,  bring  away  the  plaintiffs,  by  this  time 
our  sexton  hath  reformed  Signior  Leonato  of  the  matter : 
and  masters,  do  not  forget  to  specify  when  time  and 
place  shall  serve,  that  I  am  an  ass. 

Va-g.  Here,  here  comes  master  Signior  Leonato,  and  245 
the  sexton  too. 


5—2 


68  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  v 

Enter  Leonato,  his  brother,  and  the  Sexton.  ' 

Leon.  Which  is  the  villain?  let  me  see  his  eyes,  \ 

That  when  I  note  another  man  like  him, 
I  may  avoid  him:  which  of  these  is  he? 
250      Bora.  If  you  would  know  your  wronger,  look  on  me.        ' 
Leon.  Art  thou  the  slave  that  with  thy  breath  hast       j 
kill'd  I 

Mine  innocent  child?  i 

Bora.  Yea,  even  I  alone. 

Leon.  No,  not  so  villain,  thou  beliest  thyself,  j 

Here  stand  a  pair  of  honourable  men,  ' 

255  A  third  is  fled  that  had  a  hand  in  it :  I 

I  thank  you  princes  for  my  daughter's  death, 
Record  it  with  your  high  and  worthy  deeds,  ; 

'Twas  bravely  done,  if  you  bethink  you  of  it.  ; 

Claud.  I  know  not  how  to  pray  your  patience,  | 

260  Yet  I  must  speak,  choose  your  revenge  yourself,  1 

Impose  me  to  what  penance  your  invention  j 

Can  lay  upon  my  sin,  yet  sinn'd  I  not,  j 

But  in  mistaking.  ; 

Pedro.  By  my  soul  nor  I,  I 

And  yet  to  satisfy  this  good  old  man,  I 

265  I  would  bend  under  any  heavy  weight, 
That  he'll  enjoin  me  to. 

Leon.  I  cannot  bid  you  bid  my  daughter  live,  1 

That  were  impossible,  but  I  pray  you  both,  j 

Possess  the  people  in  Messina  here,  ! 

270  How  innocent  she  died,  and  if  your  love  • 

Can  labour  aught  in  sad  invention,  ' 

Hang  her  an  epitaph  upon  her  tomb,  i 

And  sing  it  to  her  bones,  sing  it  to-night: 
To-morrow  morning  come  you  to  my  house, 
27s  And  since  you  could  not  be  my  son-in-law. 

Be  yet  my  nephew :  my  brother  hath  a  daughter. 
Almost  the  copy  of  my  child  that's  dead, 
And  she  alone  is  heir  to  both  of  us, 


sc.  I]      MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  69 

Give  her  the  right  you  should  have  giv'n  her  cousin, 
And  so  dies  my  revenge. 

Claud.  O  noble  sir !  2S0 

Your  over-kindness  doth  wring  tears  from  me, 
I  do  embrace  your  offer  and  dispose. 
For  henceforth  of  poor  Claudio. 

Leon.  To-morrow  then  I  will  expect  your  coming, 
To-night  I  take  my  leave,  this  naughty  man  2S5 

Shall  face  to  face  be  brought  to  Margaret, 
Who  I  believe  was  packt  in  all  this  wrong. 
Hired  to  it  by  your  brother. 

Bora.  No  by  my  soul  she  was  not. 

Nor  knew  not  what  she  did  when  she  spoke  to  me, 
But  always  hath  bin  just  and  virtuous,  290 

In  anything  that  I  do  know  by  her. 

Dogb.  Moreover  sir,  which  indeed  is  not  under  white 
and  black,  this  plaintiff  here,  the  offender,  did  call  me 
ass,  I  beseech  you  let  it  be  remembred  in  his  punish- 
ment, and  also  the  watch  heard  them  talk  of  one  Deformed,  295 
they  say  he  wears  a  key  in  his  ear  and  a  lock  hanging  by 
it,  and  borrows  money  in  God's  name,  the  which  he  hath 
us'd  so  long,  and  never  paid,  that  now  men  grow  hard- 
hearted, and  will  lend  nothing  for  God's  sake:  pray  you, 
examine  him  upon  that  point.  2oo 

Leon.  I  thank  thee  for  thy  care  and  honest  pains. 
Dogb.  Your  worship  speaks  like  a  most  thankful  and 
reverend  youth,  and  I  praise  God  for  you. 
Leon.  There's  for  thy  pains. 

Dogb.  God  save  the  foundation.  305 

Leon.  Go,  I  discharge  thee  of  thy  prisoner,  and  I 
thank  thee. 

Dogb.  1  leave  an  arrant  knave  with  your  worship, 
which  I  beseech  your  worship  to  correct  yourself,  for 
the  example  of  others:  God  keep  your  worship,  I  wish  310 
your  worship  well,  God  restore  you  to  health,  I  humbly 
give  you  leave  to  depart,  and  if  a  merry  meeting  may  be 
wisht,  God  prohibit  it:  come  neighbour. 


70  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  v 

Leon.  Until  to-morrow  morning,  lords,  farewell. 
315      Ant.  Farewell  my  lords,  we  look  for  you  to-morrow. 
Pedro.  We  will  not  fail. 

Claud.  To-night  I'll  mourn  with  Hero. 

Leon.  Bring  you  these  fellows  on.    We'll  talk  with 
Margaret, 
How  her  acquaintance  grew  with  this  lewd  fellow. 

[Exeunt 

Scene  II.   The  Garden. 

Enter  Benedick  and  Margaret. 

Bene.  Pray  thee  sweet  Mistress  Margaret,  deserve 
well  at  my  hands,  by  helping  me  to  the  speech  of  Bea- 
trice. 

Marg.  Will  you  then  write  me  a  sonnet  in  praise  of 
5  my  beauty? 

Bene.  In  so  high  a  style  Margaret,  that  no  man  living 
shall  come  over  it,  for  in  most  comely  truth  thou  deservest 
it. 

Marg.  To  have  no  man  come  over  me,  why  shall  I 
10  always  keep  below  stairs. 

Bene.  Thy  wit  is  as  quick  as  the  greyhound's  mouth, 
it  catches. 

Marg.  And  yours,  as  blunt  as  the  fencer's  foils,  which 
hit,  but  hurt  not. 
15     Bene.  A  most  manly  wit  Margaret,  it  will  not  hurt  a 
woman:  and  so  I  pray  thee  call  Beatrice,  I  give  thee  the 
bucklers. 

Marg.  Give  us  the  swords,  we  have  bucklers  of  our 
own. 
20      Bene.  If  you  use  them  Margaret,  you  must  put  in  the 
pikes  with  a  vice,  and  they  are  dangerous  weapons  for 
maids. 

Marg.  Well,  I  will  call  Beatrice  to  you,  who  I  think 
hath  legs.  [Exit  Margaret 

25      Bene.  And  therefore  will  come. 


sc.  II]     MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  71 

The  god  of  love 

That  sits  above, 
And  knows  me,  and  knows  me, 

How  pitiful  I  deserve. 
I  mean  in  singing,  but  in  loving,  Leander  the  good  30 
swimmer,  Troilus  the  first  employer  of  pandars,  and  a 
whole   book   full   of  these    quondam    carpet-mongers, 
whose  names  yet  run  smoothly  in  the  even  road  of  a 
blank  verse,  why  they  were  never  so  truly  turn'd  over 
and  over  as  my  poor  self  in  love :  marry  I  cannot  shew  it  35 
in  rime,  I  have  tried,  I  can  find  out  no  rime  to  '  lady'  but 
'baby,'  an  innocent  rime:  for  'scorn,'  'horn,'  a  hard 
rime:  for  'school,'  'fool,'  a  babbling  rime:  very  ominous 
endings,  no,  I  was  not  born  under  a  riming  planet,  nor 
I  cannot  woo  in  festival  terms.  40 

Enter  Beatrice. 

Sweet  Beatrice,  wouldst  thou  come  when  I  call'd  thee? 

Beat.  Yea  signior,  and  depart  when  you  bid  me. 

Bene.  O  stay  but  till  then. 

Beat.  'Then,'  is  spoken:  fare  you  well  now,  and  yet 
ere  I  go,  let  me  go  with  that  I  came,  which  is,  with  45 
knowing  what  hath  past  between  you  and  Claudio. 

Bene.  Only  foul  words,  and  thereupon  I  will  kiss  thee. 

Beat.  Foul  words  is  but  foul  wind,  and  foul  wind  is 
but  foul  breath,  and  foul  breath  is  noisome,  therefore 
I  will  depart  unkist.  50 

Bene.  Thou  hast  frighted  the  word  out  of  his  right 
sense,  so  forcible  is  thy  wit,  but  I  must  tell  thee  plainly, 
Claudio  undergoes  my  challenge,  and  either  I  must 
shortly  hear  from  him,  or  I  will  subscribe  him  a  coward, 
and  I  pray  thee  now  tell  me,  for  which  of  my  bad  parts  55 
didst  thou  first  fall  in  love  with  me? 

Beat.  For  them  all  together,  which  maintain'd  so 
politic  a  state  of  evil,  that  they  will  not  admit  any  good 
part  to  intermingle  with  them :  but  for  which  of  my  good 
parts  did  you  first  suffer  love  for  me?  60 


72  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  v 

Bene.  Suffer  love!  a  good  epithet,  I  do  suffer  love 
indeed,  for  I  love  thee  against  my  will. 

Beat.  In  spite  of  your  heart  I  think,  alas  poor  heart, 
if  you  spite  it  for  my  sake,  I  will  spite  it  for  yours,  for 
65  I  will  never  love  that  which  my  friend  hates. 

Be7ie.  Thou  and  I  are  too  wise  to  woo  peaceably. 

Beat.  It  appears  not  in  this  confession,  there's  not 
one  wise  man  among  twenty  that  will  praise  himself. 

Bene.  An  old,  an  old  instance,  Beatrice,  that  liv'd  in 

70  the  time  of  good  neighbours,  if  a  man  do  not  erect  in 

this  age  his  own  tomb  ere  he  dies,  he  shall  live  no  longer 

in  monument,  than  the  bell  rings,  and  the  widow  weeps. 

Beat.  And  how  long  is  that  think  you? 

Bene.  Question,  why  an  hour  in  clamour  and  a  quarter 
75  in  rheum,  therefore  is  it  most  expedient  for  the  wise, 
if  Don  Worm  (his  conscience)  find  no  impediment  to  the 
contrary,  to  be  the  trumpet  of  his  own  virtues,  as  I  am 
to  myself  so  much  for  praising  myself,  who  I  myself 
will  bear  witness  is  praiseworthy,  and  now  tell  me,  how 
80  doth  your  cousin? 

Beat.  Very  ill. 

Bene.  And  how  do  you? 

Beat.  Very  ill  too. 

Bene.  Serve  God,  love  me,  and  mend,  there  will  I 
85  leave  you  too,  for  here  come"  one  in  haste. 

Enter  Ursula. 

Urs.  Madam,  you  must  come  to  your  uncle,  yonder's 

old  coil  at  home,  it  is  proved  my  Lady  Hero  hath  bin 

falsely  accus'd,  the  prince  and  Claudio  mightily  abus'd, 

and  Don  John  is  the  author  of  ail,  who  is  fled  and  gone: 

90  will  you  come  presently? 

Beat.  Will  you  go  hear  this  news  signior? 

Bene.  I  will  live  in  thy  heart,  die  in  thy  lap,  and  be 
buried  in  thy  eyes :  and  moreover,  I  will  go  with  thee  to 
thy  uncle's.  [Exeunt 


sc.  Ill]    MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  73 

Scene  HI.  At  Leonato's  Mausoleum. 

Enter  Claudio,  Prince,  ajid  three  or  four  with  tapeis. 

Claud.  Is  this  the  monument  of  Leonato? 
Lord.  It  is  my  lord. 

Epitaph . 

Done  to  death  by  slanderous  tongues, 

Was  the  Hero  that  here  lies : 
Death  in  guerdon  of  her  wrongs,  5 

Gives  her  fame  which  never  dies : 
So  the  life  that  died  with  shame, 
Lives  in  death  with  glorious  fame. 

Hang  thou  there  upon  the  tomb, 

Praising  her  when  I  am  dumb.  10 

Claud.  Now  music  sound  and  sing  your  solemn  hymn. 

Song. 

Pardon  goddess  of  the  night, 

Those  that  slew  thy  virgin  knight, 

For  the  which  with  songs  of  woe. 

Round  about  her  tomb  they  go :  15 

Midnight  assist  our  moan,  i 

Help  us  to  sigh  and  groan.  I 

Heavily  heavily. 

Graves  yawn  and  yield  your  dead,  I 

Till  death  be  uttered,  20 

Heavily  heavily.  , 

Lord.     Now  unto  thy  bones  good  night, 
Yearly  will  I  do  this  rite. 
Pedro.  Good  morrow  masters,  put  your  torches  out. 

The  wolves  have  preyed,  and  look,  the  gentle  day         25        | 
Before  the  wheels  of  Phoebus,  round  about 

Dapples  the  drowsy  east  with  spots  of  grey : 
Thanks  to  you  all,  and  leave  us,  fare  you  well.  1 

Claud,  Good  morrow  masters,  each  his  several  way.  I 


74  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  v 

30  Pedro.  Come  let  us  hence,  and  put  on  other  weeds, 
And  then  to  Leonato's  we  will  go. 
Claud.  And  Hymen  now  with  luckier  issue  speeds, 
Than  this  for  whom  we  rendred  up  this  woe. 

[Exeunt 

Scene  IV.  In  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  Leonato,  Benedick,  Margaret,  Ursula,  Old  man, 

Friar  and  Hero. 

Friar.    Did  I  not  tell  you  she  was  innocent? 

Leon.  So  are  the  prince  and  Claudio  who  accus'd  her, 
Upon  the  error  that  you  heard  debated : 
But  Margaret  was  in  some  fault  for  this, 
5  Although  against  her  will  as  it  appears, 
In  the  true  course  of  all  the  question. 

Ant.  Well,  I  am  glad  that  all  things  sorts  so  well. 

Bene.  And  so  am  I,  being  else  by  faith  enforct 
To  call  young  Claudio  to  a  reckoning  for  it. 
10      Leon.  Well  daughter,  and  you  gentlewomen  all. 
Withdraw  into  a  chamber  by  yourselves, 
And  when  I  send  for  you  come  hither  masked : 
The  prince  and  Claudio  promis'd  by  this  hour 
To  visit  me,  you  know  your  office  brother, 
15  You  must  be  father  to  your  brother's  daughter, 

And  give  her  to  young  Claudio.  [Exeimt  ladies 

Ant.  Which  I  will  do  with  confirm'd  countenance. 

Bene.  Friar,  I  must  entreat  your  pains,  I  think. 

Friar.  To  do  what  signior? 
20      Bene.  To  bind  me,  or  undo  me,  one  of  them : 
Signior  Leonato,  truth  it  is  good  signior, 
Your  niece  regards  me  with  an  eye  of  favour. 

Leon.  That  eye  my  daughter  lent  her,  'tis  most  true. 

Bene.  And  I  do  with  an  eye  of  love  requite  her. 
25      Leon.  The  sight  whereof  I  think  you  had  from  me. 
From  Claudio  and  the  prince,  but  what's  your  will? 

Bene.  Your  answer  sir  is  enigmatical. 


sc.  IV]     MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  75 

But  for  my  will,  my  will  is,  your  good  will 
May  stand  with  ours,  this  day  to  be  conjoin'd,  ■ 

In  the  state  of  honourable  marriage,  30 

In  which  (good  Friar)  I  shall  desire  your  help. 

Leon.  My  heart  is  with  your  liking. 

Friar.  And  my  help.  j 

Here  comes  the  prince  and  Claudio. 

Enter  Prince  and  Claudio,  and  two  or  three  other. 

Pedro.  Good  morrow  to  this  fair  assembly. 

Leon.  Good  morrow  prince,  good  morrow  Claudio :     35 
We  here  attend  you,  are  you  yet  determined 
To-day  to  marry  with  my  brother's  daughter?  ] 

Claud.  I'll  hold  my  mind  were  she  an  Ethiope. 

Leon.  Call  her  forth  brother,  here's  the  Friar  ready.  j 

[Exit  Anthony  1 

Pedro.  Good  morrow  Benedick,  why  what's  the  matter?  40 
That  you  have  such  a  February  face, 
So  full  of  frost,  of  storm  and  cloudiness. 

Claud.  I  think  he  thinks  upon  the  savage  bull :  ( 

Tush  fear  not  man,  we'll  tip  thy  horns  with  gold,  ' 

And  all  Europa  shall  rejoice  at  thee,  45 

As  once  Europa  did  at  lusty  Jove,  \ 

When  he  would  play  the  noble  beast  in  love.  i 

Bene.  Bull  Jove  sir  had  an  amiable  low,  { 

And  some  such  strange  bull  leapt  your  father's  cow, 
And  got  a  calf  in  that  same  noble  feat,  50 

Much  like  to  you,  for  you  have  just  his  bleat. 

Enter  Brother,  Hero,  Beatrice,  Margaret,  Ursula.  ; 

Claud.  For  this  I  owe  you :  here  come  other  recknings.  ' 

Which  Is  the  lady  I  must  seize  upon?  1 

Leon.  This  same  is  she,  and  I  do  give  you  her.  ' 

Claud.  Why  then  she's  mine,  sweet,  let  me  see  your 

face.  55        I 

Leon.  No  that  you  shall  not  till  you  take  her  hand, 
Before  this  Friar,  and  swear  to  marry  her. 


76  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  v 

Claud.  Give  me  your  hand  before  this  holy  Friar, 
I  am  your  husband  if  you  hke  of  me. 
60      Hero.  And  when  I  Uv'd  I  was  your  other  wife, 
And  when  you  loved,  you  were  my  other  husband. 
Claud.  Another  Hero. 
Hero.  Nothing  certainer. 

One  Hero  died  defil'd,  but  I  do  live, 
And  surely  as  I  live,  I  am  a  maid.  , 

65      Pedro.  The  former  Hero,  Hero  that  is  dead. 

Leon.  She  died  my  Lord,  but  whiles  her  slander  liv'd. 
Friar.  All  this  amazement  can  I  qualify. 
When  after  that  the  holy  rites  are  ended, 
I'll  tell  you  largely  of  fair  Hero's  death, 
70  Meantime  let  wonder  seem  familiar, 
And  to  the  chapel  let  us  presently. 

Bene.  Soft  and  fair  Friar,  which  is  Beatrice? 
Beat.  I  answer  to  that  name,  what  is  your  will? 
Bene.  Do  not  you  love  me? 

Beat.  Why  no,  no  more  than  reason. 

75      Bene.  Why  then  your  uncle,  and  the  prince,  and 
Claudio, 
Have  been  deceived,  they  swore  you  did. 
Beat.  Do  not  you  love  me? 

Bene.  Troth  no,  no  more  than  reason. 

Beat.  Why  then  my  cousin  Margaret  and  Ursula, 
Are  much  deceiv'd,  for  they  did  swear  you  did. 
80      Bene.  They  swore  that  you  were  almost  sick  for  me. 
Beat.   They  swore  that  you  were  well-nigh  dead  for 

me. 
Bene.  'Tis  no  such  matter,  then  you  do  not  love  me. 
Beat.  No  truly,  but  in  friendly  recompense. 
Leon.  Come  cousin,  I  am  sure  you  love  the  gentle- 
man. 
^S      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, 
Fashioned  to  Beatrice. 


sc.  IV]     MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  77 

Hero.  And  here's  another, 

Writ  in  my  cousin's  hand,  stolne  from  her  pocket, 
Containing  her  affection  unto  Benedick.  9° 

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  95 
life,  for  I  was  told,  you  were  in  a  consumption. 

Leon.  Peace  I  will  stop  your  mouth. 

Pedro.  How  dost  thdu  Benedick  the  married  man? 

Bene.  I'll  tell  thee  what  prince :  a  college  of  witcrackers 
cannot  flout  me  out  of  my  humour,  dost  thou  think  I  100 
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  105 
against  it :  for  man  is  a  giddy  thing,  and  this  is  my  con- 
clusion: for  thy  part  Claudio,  I  did  think  to  have  beaten 
thee,  but  in  that  thou  art  like  to  be  my  kinsman,  Hve 
unbruis'd,  and  love  my  cousin. 

Claud.  I  had  well  hop'd  thou  wouldst  have  denied  no 
Beatrice,  that  I  might  have  cudgell'd  thee  out  of  thy  single 
life,  to  make  thee  a  double-dealer,  which  out  of  question 
thou  wilt  be,  if  my  cousin  do  not  look  exceeding  narrowly 
to  thee. 

Bene.  Come,  come,  we  are  friends,  let's  have  a  dance  115 
ere  we  are  married,  that  we  may  lighten  our  own  hearts, 
and  our  wives'  heels. 

Leon.  We'll  have  dancing  aftervvard. 

Bene.  First,  of  my  word,  therefore  play  music.  Prince, 
thou  art  sad,  get  thee  a  wife,  get  thee  a  wife,  there  is  no  120 
staff  more  reverend  than  one  tipt  with  horn. 


78     MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING    [act  v,  sc.  iv 

Enter  Messenger. 

Mes.  My  Lord,  your  brother  John  is  ta'en  in  flight, 
And  brought  with  armed  men  back  to  Messina. 

Bene.  Think  not  on  him  till  to-morrow,  I'll  devise 
125  thee  brave  punishments  for  him:  strike  up  Pipers. 

[Dance 

FINIS. 


REFERENCE  LIST  OF  WORKS  ALLUDED  TO 
IN  THE  NOTES 

Q.  Quarto  edition  of  1600. 

Facsimile  edition.    Praetorius  and  Daniel  (1886). 
,,  „  II.  Staunton  (1864). 

F.   First  Collected  Edition  of  Shakespeare's  Plays,  folio,  1623. 
There  are  several  facsimile  editions  available. 
F  2,  Second  Folio,  1632;  F  3,  Third  Folio,  1664;  F4,  Fourth 
Foho,  1685.   These  have  all  been  published  in  facsimile. 
Rowe,  N.   Works  of  Shakespeere,  1709-10. 
Pope,  A.  „  „  1725  etc. 

Theobald,  L.  „  „  1733. 

Hanmer,  T.  „  „  1743-4- 

Warburton,  W.       ,,  ,,  1747. 

Johnson,  S.  „  „  1765. 

Capell,  E.  „  ,,  1768. 

Steevens,  G.  „  „  1773. 

(Best  edition  4th,  revised  by  Isaac  Reed,  1793) 
Malone,  E.  Works  of  Shakespeare,  1790. 
Reed,  I.  First  Variorum  Edition,  1803. 

Second  Variorum  Edition,  1813. 

Boswell's  Malone,  Third  Variorum  Edition  (21  vols.),  1821. 

(The  best  general  edition.  The  editor,  James  Boswell,  was  the 
son  of  Johnson's  biographer.") 
Dyce,  A.   Works  of  Shakespeare,  1857. 
Halliwell-PhilHpps,  J.  O.  Works  of  Shakespeare,  1853-65. 
Staunton,  H.   Works  of  Shakespeare,  1858-60. 
Cambridge  Edition.   Ed.  W.  G.  Clark,  J.  Glover  and  W.  Aldis 
Wright,  1863-66.   New  edition,  ed.  W.  Aldis  Wright,  1891-93. 

General  references  to  Globe  Shakespeare,  ed.  William  George 
Clark  and  William  Aldis  Wright. 

Separate  editions  of  Much  Ado  by  the  following  editors  are 
cited  under  the  editors'  names :  W.  A.  Wright,  K.  Deighton, 
F.  S.  Boas,  J.  C.  Smith,  and  (chiefly)  H.  H.  Fumess,  New 
Variorum  Edition  of  Shakespeare,  vol.  xii. 
Abbott,  E.  A.   A  Shakesperian  Grammar  (1870). 
Ascham,  R.   English  Works,  ed.  William  Aldis  Wright  (1904). 
Aubrey,  J.   Brief  Lives  (1669),  ed.  Clark  (1898). 
Bandello,  M.  Le  Novelle,  ed.  Brognoligo.  (5  vols.,  Bari,  1910.) 
Bartlett,  J.   A  New  and  Complete  Concordance  (1913). 


8o  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

Batman,  S.  uppon  Bartholome,  his  Booke  De  Proprietatibus 
Rerum,  etc.  (1582). 

Bible.  The  Authorised  Version  of  161 1,  ed.  William  Aldis 
Wright  (1909). 

Chappell,  W.  Popular  Music  of  the  Olden  Time  (1855-59). 
(Also  called  The  Ballad  Literature  and  Popular  Music  of  the 
Olden  Time.) 

Cogan,  T.  The  Haven  of  Health  (1588).   (Later  ed.  1612.) 

Cohn,  A.  Shakespeare  in  Germany  in  the  Sixteenth  and  Seven- 
teenth Centuries  (1865). 

Cotgrave,  R.  A  French  and  English  Dictionary'  composed  by 
Mr  Randle  Cotgrave:  with  another  in  English  and  French. 
(Second  ed.  1673.) 

Douce,  F.    Illustrations  of  Shakespeare  (1807). 

Farmer,  R.  On  the  Learning  of  Shakespeare  (1767).  Subse- 
quently included  in  some  editions  of  Shakespeare  and  quoted 
here  from  vol.  11  of  Steevens  (1793). 

Fleay,  F.  G.    Introduction  to  Shakespeare  Study  (1873). 

Shakespeare  Manual  (1876). 

Chronicle  History  of  the  Life  and  Work  of  Shake- 
speare (1886). 

-  Chronicle  History  of  the  Stage,  1559-1642  (1890). 

Biographical  Chronicle  of  the  Enghsh  Drama  (1891). 

Halliwell-Phillipps.     Outlines    of    the    Life    of    Shakespeare. 

(Latest  edition,  1887.) 
Harrison,  W.  An  Historical!  Description  of  the  Hand  of  Britaine. 

(In  Holinshed's  Chronicles,  ed,  of  1586-7.) 
Hazlitt,  W.   C.    Shakespeare  Jest-Books:    A    Hundred  Mery 

Talys;  Mer\'  Tales  and  Quick  Answers  (1881). 

A  Hundred  Merry  Tales.   Facsimile  of  ed.  of  1526  (1887). 
Hunter,  Jas.  New  Illustrations  of  the  Life,  Studies  and  Writings 

of  Shakespeare  (1845). 
Jonson,  B.    The  Workes  of  Benjamin  Jonson  (164c). 
Laneham,  R.  A  Letter:  whearin,  part  of  the  entertainment  unto 

the  Queens  Majesty,  at  Killingwoorth  Castl,  in  Warwik  Sheer 

...is  signified,  etc.  (1575).   (Modern  ed.  1890,  etc.) 
Lyte,  H.  A  Niewe  Herball,  or  Historic  of  Plantes,  etc.  (1578). 
Mabinogion,  The.  Translated  by  Lady  Charlotte  Guest  (1849, 

etc.). 
Madden,  D.  H.  The  Diary  of  Master  William  Silence:  a  study 

of  Shakespeare  and  of  Elizabethan  Sport  (1877). 
Mandeville,  J.   Travels,  ed.  Hamelius,  E.E.T.S.  ([919). 
Moryson,  F.    An  Itinerary  written  by  Fynes  Moryson,  Gent. 

(1617).   Modern  ed.  1907-8;  see  also,  Shakespeare's  Europe, 

ed.  Hughes  (1903), 


REFERENCE  LIST  OF  WORKS  8i 

Outlandish  Proverbs.    Selected  by  Mr  G.  H.  (1640). 

Polo,  Marco.   Travels,  ed.  Yule  (1903). 

Purchas,  S.    Purchas  his  Pilgrimage,  etc.  (1613).    (Modem  ed. 

1905-7-) 
Selden,  J.   Titles  of  Honor  (1614). 
Shakespeare's  England :  An  Account  of  the  Life  and  Manners 

of  his  Age  (1917). 
Sidgwick,  F.  Popular  Ballads  of  the  Olden  Times  (1903-12). 
Sidney,  P.  The  Defence  of  Poesie  (called  also  An  Apologie  for 

Poetry)  (1595).    (Modem  ed.  1904.) 
Witt's  Recreations  (1640).   (Several  later  editions.) 


SMA 


NOTES 

Page  2 

DRAMATIS  PERSON AE.  No  list  is  given  in  Q.  or  F.  The 
first  list  was  extracted  by  Rowe,  whose  form  is  still  frequently 
followed.  The  present  list  collects  the  names  or  titles  of  all  the 
persons  who  appear  on  the  stage,  very  nearly  in  the  order  of  their 
appearance.  Leonato  represents  the  Lionato  of  Bandello.  Bene- 
dick {benedictus)  means  "the  blessed."  Beatrice  (four  syllables 
in  Italian,  and  meaning  "the  blesser")  is  here  pronounced  in 
two,  or  three,  syllables,  as  the  lines  require.  "Betteris"  pro- 
bably represents  the  Elizabethan  pronunciation.  The  name 
Borachio  must  be  pronounced  with  the  ch  as  in  church — the  last 
syllable  being  cho,  not  chee-o.  It  represents  a  possible  Italian 
"Borraccio," — accio  being  an  Italian  suffix  adding  a  bad  sense: 
there  is  an  actual  Italian  word  borraccia,  meaning  a  drinking 
vessel  and,  especially,  a  soldier's  water-bottle.  In  one  scene  of 
the  play  Borachio  is  drunk.  Shakespeare  sometimes  tries  to 
write  his  proper  names  as  they  should  be  pronounced.  Thus, 
"Fluellen "  is  a  very  fair  attempt  at  the  Welsh  " Llewellyn."  It 
is  quite  wrong,  therefore,  to  say  "Borakio"  or  "Petrukio,"  as 
we  sometimes  hear  in  stage  performances.  The  ch  is  a  rough 
phonetic  equivalent  of  the  Italian  ci.  Dogbery  is  dogberry,  the 
fruit  of  the  dogwood  {Cornus  sanguiriea).  Mr  Shandy  would  have 
found  much  significance  in  the  fact  that  the  wood  of  this  plant 
is  hard,  untractable,  obtuse,  and  used  for  making  skewers.  He 
would  certainly  have  connected  the  name  Verges  with  verge,  a 
staff  of  office,  though  others  prefer  to  connect  it  with  verjuice. 
Its  Elizabethan  pronunciation  was  "Varges."  Shakespeare 
spells  the  name  of  his  famous  constable  "Dogbery"  uniformly 
throughout  Q.,  and  the  same  form  is  uniformly  used  in  F.  We 
preserve  the  same  form  of  spelling  in  such  a  name  as  Rosebery. 
The  original  spelling  of  Dogbery  is  therefore  retained  here ;  but 
there  is  no  point  in  retaining  the  final  e  in  "  Conrade  " :  we  do  not 
now  write  "  Benedicke,"  although  that  is  the  usual  Shakespearean 
spelling.  Hero  of  Messina  appears  to  have  nothing  in  common 
with  Hero  of  Sestos.  The  scene  of  the  action  is  indicated  in  the 
play  itself,  and  the  date  is  fixed  by  the  appearance  of  an  his- 
torical character,  Pedro  of  Aragon,  among  the  dramatis  personae; 
but,  as  noted  in  the  Introduction,  the  play  has  neither  local  nor 
temporal  colour. 


ACT  I,  sc.  I]  NOTES  83 

ACT  I 

Scene  I 
Page  3 

There  are  no  act  or  scene  divisions  whatever  in  Q.,  and  F.  has 
merely  divisions  into  Acts — Actus  Primus,  Actus  Secundus,  etc. 
The  scenic  divisions  and  descriptions  usually  printed  in  modem 
texts  were  added  by  Rowe,  Pope  and  succeeding  editors.  The 
descriptions  given  in  this  volume  are  those  of  the  present  editor. 
They  are  purposely  left  as  vague  as  possible  and  must  be  re- 
garded as  hints  to  the  reader,  certainly  not  as  instructions  to  the 
stage-manager.  The  play  begins  with  a  "full-stage"  scene,  and 
the  time  is  Monday  "night"  (according  to  the  second  line),  by 
which  we  may  understand  a  late  summer  afternoon. 

1.  Don  Peter,  i.e.  Pedro  of  Aragon,  King  of  Sicily.  Both  Q. 
and  F.  call  him  "don  Peter"  here  and  at  1.  9.  Elsewhere  he  is 
always  named  "Pedro";  but  he  is  generally  called  "Prince"  in 
stage-direction  and  speech-heading.  The  present  text  retains  the 
old  stage-directions,  but  the  name,  not  the  title,  is  used  uni- 
formly as  the  speech-headings.  Did  the  name  Peter  survive  from 
an  earlier  play? 

6.  this  action.  There  is  no  need  to  connect  these  military 
references  with  the  adventures  of  Essex  in  Ireland.  In  the  story 
of  Bandello  the  action  passes  just  after  the  Sicilian  Vespers  and 
the  subsequent  fighting  against  the  French. 

7.  sort,  rank  or  gentle  blood;  7za?«e  =  title.  The  delicate  anti- 
thesis at  once  marks  our  Messenger  as  a  Euphuist,  or  fantastical 
gentleman  in  his  use  of  words — like  Osric  in  Hamlet  and  Don 
Armado  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost.  Observe  the  elaboration  of  his 
next  speech. 

15.  better  bettred  expectation:  "he  has  gone  beyond  expecta- 
tion in  deeds  much  further  than  you  must  expect  me  to  go  in 
words."  A  characteristic  utterance  of  our  "precious"  young 
gentleman. 

17.  an  uncle.  The  only  mention  of  this  superfluous  relative 
in  the  play.  No  uncle  appears  in  the  parallel  stories.  The 
allusion  may  be  intended  to  account  for  the  presence  of  a 
Florentine  in  Messina  and  his  acquaintance  with  a  Sicilian 
family;  but  more  probably  the  uncle  is  a  survival  from  some 
earlier  play. 

zvill  be,  who  will  be.  The  same  construction  is  common  in 
the  Irish  idiom  of  Synge;  e.g.  "  I'll  have  no  want  of  company 
when  all  sorts  is  bringing  me  their  food  and  clothing,  the  way 
they'd  set  their  eyes  upon  the  gallant  orphan  cleft  his  father  with 

6—» 


84  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  i 

one  blow  to  the  breeches  belt"  {The  Playboy  of  the  Western 
World).  The  use  is  not  peculiar  to  Shakespeare  or  this  place. 
In  "The  names  of  the  Authors  from  whome  this  Historic  of 
England  is  collected"  prefixed  to  Holinshed  appears  this 
reference:  "lean  de  Bauge  a  Frenchman  wrote  a  pamphlet  of 
the  warres  in  Scotland  during  the  time  that  Monsieur  de  Desse 
remained  there."  We  should  say,  "a  Frenchman  who  wrote 
etc."  Later  in  the  present  play  (iv.  2)  we  have  "  as  pretty  a  piece 
of  flesh  as  any  is  in  Messina."  See  also  Twelfth  Night  (i.  3.  20) : 
"He's  as  tall  a  man  as  any's  in  Illyria."  I  think  this  should  be 
regarded  as  a  distinct  idiom,  and  not  simply  as  an  example  of 
an  omitted  relative. 

p.  3.  21.  modest  enough,  ttc.  Fumess  quotes  Douce  (///r«fra- 
tions  of  Shakespeare)  to  the  effect  that  in  the  time  of  Edward  IV 
the  terms  badge  and  livery  were  synonymous.  The  badge  was  a 
device,  usually  the  master's  crest,  fastened  to  the  servant's  left 
arm.  Thus  a  badge  was  a  sign  of  inferior  rank.  Our  young 
Euphuist  therefore  means,  "His  joy  was  so  great  that  at  last  it 
had  to  prove  its  state  of  true  modesty  by  assuming  the  badge 
of  grief,  namely,  tears." 

Page  4 

25.  kind... kindness.  The  old  man  catches  the  trick  of 
Euphuism;  "kind"  means  "natural,"  "after  his  kind"  and  is 
strikingly  used  in  this  sense  in  The  Rape  of  Lucrece,  in  a  passage 
describing  a  realistic  painting  of  the  siege  of  Troy  (11.  1422-3): 

"  For  much  imaginary  work  was  there, 
Conceit  deceitful,  so  compact,  so  kind"; 
Leonato's  verbal  jugglery  with  "joy"  and  "weeping"  is  quite 
in  the  Euphuist 's  vein,    Shakespeare  loved  these  fantasias  of 
words.    See  for  serious  examples  Hamlet's  bitter  puns  (i.  2. 
65.67)._ 

28.  Signior  Motoitatito.  Mountanto  is  a  fencing  term,  an  "up 
thrust" — equivalent  to  the  "upper  cut"  in  boxing.  Capell  first 
called  attention  to  the  special  use  of  the  term,  and  indicates  a 
parallel  in  Ben  Jonson's  Every  Man  in  his  Humour  (iv.  7)  where 
Bobadil  says,  "  ...and  I  would  teach  these  nineteene,  the  speceall 
rules,  as  your  Punto,  your  Reverse,  your  Stoccata,  your  hn- 
broccata,  your  Passada,  your  Montanto :  till  they  could  all  play 
very  neare,  or  altogether  as  well  as  my  selfe"  (1598).  See  also 
Merry  Wives,  11.  3.  24,  where  the  Host  tells  Dr  Caius  that  they 
have  come  "To  see  thee  fight,  to  see  thee  foigne,  to  see  thee 
traverse,  to  see  thee  here,  to  see  thee  there,  to  see  thee  pass  thy 
puncto,  thy  stock,  thy  reverse,  thy  distance,  thy  montant." 
Observe  that  Beatrice  is  the  first  to  mention  Benedick.  Observe, 


sc.  I]  NOTES  85 

too,  how  much  the  reference  conveys.  It  tells  us  that  Benedick 
is  already  a  known  person  to  Leonato's  household,  that  Beatrice 
is  well  enough  acquainted  with  his  character  to  give  him  a  nick- 
name, and  that  she  is  eager  for  his  return — else  why  should  she 
instantly  ask  about  him  ?  The  expectations  of  reader  and  auditor 
ahke  are  aroused.  Shakespeare  is  almost  unmatched  in  this 
power  of  conveying  the  sense  of  something  beyond  the  written 
or  spoken  word.  It  is  worth  notice,  as  a  curious  coincidence,  that 
the  first  words  of  Beatrice  in  this  play  should  refer  to  the  swords- 
manship of  the  man  to  whose  sword  she  was  later  to  appeal. 
4,   31.  sort,  see  note  to  1.  7. 

35.  set  up  his  bills.  Posted  up  advertisements.  Steevens 
quotes  Nashe,  Have  icith  you  to  Saffron  Walden  (1596);  "hee 
braves  it  indefinently  in  her  behalfe,  setting  up  bills,  Uke  a  Bear- 
ward  or  Fencer,  what  fights  we  shall  have,  and  what  weapons 
she  will  meete  me  at." 

36.  challenged  Cupid  at  the  flight.  Benedick  as  "the  duellist 
of  sex"  challenged  the  god  of  love  to  do  his  worst.  A  "flight" 
is  alleged  to  be  an  arrow  for  long  distance  shooting.  R.  Farmer, 
On  the  Learning  of  Shakespeare,  quotes  an  old  pamphlet  title- 
page,  "...all  men's  arrows,  whether  the  great  man's  flight,  the 
gallant's  rover,  the  wise  man's  pricke-shaft,  the  poor-man's  but- 
shaft,  or  the  fool's  bird-bolt."  The  word  in  this  sense  does  not 
appear  in  the  great  classic  of  archery,  Ascham's  Toxophilus. 
There  is  possibly  some  verbal  jest  here,  clear  to  the  original 
audience,  though  not  to  us. 

my  uncle's  fool.  No  "fool"  survives  in  the  play.  Yet  he 
might  have  found  employment  among  so  many  wise  folk. 

37.  subscrib'd  for,  took  up  the  challenge  on  behalf  of  Cupid. 

38.  burbolt,  bird-bolt.  The  bird-bolt  was  a  blunt-headed 
arrow  used  with  a  cross-bow.  Hence  a  fool  could  safely  use  it. 
"A  fool's  bolt  is  soon  shot"  is  quoted  as  a  proverb  in  Henry  V, 
III.  7.  137.  In  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  iv.  3.  25  we  have:  "  Shot,  by 
heaven:  proceed  sweet  Cupid,  thou  hast  thumpt  him  with  thy 
Birdbolt  under  the  left  pap."  In  Twelfth  Night,  Olivia  re- 
proving Malvolio's  harshness  to  the  Fool  (i.  5)  says,  "To  be 
generous,  guiltless,  and  of  free  disposition,  is  to  take  those  things 
for  Birdbolts,  that  you  deem  Cannon  bullets." 

41.  fax,  censure.  Compare  Hamlet's  "makes  us  traduc'd  and 
tax'd  of  other  nations." 

42.  meet,  quits.  The  pun,  after  eat  in  the  previous  lines,  is 
probably  intentional.  Observe  that  still  another  indication  of 
Benedick's  character  is  here  given. 

44.  victual :  "  vittaile "  in  Q.  Apparently  the  only  singular  use 
as  a  noun  in  Shakespeare.   Elsewhere  "victuals." 


86  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  i 

4.  46.  stomach :  used  in  a  double  sense — bodily  appetite  and 
keenness  for  combat.  Compare  Henry  V's  "  he  which  hath  no 
stomach  to  this  fight." 

;>0.  stufft.  Not  used  in  a  derogatory  sense.  See  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  III.  5.  181 : 

"A  gentleman  of  Noble  Parentage, 
Of  fair  Demeans,  Youthful  and  Nobly  allied, 
Stuft  as  they  say  with  Honorable  parts  " 

and  The  Winter's  Tale,  11.  i.  184: 

"  Cleomenes  and  Dion,  whom  you  know 
Of  stufft  sufficiency." 

But  Beatrice  seizes  on  the  word  and  gives  it  a  derogatory 
meaning,  as  if  Benedick  were  "  a  man  of  straw,"  the  mere  image 
of  a  man.  The  word  had  other  meanings,  as  we  gather  from  a 
later  scene. 

53.  but  for  the  stuffing  well.  The  present  text  adheres  strictly 
to  the  form  given  in  Q.  and  F.  Theobald,  followed  by  succeeding 
editors,  amended  the  punctuation  to  "but  for  the  stuffing, — 
well,  we  are  all  mortal."  This  is  the  form  now  generally  printed; 
but  there  is  nothing  in  the  old  punctuation  to  forbid  this  reading, 
and  Theobald's  liberal  insertion  of  stops  is  therefore  not 
necessary.  Excessive  punctuation  invites  a  slow  and  heavy 
delivery  altogether  out  of  place  here.  It  has  been  suggested 
that  the  exclamatory  use  of  zcell  is  uncommon  in  Shakespeare. 
The  most  striking  example  occurs  in  Richard  II,  III.  3:  "Well, 
well,  I  see  I  talk  but  idly."  In  Othello,  iv.  i,  lago  and  Roderigo 
make  much  play  with  the  words  "Very  well";  but  this  second 
instance  is  hardly  a  parallel.  There  are,  however,  several  in- 
stances in  the  present  play,  e.g.  at  line  231  of  this  scene,  and 
again  lower  down.  It  is  possible  to  read  the  sentence  as  meaning 
this:  "Benedick  may  be  stuffed,  but,  as  he  is  mortal  like  the 
rest  of  us,  is  the  stuffing  quite  what  your  eulogy  implies?"  I, 
therefore,  leave  the  original  punctuation,  and  the  reader  can 
take  the  passage  in  whatever  sense  pleases  him.  Personally,  I 
think  that  the  Theobald  interpretation  is  right,  and  that  this 
reading  is  more  in  the  vein  of  Beatrice. 

56.  they  never  meet :  note  the  implication  that  they  have  often 
met. 

59.  five  zvits.  Chaucer's  Parson  observes:  "for  certes  delices 
been  after  the  appetites  of  the  five  wittes,  as  sighte,  herynge, 
smellynge,  savorynge,  and  touchynge  "  (Globe  ed.  p.  270).  These, 
too,  are  the  five  wits  of  which  Everyman  must  take  leave  when 
he  goes  down  to  the  grave.    But  they  are  properly  the  "five 


SCI]  NOTES  87 

senses,"  as  distinguished  from  the  "five  wits"  by  Shakespeare 
himself  in  Sonnet  cxli : 

"  But  my  five  wits  nor  my  five  senses  can 
Dissuade  one  foolish  heart  from  serving  thee." 
Here  then  we  should  understand  the  five  wits  as  memory,  fancy, 
judgment,  imagination  and  commonsense.    It  is  not  clear  with 
which  of  them  Benedick  escaped — possibly  the  last. 

4.  61.  keep  himself  warm.  Apparently  a  proverbial  phrase,  as 
it  is  frequently  found.  It  indicates  possession  of  the  simplest 
commonsense.  Thus  in  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  11.  i,  Petruchio 
exclaims,  "  Am  I  not  wise?"  and  Kate  replies  shortly,  "  Yes :  keep 
you  warm."  In  like  vein  is  Sir  Andrew's  reply  to  Maria 
{Twelfth  Night,  i.  3) :  "I  am  not  such  an  ass  but  I  can  keep  my 
hand  dry."  A  similar  expression  occurs  in  the  piece  almost 
exactly  contemporary  with  Much  Ado — Jonson's  Cynthia's 
Revels,  11.  2:  "Marry,  I  will  come  to  her,  (and  shee  alwayes 
weares  a  muffe,  if  you  be  remembred)  and  I  will  tell  her, 
Madame,  your  whole  selfe  cannot  but  be  perfectly  wise:  for  your 
hands  have  wit  enough  to  keep  themselves  ivarme." 

Page  5 

62.  a  difference.  A  figure  added  to  a  coat  of  arms  to  dis- 
tingiiish  one  family  from  another  or  to  show  how  distant  a 
younger  branch  is  from  the  elder  or  principal  branch.  A  volume 
such  as  St  John  Hope's  A  Grammar  of  English  Heraldry 
(pp.  24-38)  will  give  illustrations  showing  how  "a  difference" 
is  borne.  The  classic  quotation,  of  course,  is  Ophelia's,  "O,  you 
must  wear  your  rue  with  a  difference." 

63.  to  be  known,  etc.  The  meaning  is  clear,  though  the  con- 
struction is  not.  The  difficulty  lies  in  the  phrase  "  to  be  known 
a  reasonable  creature."  To  take  this  (see  J.  C.  Smith's  note) 
as  a  nominative  ("to  be  known  a  reasonable  creature  is  all  the 
wealth  that  he  hath  left")  on  the  strength  of  the  punctuation  in 
Q.,  is  to  miss  the  point  of  the  passage  and  to  lay  too  much  stress 
on  a  comma:  the  punctuation  of  Q.  and  F.  is  not  grammatical — 
it  frequently  separates  subject  and  verb.  The  utterance  of 
Beatrice  is  a  gibe ;  but  there  is  no  gibe  in  saying  of  a  man  that 
all  the  wealth  he  has  left  is  to  be  known  as  a  reasonable  creature : 
some  of  us  would  be  grateful  for  even  a  moiety  of  such  "  wealth. " 
What  Beatrice  says  is  something  like  this:  "AH  the  wealth  (such 
as  it  is)  that  he  has  left  to  prove  that  he  is  a  rational  creature 
and  not  an  animal  is  a  very  small  quantity  of  low  common- 
sense."  It  seems  to  me,  therefore,  that  "to  be  known  a  reason- 
able creature"  must  be  taken  adverbially,  modifying  "hath 


88  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  i 

left,"  i.e.  it  is  all  that  he  has  left  to  prove  that  he  is  a  rational  being. 
The  old  interposed  comma  between  left  and  to  be  known  affects 
neither  grammar  nor  meaning. 

5.  65.  sworn  brother.  "The  fratres  conjurati  were  persons 
linked  together  in  small  fellowships,  perhaps  not  more  than  two, 
who  undertook  to  defend  and  assist  each  other. . .  under  the  sanction 
of  a  stricter  tie  than  that  which  binds  the  individuals  composing 
a  whole  army"  (quoted  by  Fumess  from  Hunter).  Opera-goers 
will  remember  the  ceremony  with  which  Siegfried  and  Gunther 
swear  Blutbruderschaft  in  the  first  act  of  Die  Gotterddmmerung. 
The  phrase  long  survived  its  primitive  meaning,  and  in  the 
mouth  of  Bardolph  {Henry  V,  li.  i),  "We'll  be  all  three  sworn 
brothers  to  France,"  it  signifies  something  like  honour  among 
thieves.  It  comes  much  more  movingly  in  Richard  II 's  fare- 
well to  his  wife  (v.  i),  "I  am  sworn  brother.  Sweet,  to  grim 
Necessity."  The  point  is  fairly  important.  It  indicates  (i)  that 
Benedick  is  popular  with  young  men,  and  (2)  that  Claudio 
(unlike  Benedick)  is  not  well  known  in  this  circle. 

66.  Is't  possible.  The  Messenger  (being  a  Euphuist)  has  no 
sense  of  humour,  and  takes  Beatrice  seriously,  and  she  therefore 
leads  him  further. 

68.  the  next  block.  The  next  fashion.  Hats  are  still  "  blocked  " 
in  the  language  of  modem  hatters  and  can  be  "re-blocked"  to 
any  new  shape  imposed  by  changes  of  feminine  fashion.  Thus, 
to  quote  Cynthia's  Revels  once  more  (i.  4),  "You  shall  alter  it 
[a  hat]  to  what  forme  you  please,  it  will  take  any  block." 

69.  in  your  books.  "  In  your  good  books  "  we  should  now  say. 
The  origin  of  the  phrase  is  supposed  to  be  obscure,  and  is 
referred  by  some  to  (i)  visiting  lists,  (2)  college  books,  (3)  family 
records,  (4)  commercial  ledgers  and  so  forth.  Fumess  has  a 
whole  page  of  suggestions.  But  to  any  puzzled  person  may  we 
not  say,  "What,  art  a  Heathen?  how  dost  thou  understand  the 
Scripture?"  For  see  Exodus  xxxii.  31-2 :  "  And  Moses  returned 
unto  the  Lord  and  said.  Oh,  this  people  have  sinned  a  great  sin, 
and  have  made  them  gods  of  gold.  Yet  now,  if  thou  wilt  forgive 
their  sin  — :  and  if  not,  blot  me,  I  pray  thee,  out  of  thy  Book 
which  thou  hast  written."  So,  too.  Psalm  bcix.  28,  and  very 
notably  Rev.  xx.  12.  The  medieval  mind  was  habituated  to  the 
terror  and  perhaps  the  hope  of  such  lines  as 

"  Liber  scriptus  proferetur, 
In  quo  totum  continetur, 
Unde  mundus  judicetur." 

70.  an,  if;  printed  and  in  Q.  and  F.    See  Glossary. 

bum  my  study,  i.e.  my  library,  or  collection  of  books — the 
riposte  of  Beatrice  to  the  word  "books." 


sc.  I]  NOTES  89 

5.  72.  sguarer:  quarrelsome  or  pugnacious  person.  "To  square 
up"  is  to  take  the  attitude  of  boxing.  There  seems  to  be  some 
anxiety  in  the  repeated  question  of  Beatrice  about  Benedick's 
supposed  "companion." 

78.  ^resewf/y.  Instantly,  as  nearly  always  in  Sh.  Cf.  "Thinkest 
thou  that  I  cannot  now  pray  to  my  Father,  and  he  shall  presently 
give  me  more  than  twelve  legions  of  angels?"  (Matt.  xxvi. 
53).    The  idiom  can  still  be  heard  in  some  parts  of  England. 

81.  zvill  hold  friends.  I  will  endeavour  to  be  the  friend  rather 
than  the  foe  of  a  lady  with  such  a  gift  of  language. 

83.  run  mad:  i.e.  with  the  "Benedict"  disease,  whatever 
that  was,  for  the  word  is  thus  spelt  here  both  in  Q.  and  F. 
F.  shortens  the  opening  words  to  You'l  nere. 

John  the  bastard.  This  villain,  together  with  Edmund,  another 
evil-doer  bom  out  of  wedlock,  might  be  taken  as  Shakespeare's 
general  view  of  such  characters,  were  not  Faulconbridge  in 
King  John  as  decisive  on  the  other  side.  Should  "Balthasar" 
be  "  Borachio  "  ? 

86.  are  you.  Thus  Q.;  F.  has  "you  are."  There  is  no 
difference.  Incidentally  it  may  be  noted  that  if  Leonato  has 
come  "to  meet"  his  trouble,  either  literally  or  metaphorically, 
the  scene  can  scarcely  be  inside  Leonato's  house. 

90.  for  trouble,  etc.  Observe  the  euphuistic,  antithetical  form 
of  the  prose.  Conscious,  elaborate,  and  sedulously  artificial 
composition  often  precedes  a  natural  grace  of  prose  in  the 
history  both  of  national  literature  and  of  individual  writers.  The 
euphuistic  mannerisms  of  much  Elizabethan  prose  were  the 
transition  stage  between  the  shapeless  string  of  relative  clauses 
common  in  early  Tudor  English  and  the  easy  naturalism  of  the 
Queen  Anne  writers. 

92.  takes  his  leave .  We  should  say  " its  ";  but  this  is  a  modern 
form,  which  was  just  coming  into  use  in  Shakespeare's  own  time. 
The  few  references  in  Bartlett's  Concordance  shew  "its"  ten 
times  and  "his"  five,  the  more  usual  neuter  possessive  being 
"it,"  used  seventeen  times.  "  Its  "  does  not  appear  at  all  in  the 
Authorised  Version  of  161 1. 

93.  charge,  burden. 

Page  6 

98.  You  have  it  full,  you  have  received  a  good  straight  hit  in 
reply. 

99.  fathers  herself,  shews  her  parentage  by  her  resemblance 
to  him.  One  can  hear  precisely  the  same  expression  even  to-day. 

102.  she  would  not  have,  etc.  Not  a  witty  or  even  a  polite 
remark,  for  all  Benedick  appears  to  mean  is,  "Although  she  is 
like  him,  she  would  not  care  to  exchange  her  young  face  for  his 


90  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  i 

old  one."  No  doubt  Leonato  was  represented  as  an  old,  bearded 
man,  and  the  remark  accompanied  by  a  gesture  of  comparison. 

6.  105.  still,  "always,"  as  frequently  in  Shakespeare — e.g. 
"Hourly  joys  be  still  upon  you"  {Tempest,  iv.  i).  Beatrice, 
apparently  unable  to  endure  indifference,  is  the  first  of  the  two 
to  speak. 

107.  Lady  Disdain.  The  first  reference  of  Benedick  to 
Beatrice,  as  of  Beatrice  to  Benedick,  is  a  nickname.  Observe, 
too.  Benedick's  affectation  of  not  having  noticed  her  before.  As 
we  shall  discover,  Benedick  is  full  of  these  nicknames. 

111.  must  convert,  "must  change" — used  intransitively,  as 
several  times  in  Shakespeare;  e.g.  Macbeth,  iv.  3: 

"  Be  this  the  whetstone  of  your  sword:  let  grief 
Convert  to  anger." 

116.  I  love  none.  Benedick  protests  too  much;  hut  he  is 
anxious  to  preserve  before  Beatrice  his  assumed  indifference. 

117.  A  dear  happiness.  "Dear"  in  Shakespeare  is  an  inten- 
sifying adjective,  applicable  to  things  good  or  bad.  Thus 
Hamlet's  "my  dearest  foe,"  and,  later  in  the  present  play, 
"Claudio  shall  render  me  a  dear  account." 

119.  humour.  Your  way  of  mind — a  reference  to  the  old 
doctrine  of  the  "  humours,"  or  fluids,  that  determined  a  man's 
nature. 

123.  predestinate.  The  Concise  Oxford  Dictionary  explains 
such  forms  thus:  "Chiefly  (through  French)  from  Latin  past 
participle  in  -atus  (ist  conjugation),  which  became  successively 
-at,  ate,  as  desolate.  Many  such  adjectives  formed  causative 
verbs  and  served  as  past  participles  to  them,  till  later  the  native 
-ed  was  added."  Benedick's  suggestion  is  that  the  husband  of 
such  a  shrew  as  Beatrice  would  be  sure  to  get  his  face  scratched. 
If  his  suggestion  is  rude,  her  reply  is  even  ruder — and  much 
feebler. 

126.  as  yours  were.  Strictly  this  should  be  "as  yours  is" — 
the  supposition  being  limited  to  "an  'twere"  (if  it  were).  The 
second  (unnecessary)  subjunctive  form  is  no  doubt  an  echo  from 
the  first  (necessary)  form.  A  writer  (anonymous)  quoted  by 
Furness  has  suggested  the  emendation  "  as  you  wear."  Comment 
is  needless. 

127.  parrot  teacher,  given  to  much  repetition. 

131.  a  continuer.  Furness  quotes  Madden  (Diary  of  Master 
William  Silence) :  "  Now  can  the  happy  possessor  of  a  good  con- 
tinuer (as  a  stayer  was  then  called  by  horsemen)  realise  the  force 
of  the  ditty, '  As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would  never  tire.' " 
The  sense  requires  7vere  before  so  good. 

a  God's  name,  in  God's  name. 


SC.  l] 


NOTES  91 


Page? 

133.  a  jade's  trick,  a  trick  (or  kick)  worthy  of  a  vicious  horse 
— an  obvious  retort  to  Benedick's  speech.  The  phrase  is  pro- 
verbial. 

135.  That  is  the  sum  of  all.  Q.  reads :  "  That  is  the  summe  of 
all:  Leonato,  signor  Claudio,  and  signor  Benedicke,  my  deere 
friend  Leonato,  hath  invited  you  all  etc."  F.  reads:  "This  is 
the  summe  of  all:  Leonato,  signior  Claudio  and  signior  Bene- 
dicke; my  deere  friend  Leonato,  hath  invited  you  all  etc."  This 
is  hard  to  understand,  and  most  modern  editors  follow  the 
Cambridge  text,  reading,  "This  is  the  sum  of  all,  Leonato: 
Signior  Claudio,  etc."  This  alteration  of  the  punctuation  is 
thus  justified:  during  the  skirmish  of  wit  between  Benedick 
and  Beatrice,  Don  Pedro  and  Leonato  have  been  conversing 
apart  and  making  arrangements  for  the  visit  of  the  Prince  and 
his  friends.  Pedro  then  breaks  off  the  conversation  with  the 
words,  "  This  is  the  sum  of  all,  Leonato  " :  and  calls  Claudio  and 
Benedick  to  tell  them  the  news. 

We  should  avoid  a  drastic  alteration  even  in  the  stops  if  it 
can  be  avoided;  and  it  can  be  avoided  here.  Pedro  is  plainly 
not  talking  to  Leonato.  When  he  suddenly  intervenes  he  calls 
Leonato  to  him  so  that  they  stand  together — the  host  and  the 
royal  guest;  then  he  calls  Claudio  and  Benedick  (the  other 
visitors),  and  tells  them  formally  of  the  invitation,  which  has 
obviously  been  given  at  the  beginning  of  the  skirmish  between 
Beatrice  and  Benedick,  in  continuation  of  Leonato's  polite 
references  to  the  Prince's  visit.  So  much  for  the  position  of  the 
colon ;  but  what  is  the  meaning  of  "  That  is  the  summe  of  all," 
the  first  word  of  which  F.  alters  to  "This"?  The  simplest  ex- 
planation is  that  it  is  Pedro's  way  of  ending  a  skirmish  that 
shewed  signs  of  becoming  too  personal.  Interrupting  the  talk 
of  all  on  the  stage  (for  we  are  not  to  suppose  that  Beatrice  and 
Benedick  are  the  only  speakers,  with  all  the  rest  as  a  mute 
audience)  Pedro  says,  "This  is  the  conclusion  of  our  conversa- 
tion: Leonato  has  invited  us  all  to  stay  here."  The  phrase 
occurs  in  several  places,  e.g.: 

"Women  and  fools,  break  off  your  conference. 
King  John,  this  is  the  very  sum  of  all: 
England  and  Ireland,  Anjou,  Touraine,  Maine, 
In  right  of  Arthur  do  I  claim  of  thee." 

King  John,  li.  i.  150-3. 
"  The  sum  of  all  our  answer  is  but  this, 
We  would  not  seek  a  battle,  as  we  are: 
Nor,  as  we  are,  we  say  we  will  not  shun  it." 

Henry  V,  in.  6.  172-4. 


92  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  i 

See  also,  2  Hen.  IV,  i.  i.  131 : 

"The  sum  of  all 
Is  that  the  king  hath  won." 

Pedro's  "month"  is  to  be  taken  humorously,  not  seriously: 
it  doesn't  affect  the  "time  scheme."  Other  interpretations  of 
the  words  are  possible.  For  instance,  "That  is  thesummeof  all" 
(in  the  reading  of  Q.)  may  be  taken  to  refer  to  the  conversation 
of  Beatrice  and  Benedick,  and  specially  to  the  lady's  petulant 
'last  word':  "You  always  end  with  a  jade's  trick,  I  know  you  of 
old."  "That  (interposes  Pedro)  is  the  usual  end  of  all  such 
jangles;  therefore  let  us  talk  of  something  else."  With  either 
interpretation  we  can  preserve  unaltered  the  original  texts. 

7.  142.  let  me  bid,  etc.  Neither  Q.  nor  F.  indicates  who  is 
addressed  here,  there  being  nothing  but  a  comma  aixer  forsivorn. 
But  obviously  the  first  "my  lord  "  refers  to  Pedro  and  the  second 
to  Don  John,  who,  so  far,  has  said  nothing  audibly,  and  even 
now  says  as  little  as  possible.  His  inferiority  of  birth  is  not 
mentioned  in  the  actual  text  till  v.  i.  185. 

146.  Please  it.  Here  a  question.  Will  your  Grace  be  good 
enough  to  lead  on? 

147.  go  together,  a  royal  piece  of  courtesy. 
Exeunt.   Manent.   The  direction  is  given  thus  in  Q. 

150.  I  noted  her  not .  AT^o/ being  pronounced  woie.  Benedick's 
reply  is  equivalent  to  the  feeble  schoolboy  pun,  "  I  did  note." 

1.52.  Do  y Oil  question.  Benedick  here  admits  that  his  misogyny  is 
only  a  pose,  for  simple  is  sincere  and  professed  is  almost  pretended. 

157.  too  low.  The  fashion  for  women  in  Shakespeare's  day 
was  to  be  tall  and  fair.  The  lady  of  the  Sonnets  (whoever  she 
was)  is  reproached  for  being  dark;  and  Hermia,  who  is  both 
dark  and  short,  is  called  "Ethiope,"  "tawny  Tartar,"  "mini- 
mus," "dwarf,"  and  other  tasteful  names,  by  the  distracted 
Lysandcr. 

ICl.  /  do  not  like  her.  Benedick  admits  her  beauty,  but  will 
not  surrender  his  pose  of  opposition. 

167.  with  a  sad  brow,  seriously;  as  in  Rosalind's,  "Nay,  but 
the  devil  take  mocking:  speak,  sad  brow  and  true  maid"  {As 
You  Like  It,  III.  2).  Compare  Olivia's  reference  to  Malvolio  in 
Tivelfth  Night  as  being  "sad  and  civil,"  and  her  remark,  "I 
sent  for  thee  upon  a  sad  occasion,"  where  she  does  not  in  the 
least  mean  what  a  modern  would  mean  by  a  "sad  occasion." 

flouting  Jack.    Shakespeare's  "Jacks"  are  many,  and,  except 
when  properly  applied  to  great  Jack  FalstafF,  they  are  always 
terms  of  contempt;  see  specially,  Richard  III,  I.  3.  72: 
"  Since  every  Jack  became  a  gentleman. 
There's  many  a  gentle  person  made  a  Jack." 


sc.  I]  NOTES  93 

"Flouting"  is  "mocking."  Benedick's  speech  may  be  para- 
phrased thus:  "Are  you  speaking  seriously  or  just  exaggerating 
(as  usual)  about  an  ordinary  woman?  You  will  next  be  pre- 
tending that  blind  Cupid  is  able  to  find  a  hare  in  its  form  and 
that  Vulcan  the  Smith  is  a  delicate  worker  in  wood."  Madden 
(op.  cit.)  says:  "  First  comes  the  hare-finder,  most  venerable  of 
institutions.  For  Arrian,  writing  some  fourteen  centuries  before 
our  diarist,  tells  us  that  in  his  day  it  was  the  custom  to  send  out 
hare-finders  early  in  the  morning  of  the  coursing  days.  To  detect 
a  hare  in  brown  fallow  or  russet  bracken  needs  sharp  and  prac- 
tised eyes." 

Page  8 

170.  to  go  in  the  song,  to  keep  in  tune  with  you. 

174.  there's  her  cousin.  Benedick  is  as  eager  to  talk  about 
Beatrice,  as  Beatrice  had  been  to  talk  about  Benedick.  He  jeers 
at  Claudio  for  praising  Hero,  and  immediately  proceeds  to 
praise  Beatrice  himself. 

175.  exceeds.  The  expected  relative  is  absent.  See  note  on 
ivill  be,  1.  17. 

180.  Is't  come,  etc.  I  retain  the  reading  of  Q.  and  F.  which 
agree  exactly.  Editors,  beginning  with  Pope,  have  re-punc- 
tuated and  re-spelt  it  thus :  "  Is't  come  to  this,  i'  faith?  Hath  not 
etc."  All  of  which  may  be  preferable,  but  none  of  which  has 
any  authority. 

181.  mth  suspicion.  Midas  wore  a  cap  to  hide  his  ass's 
ears ;  Claudio  will  come  to  wearing  a  cap  to  hide  the  traditional 
horns  of  the  deceived  husband. 

184.  wear  the  print  of  it.  Do  it  thoroughly,  so  that  the  matri- 
monial noose  shows  its  mark. 

sigh  away  Sundays.  Sunday,  when  the  usual  escape  of  work 
or  sport  or  business  fails,  is  the  longest  of  days  to  the  captive 
husband.  What  Benedick  therefore  says  is:  If  you  must  be  a 
husband  at  all,  then  be  the  complete  thing. 

Enter  Don  Pedro.  Q,  and  F.  have  Enter  don  Pedro,  John  the 
bastard.  But  John  says  nothing  at  all  during  the  scene  and  has 
to  be  told  later  by  Borachio  what  happens  during  its  course. 
Possibly  the  direction  is  a  relic  that  has  survived  revision.  It 
is  worse  than  imnecessary  now.  In  the  story  of  Bandello,  the 
equivalent  of  Don  John  is  in  love  with  the  equivalent  of  Hero, 
and  possibly  Shakespeare  (or  his  dramatic  predecessor,  if  there 
was  one)  originally  gave  Don  John  some  words  in  this  scene. 

188.  constrain.  Benedick's  reluctance  is  of  course  humorously 
assumed— he  is  eager  to  tell  the  news  that  will  provoke  the  usual 
jests  against  the  latest  recruit  to  the  army  of  husbands.   So,  in 


94  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  i 

the  next  line,  Pedro's  appeal  to  Benedick's  allegiance  is  a  jest. 
The  scene  is  to  be  taken  lightly,  not  seriously. 

8.  193.  with  who.  W^/jo  for  Wzo^w  with  a  preposition  is  common 
still  in  speech  (where  the  accusative  sounds  a  little  pedantic) ; 
it  is  therefore  to  be  expected  in  the  dramatic  representation  of 
speech. 

now  that  is  your  Grace's  part.  "  This  question  should  be  asked 
by  your  Grace."  That  is,  Benedick  asks  (playing  the  part  of 
Pedro),  and  answers  (playing  the  part  of  Claudio). 

196.  so  were  it  uttred.  Commentators  have  obscured  this 
passage  by  taking  it  as  an  evasion  on  Claudio 's  part.  There  is 
obviously  no  evasion  and  no  attempt  at  evasion.  Benedick  has 
been  asking  and  answering  all  the  questions  in  the  character  of 
Pedro  and  Claudio;  and  Claudio  says,  "  If  this  were  so" — i.e.  if 
the  questions  had  been  asked  thus  in  reality,  "  so  were  it 
uttered" — i.e.  they  would  have  been  answered  just  as  they  have 
been.  It  is  absurd  to  suppose  that  part  of  the  speech  should  be 
given  to  Don  Pedro.  The  whole  point  of  the  passage  is  that 
Benedick  the  "anti-husband"  is  enjoying  himself.  Alas, 
regardless  of  his  doom,  the  jesting  bachelor  plays ! 

197.  the  old  tale.  What  old  tale?  Evidently  some  old  tale 
containing  the  terrifying  repetitions  of  sinister  phrase  beloved 
by  all  children.  See,  for  instance,  Nurse's  Stories  in  The  Un- 
commercial Traveller,  where  we  get  delightfully  blood-curdling 
repetitions  of 

"  A  Lemon  has  pips, 

And  a  Yard  has  ships. 
And  I'll  have  Chips"; 

and  even  more  blood-curdling  repetitions  of  "he  chopped  her 
in  pieces,  and  peppered  her,  and  salted  her,  and  put  her  in  the 
pie,  and  sent  it  to  the  baker's,  and  ate  it  all,  and  picked  the  bones." 
In  the  Variorum  edition  of  1821,  there  is  a  note  on  this  point 
contributed  by  Mr  Blakeway.  It  is  (like  Dickens's  "Captain 
Murderer"  story  just  quoted)  one  of  the  several  versions  of 
Bluebeard : 

"The  old  tale  may  be,  perhaps,  still  extant  in  some  collections 
of  such  things,  or  Shakespeare  may  have  heard  it,  (as  I  have, 
related  by  a  great  aunt,)  in  his  childhood :  '  Once  upon  a  time, 
there  was  a  young  lady  (called  Lady  Mary  in  the  story),  who  had 
two  brothers.  One  summer  they  all  three  went  to  a  country- 
seat  of  theirs,  which  they  had  not  before  visited.  Among  the 
other  gentry  in  the  neighbourhood,  who  came  to  see  them,  was 
a  Mr  Fox,  a  bachelor,  with  whom  they,  particularly  the  young 
lady,  were  much  pleased.  He  used  often  to  dine  with  them,  and 
frequently  invited  Lady  Mary  to  come  and  see  his  house.   One 


sc.  I]  NOTES  95 

day  that  her  brothers  were  absent  elsewhere,  and  she  had 
nothing  better  to  do,  she  determined  to  go  thither,  and  accord- 
ingly set  out  unattended.  When  she  arrived  at  the  house  and 
knocked  at  the  door,  no  one  answered.  At  length  she  opened  it, 
and  went  in.  Over  the  portal  of  the  hall  was  written,  "  Be  bold, 
be  bold,  but  not  too  bold."  She  advanced;  over  the  staircase, 
the  same  inscription.  She  went  up;  over  the  entrance  of  a 
gallery,  the  same.  She  proceeded;  over  the  door  of  a  chamber, 
"  Be  bold,  be  bold,  but  not  too  bold,  lest  that  your  heart's  blood 
should  run  cold."  She  opened  it;  it  was  full  of  skeletons,  tubs 
full  of  blood,  etc.  She  retreated  in  haste;  coming  down  stairs, 
she  saw  out  of  a  window,  Mr  Fox  advancing  towards  the  house, 
with  a  drawn  sword  in  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  dragged 
along  a  young  lady  by  her  hair.  Lady  Mary  had  just  time  to  slip 
down  and  hide  herself  under  the  stairs,  before  Mr  Fox  and  his 
victim  arrived  at  the  foot  of  them.  As  he  pulled  the  young  lady 
up  stairs,  she  caught  hold  of  one  of  the  bannisters  with  her  hand, 
on  which  was  a  rich  bracelet.  Mr  Fox  cut  it  off  with  his  sword : 
the  hand  and  the  bracelet  fell  into  Lady  Mary's  lap,  who  then 
contrived  to  escape  unobserved,  and  got  home  safe  to  her 
brothers'  house.  After  a  few  days  Mr  Fox  came  to  dine  with 
them  as  usual  (whether  by  invitation,  or  of  his  own  accord,  this 
deponent  saith  not).  After  dinner,  when  the  guests  began  to 
amuse  each  other  with  extraordinary  anecdotes,  Lady  Mary  at 
length  said  she  would  relate  to  them  a  remarkable  dream  she 
had  lately  had.  "I  dreamed,"  said  she,  "that  as  you,  Mr  Fox, 
had  often  invited  me  to  your  house,  I  would  go  there  one 
morning.  When  I  came  to  the  house,  I  knocked,  etc.,  but  no  one 
answered.  When  I  opened  the  door,  over  the  hall  was  written, 
'Be  bold,  be  bold,  but  not  too  bold.'  But,"  said  she,  turning  to 
Mr  Fox  and  smiling,  "it  is  not  so,  nor  it  was  not  so";  then  she 
pursues  the  rest  of  the  story,  concluding  at  every  turn  with, 
"  It  is  not  so,  nor  it  was  not  so,"  till  she  comes  to  the  room  full 
of  dead  bodies,  when  Mr  Fox  took  up  the  burden  of  the  tale, 
and  said,  "  It  is  not  so,  nor  it  was  not  so,  and  God  forbid  it 
should  be  so,"  Lady  Mary  retorts,  "  But  it  is  so,  and  it  was  so, 
and  here  the  hand  I  have  to  show,"  at  the  same  time  producing 
the  hand  and  the  bracelet  from  her  lap :  whereupon,  the  guests 
drew  their  swords,  and  instantly  cut  Mr  Fox  into  a  thousand 
pieces."' 

8.  199.  God  forbid,  etc.  A  clear  refutation  of  those  who 
charge  Claudio  with  evasion. 

203.  to  fetch  me  in.  "  Fetch"  both  as  verb  and  noun,  has  the 
sense  of  "trap,"  or  "trick"  or  "test."  Claudio  says,  in  effect, 
"  Do  you  say  this  because  you  think  so,  or  because  you  want  to 


96  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  i 

lead  me  on?"  There  is  a  slight  difficulty  about  the  tense  of 
"speak."  In  the  successive  speeches  Q.  makes  Claudio  say 
''speake,"  Pedro,  "speake,"  Claudio,  "spoke,"  and  Benedick, 
"spoke."  F.  gives  successively  "speake,"  "speake,"  "spoke," 
"speake."  The  sequence  in  Q.  appears  the  more  rational. 
Benedick's  "two  faiths"  are  generally  referred  to  his  prince  and 
his  friend.  But  it  is  much  more  probable  that  he  is  alluding  to 
the  speech  in  which  he  plays  the  part  of  two  persons. 

Page  9 

213,  an  obstinate  heretic:  how?  Benedick  certainly  did  not 
despise  beauty ;  he  scoffed  at  the  power  of  female  beauty,  and 
despised  those  who  surrendered  themselves  too  readily  to  its 
charm.  But  no  doubt  "beauty"  is  here  used  something  in  the 
sense  of  "the  fair  sex." 

215.  in  the  force  of  his  will,  because  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  play  the  part  of  a  heretic,  not  because  he  sincerely 
beheved  in  the  heresy  he  professed.  Benedick's  reference  to  the 
stake  has  made  some  commentators  (beginning  with  Bp  War- 
burton)  see  here  a  theological  discrimination  between  heresy 
that  may  be  innocent  and  pardonable  and  heresy  that  is  wilful 
and  invincible. 

21U.  a  rechate.  A  hunting  call  on  the  horn.  For  many  of  the 
possible  "  recheats  "  see  Furness.  But  there  is  no  need  to  labour 
the  point.  Benedick  is  again  alluding  to  the  traditional  horns 
of  the  deceived  husband,  as  he  does  in  the  "invisible  baldrick," 
a  baldric  being  really  a  gorgeous  sash  of  leather  worn  crosswise 
from  the  shoulder  (need  we  refer  to  the  baldric  of  Porthos?). 
The  tune,  so  to  speak,  of  Benedick's  remark  is  to  be  found  in 
As  You  Like  It : 

"What  shall  he  have  that  killed  the  deer? 
His  leather  skin  and  horns  to  wear." 
And  so  on. 

221.  shall  pardon  me.  Women  must  excuse  me  if  I  refuse  to 
wear  these  ornaments. 

223.  fine. . .fitter :  fine  =  conclusion;  finer  -more  gaily  dressed. 
Shakespeare  could  never  resist  these  verbal  tricks.  See, 
specially,  the  passage  in  the  graveyard  scene  of  Hamlet,  where 
there  is  a  string  of  quibbles  on  this  very  word.  "A  quibble," 
says  Johnson,  with  some  severity  and  justice,  "is  the  golden 
apple  for  which  he  [Shakespeare]  will  always  turn  aside  from  his 
career,  or  stoop  from  his  elevation.  A  quibble,  poor  and  barren 
as  it  is,  gave  him  such  delight,  that  he  was  content  to  purchase 
it  by  the  sacrifice  of  reason,  propriety  and  truth." 


sc.  i]  NOTES  97 

9.  227.  lose  more  blood,  look  paler  for  love. 
229.  ballad-tnaker's  pen,  especially  such  as  make  ballads  to 
a  mistress's  eyebrows. 

233.  a  bottle.  Not,  of  course,  a  glass  bottle.  Bottles  were 
made  of  leather  ("the  shepherd's... cold  thin  drink  out  of  his 
leather  bottle,"  3  Hen.  VI,  11.  5)  or  of  wicker  ("A  knave  teach 
me  my  duty?  I'll  beat  the  knave  into  a  twiggen-bottle, "  Othello, 
II.  3).  Shooting  at  a  cat  imprisoned  in  a  closed  basket  was  one 
of  the  agreeable  sports  of  our  forefathers.  See  Furness  for  many 
allusions  to  the  practice. 

234.  clapt  on  the  shoulder,  as  a  sign  of  approval.  There  is 
obviously  no  reference  to  the  "accolade,"  or  the  following 
sentence  would  be  "and  call'd  Sir...." 

235.  call'd  Adam.  An  allusion  not  now  satisfactorily  ex- 
plicable. Theobald  suggested  a  connection  with  the  old  border 
ballad  of  Adam  Bel,  Clym  of  the  Cleugh,  and  William  of  Cloudesly, 
beginning : 

"Mery  it  was  in  grene  forest, 
Among  the  leves  grene, 
Where  that  men  walke  both  east  and  west, 
Wyth  bowes  and  arrowes  kene." 
It  was  printed  in  1536,  and  perhaps  even  earlier.  It  is  a  delightful 
ballad,  telling  of  many  adventures,  including  the  shooting  of 
an  apple  from  the  head  of  the  archer's  son;  but  William  (as 
elsewhere)  and  not  Adam  is  the  hero  of  the  story.    However, 
as  Adam's  name  comes  first,  perhaps  he  is  the  person  alluded  to. 
See  F.  Sidgwick,  Ballads  of  Robin  Hood. 

236.  as  time  shall  try.  A  proverbial  utterance  again  alluded 
to  in  As  You  Like  It,  iv.  i :  "Well,  Time  is  the  old  justice  that 
examines  all  such  offenders,  and  let  Time  try." 

237.  the  savage  bull.  This  is  a  quotation,  the  immediate 
source  being  Kyd,  The  Spanish  Tragedie  {c.  1586),  il.  i: 

"In  time  the  savage  bull  sustaines  the  yoake. 
In  time  all  haggard  hawkes  will  stoop  to  lure, 
In  time  small  wedges  cleave  the  hardest  oake, 
In  time  the  flint  is  pearst  with  softest  shower." 
A  little  earHer,  a  similar  line  appears  in  the  Hekatompathia  or 
Passionate  Centuri  of  Love  of  Thomas   Watson   (1575?),   the 
forty-seventh  Love  Passion  of  which  begins  thus : 

"In  time  the  Bull  is  brought  to  weare  the  yoake"; 
and  Watson  himself  gives  as  his  source  an  Italian  poet,  from 
whom  the  line  is  traced  back  to  Ovid,  Tristia,  Bk  iv,  Elegy  6: 
"Tempore  ruricolae  patiens  fit  taurus  aratri, 
Praebet  et  incurvo  coUa  premenda  jugo." 


98  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  i 

"  In  time  the  bull  becomes  used  to  the  field-tilling  plough,  and 
proffers  his  neck  to  be  pressed  by  the  crooked  yoke." 

But  Shakespeare  (who  may  or  may  not  have  known  all  the 
other  examples)  is  undoubtedly  quoting  from  Kyd.  We  shall 
hear  more  (not  to  say  too  much)  about  this  "savage  bull." 

Page  10 

247.  in  Venice.  Venice  was  a  capital  city  of  Venus,  as  readers 
of  ^  Toccataof  Gahippi'svfiWunderstand.  The  inevitable  quibble 
upon  "quiver"  and  "quake"  (with  "earthquake"  to  follow) 
again  exhibits  Shakespeare's  besetting  sin.  Benedick  means 
that  nothing  but  an  earth-quiver  will  make  him  quake — certainly 
not  a  Cupid's  quiver. 

249.  temporize  with  the  hours.  I  incline  to  the  belief  that 
"temporize"  is  used  as  if  it  belongs  to  "temper"  and  not  to 
"tempus";  i.e.  "you  will  cool  down  in  course  of  time."  But 
the  word  is  clearly  spelt  "  temporize  "  in  Q.  and  F.  In  Coriolanus, 
IV.  6,  where  Menenius,  referring  to  Coriolanus  says,  "All's  well 
and  might  have  been  much  better,  if  he  could  have  temporized," 
the  usual  modem  meaning  fits  quite  well,  but  the  present 
suggested  meaning  fits  even  better.  In  King  John  too  (v.  2) : 
"The  Dauphin  is  too  wilful-opposite, 

And  will  not  temporize  with  my  entreaties ; 

He  flatly  says  he'll  not  lay  down  his  arms," 
we  have  again  the  sense  of  excess  needing  a  cooler  "temper." 
The  same  sense  is  clear  in  Troilus,  jv.  4,  where  Cressida  ex- 
claims : 

"  Why  tell  you  me  of  moderation? 
The  grief  is  fine,  full,  perfect,  thai  I  taste. 
And  violenteth  in  a  sense  as  strong 
As  that  which  causeth  it:  how  can  I  moderate  it? 
If  I  could  temporize  with  my  affection. 
Or  brew  it  to  a  weak  and  colder  palate. 
The  like  allayment  could  I  give  my  grief: 
My  love  admits  no  quahfying  dross : 
No  more  my  grief,  in  such  a  precious  loss." 

Cressida's  "temporizing"  is  an  "allayment"  and  has  nothing 

to  do  with  "time." 

253.  matter  enough,  sense  enough. 

254.  and  so  I  commit  you.  Benedick  here  inadvertently  begins 
the  formal  flourish  that  ends  a  letter,  and  the  others  instantly 
take  it  up  in  turn  and  finish  it.  Furness  quotes  to  this  effect: 
"  Barnaby  Googe  thus  ends  his  Dedication  to  the  first  edition  of 
Palingenius,  1560:  And  thus  committ>'ng  Your  Ladiship  with 


sc.  I]  NOTES  99 

all  yours  to  the  tuicion  of  the  moste  mercifull  God,  I  ende. 
From  Staple  Inne  at  London,  the  eighte  and  tw'enty  of  March." 
Tuition  means  keeping. 

10.  257.  r/ze«"xZ/jo/Jw/y.Wrightsays, "Old  Midsummer  Day, 
an  appropriate  date  for  such  Midsummer  madness."  F.  G. 
Fleay,  however,  takes  the  date  seriously  in  conjunction  with 
Leonato's"Monday"(ii.  i.  323),  and  bases  thereon  an  elaborate 
conjecture  about  the  date  of  composition  and  re-touching  of  the 
play.  But  surely  he  must  first  prove  that  Acts  i  and  11  were 
written  on  the  same  day. 

259.  guarded,  trimmed,  adorned.  Compare  Merchant  of 
Venice,  II.  2,  "  Give  him  a  livery  more  guarded  than  his  fellows  " ; 
and  Henry  VIII,  Prol.: 

"a  fellow 
In  a  long  motley  coat  guarded  with  yellow." 
"  Guarded  with  fragments  "  resembles  the  "  guarded  with  rags  " 
of  2  Henry  V,  iv.  i . 

260.  neither,  introducing  the  negative  sense  implicit  in  the 
statement.  Similar  negative  endings  can  be  heard  in  modem 
slang  expressions. 

flout  old  ends,  make  a  mock  of  old  tags  or  endings,  such  as 
the  letter-endings  mocked  by  the  other  two. 

261.  examine  your  conscience.  The  sense  of  this  is  not  very 
clear.  Benedick  perhaps  means  something  of  this  sort:  "Your 
discourse  is  decked  out  with  many  rags  very  loosely  tacked  on ; 
you  had  better  examine  your  conscience  to  see  if  'in  God's 
keeping '  and  other  ancient  commendations  ought  to  be  used  as 
jocular  rags  and  tatters."  Or  we  may  take  it,  perhaps  preferably, 
thus:  "You  have  mocked  my  little  tag;  your  own  talk  has  been 
full  of  ver>'  tasteless  tags;  examine  your  conscience  and  see  if 
your  own  speech  isn't  more  open  to  amendment  than  mine." 

268.  My  liege.  Obser\-e  that  this  is  the  first  use  of  verse  in 
the  play — an  indication  that  the  plane  has  risen.  Claudio  means 
that  Pedro  can  help  him  urge  his  suit  to  the  Governor  of 
Messina — an  important  person,  unlike  Bandello's  impoverished 
Lionato,  whose  ver>^  poverty  makes  the  subsequent  repudiation 
of  Fenicia  more  credible. 

264.  to  teach :  the  meaning  is  clear ;  there  is  no  need  to  tamper 
with  the  text,  as  some  have  done:  "My  affection  for  you  is  at 
your  service;  shew  me  what  you  want  it  to  do  for  you  etc." 

267.  any  son.  An  odd  question.  Claudio,  with  an  uncle  in 
Messina,  and  previously  acquainted  with  Hero,  was  likely  to 
know  as  least  as  much  as  Don  Pedro ;  moreover  his  question  has 
a  cautiously  mercenary  note,  in  the  key  of  which  Pedro  gives 
his  answer.  Did  Shakespeare  mean  us  to  understand  that  Hero's 

7—3 


loo  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  i 

dower  was  no  temptation  to  Claudio  when  he  suspected  her  of 
unchastity?  Timbreo  repudiates  a  suspected  poor  girl;  Claudio 
shall  repudiate  a  suspected  rich  girl.  But  Claudio 's  question  is 
not  very  amiable,  especially  as  he  hints  in  the  following  speech 
that  Hero  has  been  in  his  mind  for  some  time.  Dramatically, 
however,  it  is  necessary  that  Hero  should  not  have  a  brother — 
at  least  of  fighting  age. 

10.  2f'9.  Dost  thou  affecther.  That  is, seriously.  So  far  the  aflPair 
had  been  made  a  joke  of;  to  affect  =  to  love  is  common  in  Shake- 
speare. 

276.  rooms,  places. 

Page  11 

280.  o  lover,  a  development  of  Claudio's  final  "lik'd"  on  the 
lines  of  his  own  earlier  statement  about  "liking"  and  "love." 

281.  book  of  words,  you  will  tire  everyone  by  talking  like  a 
book. 

283.  break,  open  the  subject,  or  communicate,  as  frequently 
in  Shakespeare.    F.  omits 

"and  with  her  father. 
And  thou  shalt  have  her:" 

an  obvious  mistake  of  the  printer  (or  his  reading-boy),  whose 
eye  took  up  the  wrong  "  her."  Anyone  who  has  used  a  type- 
writer will  understand  how  easy  it  is  to  do  this. 

284.  zvas't  not  to  this  end,  etc.  Notice  that  Claudio  himself 
has  been  hinting  at  a  wooing  by  proxy— or  at  least  at  a  direct 
intervention  by  the  prince. 

285.  twist  so  fine  a  story,  the  slang  of  the  sea  has  accustomed 
us  to  "spinning  a  yarn." 

287.  complexion,  outward  appearance.  The  word  (like  most 
similar  forms  in  Shakespeare)  must  be  pronounced  com- 
plex-i-oon. 

289.  salv'd,  made  it  smoother  and  so  more  easy  of  acceptance. 

290.  What  need,  etc.  Some  (e.g.  Abbott)  take  "need"  as  the 
impersonal  of  "  needs  " ;  but  though  Shakespeare  (or  his  printer) 
is  not  consistent,  it  will  be  found  that  most  commonly  "What" 
is  followed  by  "need,"  as,  for  instance: 

Comedy  of  Errors,  III.  z: 

"Be  secret-false:  what  need  she  be  acquainted?" 

Merry  Wives,  vi.  5  : 

"What  need  you  tell  me  that?" 

King  John,  iv.  i : 

"What  need  you  be  so  boisterous  rough?" 


sc.  II]  NOTES  loi 

Now  it  is  plain  in  all  these  instances  that  "need"  is  more 
noun  than  verb,  the  expanded  sense  being,  "What  need  is 
(or  was)  there  that  etc.?"  In  the  present  compressed  line,  "  be" 
or  "should  be"  must  be  understood  after  "bridge."  "What 
need  is  there  that  the  bridge  should  be  much  broader  than  the 
flood" — what  need  is  there  for  more  than  the  occasion  de- 
mands ?  It  is  unnecessary  therefore  to  suppose  that  need  is  the 
impersonal  form  of  a  verb. 

1 1 .  291 .  The  fairest  grant,  etc.  The  three  lines  must  be  taken 
together.  The  meaning  is  this:  The  best  gift  to  a  suitor  is  the 
thing  he  needs ;  let  him  look,  therefore,  that  what  he  wants  is 
suitable  for  him :  enough  has  been  said ;  you  are  in  love,  and  I 
will  get  you  the  remedy. 

292.  'tis  once,  probably  equivalent  to  "  this  once,"  that  is,  "  on 
the  present  occasion  your  need  is  that  you  are  in  love,  and  want 
the  beloved." 

294.  revelling,  a  masked  ball. 

297.  unclasp,  open  my  heart.  Used  several  times  in  this  sense 
by  Shakespeare,  notably  in  Twelfth  Night,  i.  4: 

"Thou  know'st  no  less  but  all;  I  have  unclasp'd 
To  thee  the  book  even  of  my  secret  soul." 

299.  And  strong  encounter.  Pedro's  image  is  drawn  from  the 
tilt-yard. 

302.  presently,  immediately. 

Scene  II 

There  is  no  scene  division  here  either  in  Q.  or  F.  The 
direction  is  exeunt  (i.e.  Pedro  and  Claudio);  then, 

Enter  Leonato  and  an  old  man  brother  to  Leonato. 

The  "old  man"  is  presumably  the  person  called  "brother 
Anthony"  in  Act  v.  Rowe,  who  first  made  a  list  of  the  dramatis 
personae,  Italianized  it  to  Antonio,  no  doubt  because  in  II.  i, 
Ursula  calls  a  masker,  "  Signior  Anthonio."  What  part  he  plays 
(with  a  son  of  his  own,  too)  in  the  establishment  of  Leonato  it 
is  difficult  to  say.  Beatrice  is  another  relative  apparently 
billeted  upon  Leonato,  who,  perhaps,  may  sometimes  have 
thought  enviously  of  Melchisedec.  The  scene  is  probably  some- 
where in  the  house,  and  the  modem  stage-direction  is  "A  Room 
in  Leonato's  House."  It  is  "a  front-stage  scene.  While  this 
and  the  following  scene  are  being  played  in  front  of  the  traverse, 
preparations  are  being  made  behind  it  for  the  elaborate  full- 
stage  scene  in  11.  i .  The  time  is  Monday  evening,  before  supper." 


I02  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  i 

(F.  S.  Boas.)  The  scene  must  happen  very  soon  after  the  first, 
for  according  to  the  opening  line  of  the  play  Don  Pedro  arrives 
at  "night"  (i.e.  late  afternoon),  yet  long  enough  after  that  scene 
to  allow  news  of  the  conversation  between  Pedro  and  Claudio 
to  be  reported  (or  mis-reported)  first  to  the  Old  Man  and  then 
to  Leonato.  Which  of  the  two  reporters  makes  the  blunder  does 
not  appear.  Another  difficulty  about  the  scene  will  be  dealt 
with  in  its  place. 

II.  1.  cousin,  any  close  relative,  other  than  brother  or  sister. 
This  son  makes  no  spoken  appearance  in  the  play,  though  he  is 
probably  one  of  the  "  cousins  "  referred  to  at  1.  22  of  this  scene. 

4.  stratige,  F.  omits. 

6.  eve?its,  so  in  Q.  and  F.  Shakespeare  frequently  uses  this 
apparently  false  concord,  so  there  is  no  grammatical  reason  for 
altering  events  to  event.  There  may  be  a  good  euphonic  reason: 
we  can  suppose,  if  we  will,  that  the  printer's  boy  called  out 
event  sta?nps  and  that  the  printer  set  up  events  stamps ;  but  this 
is  guess-work,  and,  in  ordinary  speech,  the  difference  in  sound 
is  slight.  The  whole  phrase  is  diflficult.  A  language  that  can  bring 
together  such  groups  of  consonants  as  ntsst  and  Jtipsth  has  no 
ground  of  complaint  against  the  multi-consonantal  Slavonic 
tongues. 

a  good  cover,  a  good  outward  appearance. 

Page  12 

8.  thick-pleached  alley;  a  plaited  or  covered  walk:  alley  is 
Fr.  allee,  a  path.  For  pleached  see  Glossary.  Cotgrave  does  not 
give  that  form.  He  has  "plesser,  to  plash,  to  bow,  fold,  or  plait 
young  branches,  one  within  another ;  also  to  thicken  a  hedge,  or 
cover  a  walk,  by  plashing";  and  under  plessis  he  has  "a  hedge, 
or  walk  of  plashed  trees,  etc."  If  we  understand  the  "pleached 
alley"  as  something  like  a  vine  pergola  we  can  take  it  as  almost 
the  only  Italian  touch  in  the  play. 

mitie  orchard.  "Orchard"  is  simply  "garden,"  and  not  a 
specific  plantation  for  fruit.  See  Glossary.  The  difficulty  comes 
in  the  word  mine.  Whose  garden  was  it?  Q.  makes  the  Old  Man 
(like  Hamlet's  paternal  ghost)  say  ?mne  orchard;  F.  makes  him 
say  my  orchard.  If  this  is  taken  as  it  stands.  Act  i.  Sc.  i  must  pass 
in  Anthony's  Orchard,  and  in  at  least  one  modem  edition  the 
scene  is  thus  headed.  But  that  is  absurd.  The  action  of  the 
play  obviously  passes  in  the  house  of  Leonato  the  Governor, 
who  is  the  chief  person  and  directing  spirit  of  the  place,  the  Old 
Man  his  brother  being  a  very  unimportant  relative  who  only 
once  gives  any  sign  of  real  vitality.  It  is  improbable  that  he  has 
a  garden  of  his  very  own  attached  to  his  brother's  house  and 


sc.  Ill]  NOTES  103 

that  the  distinguished  guests  are  received  there.  This  orchard, 
or  garden,  plays  a  large  part  in  the  story  and  is  never  called 
Anthony's.  The  simplest  explanation  of  the  mine  is  that  the 
printer  of  Q.  caught  up  the  word  from  a  man  of  mine  a  line  below, 
and  printed  it  instead  of  the  (Boas).  The  printer  of  F.  (or  the 
provider  of  the  copy),  feeling  that  something  ought  to  be  done, 
altered  it  without  correcting  it.  It  is  surely  unnecessary  to 
suppose  (with  Wright)  that  what  Antonio's  "man"  (whoever  he 
was)  overheard  was  not  the  original  conversation  between  Pedro 
and  Claudio,  but  a  repetition  of  it  in  another  orchard.  An 
Elizabethan  audience  did  not  trouble  itself  about  niceties  of 
place,  and  it  is  probable  that  Shakespeare  shared  that  in- 
difference. The  point  is  not  in  the  least  important.  Mine  is 
therefore  retained  in  the  text,  but  it  should  be  understood  as 
a  general  and  not  as  a  specific  possessive.  It  is  worth  notice 
that  the  man  who  was  to  be  sent  for  and  questioned  never 
appears.    See  Introduction. 

12.  12.  accordant,  likely  to  agree.  It  seems  to  be  Shakespeare's 
only  use  of  the  word. 

13.  by  the  top,  a  variant  of  "to  take  Time  by  the  forelock." 
18.  till  it  appear  itself,  "  till  it  materializes :  at  present  it  exists 

only  in  hearsay."  The  form  of  "  appear"  is  perhaps  subjunctive 
or  perhaps  due  to  "shall"  understood  before  it.  Some  editors 
change  it  to  "approve" — with  little  justification. 

21.  enter  Musician  and  others.  Not  in  the  original  text;  but 
some  such  stage-direction  is  necessary  here.  The  "cousins"  are 
those  relatives  or  dependants  who  have  to  do  their  share  in  this 
hastily  improvised  entertainment.  "O  I  cry  you  mercy  friend" 
is  plainly  addressed  to  the  musician  whom  brother  Anthony's 
Son  has  brought;  "good  cousin"  is  perhaps  the  Son,  or  more 
likely  his  Father,  for  whom  no  exit  is  given,  and  who  is  therefore 
still  on  the  stage. 

The  whole  scene  is  a  clumsy  way  of  making  Leonato  aware 
that  some  one  is  amorously  inclined  towards  his  daughter.  It 
raises  many  more  diflaculties  than  it  solves.  See  the  Intro- 
duction. 

Scene  III 

There  is  no  break  in  Q.  or  F.  We  know  that  a  break  indicating 
lapse  of  time  should  come  here,  for  the  supper  which  is  pro- 
spective in  the  former  scene  is  now  actually  taking  place.  The 
scene  may  be  the  same  as  the  last — some  ante-room  in  the  house 
of  Leonato;  but  it  is  a  "front-stage"  scene,  whatever  place  it 
may  represent. 


I04  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  i 

12.  1.  What  the  good-year.  An  Elizabethan  exclamation  of 
frequent  occurrence,  but  Of  uncertain  origin.  It  indicates  some 
degree  of  impatience. 

2.  out  of  measure,  immoderately.  John's  reply  means  that  the 
occasion,  i.e.  the  disability  of  his  birth,  is  to  him  immeasurably 
disagreeable,  and  his  moodiness  is  commensurate. 

().  brings.    F.  has  "bringeth." 

8.  sufferance,  endurance. 

11.  under  Saturn.  In  medieval  astrology  the  aspect  of  the 
planets  at  a  man's  birth  determined  his  disposition.  Saturn 
(according  to  Batman,  quoted  by  Furness)  "maketh  a  man 
browne  and  fowle,  misdoing,  slowe,  and  heavie,  eleinge  and 
sorie,  seldome  gladde  and  merrye,  or  laughing."  We  still  use 
the  adjective  "saturnine." 

goest  about;  to  go  about  is  to  attempt. 

a  moral  medicine,  etc.  Observe  the  intentional  alliteration. 
A  "mischief"  is  a  wound  or  hurt.  What  (says  John)  is  the  use 
of  moral  tags  to  a  man  who  is  suffering  from  a  wound  that  can 
never  be  healed?  See  V.  i,  where  Leonato  says  the  same  to 
his  brother. 

Page  13 

10.  claiv,  scratch,  tickle,  and  so,  flatter,  cajole.  It  will  be 
observed  that  John,  like  all  such  morose  creatures,  expects  the 
world  to  keep  time  with  his  grievances.  Your  thoroughgoing 
brooder  hates  to  be  deprived  of  his  supposed  injuries. 

19.  controlment,  constraint  or  check. 

20,  of  late  stood  out.  The  first  scene  mentions  the  reconcilia- 
tion. The  nature  of  the  difference  is  not  indicated.  We  may 
assume  that  John  in  some  way  had  sided  with  the  French  in 
a  recent  battle.  Certain  editors  think  this  speech  is  meant  to 
be  written  in  verse.  Here  and  there  are  metrical  passages,  and 
in  Q.  and  F.  John's  speech  at  the  entrance  of  Borachio  is  printed 
in  two  lines  of  verse.  We  have  followed  the  old  text — the  nature 
of  the  whole  scene  indicates  prose  rather  than  verse  as  the 
medium.     Possibly  there  was  some  revision  here. 

25.  a  canker,  a  dog-rose;  also  the  "worm  i'  the  bud"  that 
feeds  on  beauty.  The  former  is  the  sense  here,  as  in  these 
passages : 

(i)  I  Hen.  IV,  I.  3.  171-5: 

"Or  fill  up  chronicles  in  time  to  come, 
That  men  of  your  nobility  and  power 
Did  gage  them  both  in  an  unjust  behalf 
To  put  down  Richard,  that  sweet  lovely  rose, 
And  plant  this  thorn,  this  canker,  Bolingbroke." 


sc.  Ill]  NOTES  105 

(2)  Sonnet  LIV: 

"O,  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem 
By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth  give ! 
The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 
For  that  sweet  odour  which  doth  in  it  live. 
The  canker-blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye 
As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses, 
Hang  on  such  thorns  and  play  as  wantonly 
When  summer's  breath  their  masked  buds  discloses: 
But,  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show, 
They  live  unwoo'd,  and  unrespected  fade, 
Die  to  themselves.    Sweet  roses  do  not  so." 
13.  26.  blood,  disposition,  temperament.    He  is  not  referring 

to  his  birth. 

27.  fashion  a  carriage,  shape  my  demeanour. 

29.  it  must  not  be  denied.  In  Mod.  Eng.  we  should  say  "it 
cannot  be  denied  that  I  am,  etc." 

30.  trusted  with  a  muzzle.  "  I  am  so  little  trusted  that  I  am 
like  a  dog  that  is  muzzled,  or  a  horse  that  is  hobbled."  John 
(being  a  villain)  mixes  his  metaphors  and  continues :  "  Therefore 
I  am  like  a  caged  bird  and  I  refuse  to  sing.  If  my  mouth  were 
free  I  would  bite;  if  my  legs  were  free  I  should  go  as  I  choose. 
I  cannot  do  any  of  these  things,  therefore  I  will  do  what  mis- 
chief I  can." 

36.  /  use,  make  use  of.  John  not  only  mixes  his  metaphors, 
but  makes  puns;  for  his  reply  is,  "I  use  it  in  deed  and  I  use 
it  as  my  only  companion" — "to  use"  signifying  also  (but  rarely) 
"to  make  a  companion  of." 

F.  reads,  "  I  will  make  all  use  of  it." 

38.  I  came.  "The  aorist  for  the  perfect"  (Deighton).  In 
Mod.  Eng.  we  should  say,  "  I  have  just  come." 

42.  what  is  he  for  a  fool.  Gifford,  in  his  notes  on  Jonson,  de- 
scribes a  similar  expression  as  "Pure  German  in  its  idiom... was 
ist  das  fur  ein,  etc."  The  usage  is  very  common  in  Elizabethan 
English.    Its  modern  equivalent  would  be,  "What  fool  is  it?" 

47.  A  proper  squire,  used  contemptuously,  of  course. 

49.  on  Hero.  Q.  spells  it  "one  Hero."  Marry  is  spelt  Mary 
consistently  in  Q.  We  have  retained  the  now  usual  form,  as  it 
indicates  the  pronunciation. 

Page  14 

51.  A  very  forward  March-chick.  Obviously  meant  for  Hero, 
who  is  supposed  to  be  quite  young.  In  Bandello's  story,  Fenicia 
is  sixteen.  Others,  less  convincingly,  have  applied  it  to  Claudio, 
as  an  "upstart." 


io6         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  ii 

14.   53.  entertained  for,  engaged  as. 

54.  smoking  a  musty  room,  i.e.  deodorizing  it,  instead  of 
freshening  it  with  air.  The  practice  is  still  used,  with  strong- 
smelling  liquids  as  deodorizers.  Steevens  quotes  Burton's 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy:  "The  smoake  of  juniper  is  in  greate 
request  with  us  at  Oxford,  to  sweeten  our  chambers."  Judges 
on  Assize  are  still  equipped  with  a  bouquet  of  flowers,  a  relic 
of  the  days  when  "gaol-fever"  had  no  respect  even  for  the 
Bench,  and  when  the  substitution  of  a  pleasant  smell  for  a  bad 
one  was  considered  sanitary.  The  modern  smelling-bottle  is 
just  such  a  substitution.  No  explanation  is  forthcoming  as  to 
how  or  why  a  known  follower  of  the  Prince's  brother  was 
"entertain'd  for  a  perfumer." 

comes  me.  This  construction  is  called  the  "ethical  dative."  It 
is  common  in  Shakespeare.  Compare  Tzcelfth  Night,  III.  2: 
"Why,  then,  build  me  thy  fortunes  upon  the  basis  of  valour. 
Challenge  me  the  count's  youth  to  fight  with  him";  Merry 
Wives,  II.  2:  "She's  as  fartuous  a  civil  modest  wife,  and  one, 
I  tell  you,  that  will  not  miss  you  morning  nor  evening  prayer, 
as  any  is  in  Windsor."  See  also  11.  3.  104  of  the  present  play. 
The  "ethical  dative"  is  sometimes  called  the  dative  of  feeling, 
and  indicates  some  degree  of  personal  interest  in  the  statement. 
Its  use  is  confined  to  personal  pronouns.  In  Latin  it  is  a  collo- 
quialism, common  in  comedy,  and  almost  entirely  absent  from 
serious  poetry  of  the  best  period. 

5G.  arras,  curtains,  named  from  Arras.  Were  these  curtains 
wall-hangings  or  did  they  here  cover  a  window?  If  they 
covered  a  window  Borachio  might  have  imperfectly  overheard 
Pedro  and  Claudio  as  they  talked  in  the  garden.  Otherwise  we 
must  suppose  that  Pedro  and  Claudio  renewed  their  arrange- 
ment in  this  room.  We  now  hear  of  the  projected  marriage  and 
the  proxy  wooing  for  the  third  time. 

01.  my  overthrozo.  How  Claudio  had  risen  upon  the  fall  of 
John  is  not  made  clear.  As  given,  the  villain's  excuse  is  even 
vaguer  than  lago's. 

any  ivay... every  way,  plainly  meant  to  balance,  as,  possibly, 
are  "cross"  and  "bless." 

G2.  sure,  trustworthy.  It  is  not  necessary  to  depart  from  Q. 
and  print  a  question  mark  after  assist  me.  The  sentence  is 
assertion  and  question  in  one. 

65.  the  greater.  W'ith  the  megalomania  of  the  man  with  a  sup- 
posed grievance,  John  imagines  that  everyone  is  talking  about 
him,  sneering  at  him,  triumphing  over  him;  and  with  the 
madness  of  impotence  wishes  he  could  poison  the  whole  com- 
pany.  He  is  what  mental  science  would  call  a  paranoiac. 

66.  go  prove:  in  the  sense  of  "decide." 


sc.  I]  NOTES  107 

ACT  II 

Scene  I 
Page  14 

In  Q.  there  is  no  break,  but  merely  the  direction,  Enter 
Leonato,  his  brother,  his  wife,  Hero  his  daughter,  and  Beatrice 
his  neece,  and  a  kinsman.  In  F.  there  is  a  division  marked 
Actus  Secundus,  with  the  same  direction.  The  characters 
entering  should  also  include  Margaret  and  Ursula  in  attendance 
on  Hero  and  Beatrice,  for  they  speak  later  on,  and  there  is  no 
direction  for  their  entrance.  Observe  again  the  presence  of 
the  non-existent  "wife."  In  performance  this  would  be  a 
"full-stage"  scene,  prepared  during  the  two  previous  "front- 
stage"  scenes.  The  place  is  not  clearly  indicated — it  may  be 
a  room  in  Leonato 's  house  or  the  famous  orchard  in  which  the 
first  scene  was  enacted— it  does  not  matter  which,  as  long  as  no 
time  is  lost  in  setting  it.  Probably  it  was  the  garden,  to  which 
the  revellers  come  after  the  heat  of  the  house.  A  garden  would 
suit  the  promenading  and  pairing  off  conspicuous  in  the  scene. 
The  time  is  clearly  the  evening  of  Monday  after  the  "great 
supper"  mentioned  in  the  previous  scene.  In  spite  of  F.'s 
act-division  there  should  be  no  break  in  performance.  It  has 
been  suggested  that  the  division  into  acts  found  in  F.  was  made 
for  a  court  performance  in  1 6 1 3 .  The  ' '  kinsman ' '  of  the  direction 
may  be  Leonato's  musical  nephew  mentioned  in  the  former 
scene — or  still  another  of  Leonato's  innumerable  cormections. 
He  plays  no  part  in  the  scene.  Like  the  "wife"  he  is  probably 
a  survival. 

1.  Count  John... at  supper.  Apparently  the  misanthrope  had 
changed  his  mind ;  but  the  discrepancy  may  be  due  to  imper- 
fect revision. 

3.  tartly,  sourly ;  "  heart-bum  "  is  a  form  of  indigestion  caused 
by  too  much  acidity.  Current  advertisements  will  probably 
have  made  most  people  aware  of  this. 

9.  my  lady's  eldest  son.  Apparently  "  a  spoilt  child,  and  there- 
fore allowed  to  talk  constantly.  See  The  Puritan  (p.  264,  col.  i, 
ed.  1685):  'To  towre  among  Sons  and  Heirs,  and  Fools,  and 
Gulls,  and  Ladies  eldest  Sons'"  (Wright's  note).  In  Q.  it  is 
misprinted  "  lonne  "  instead  of  "  Sonne  " — the  "  lonne  "  coming 
from  "lohns"  immediately  below  it. 

Page  15 

17.  shrewd,  ill-natured,  malicious. 

18.  curst,  vixenish.  See  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  passim.  Shrewd 
generally  refers  to  speech  and  curst  to  disposition. 


io8  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  ii 

1 5-  21 .  «  curst  C07V.  In  Outlandish  Proverbs  selected  by  Mr  G.  H. 
(1640),  proverb  531  is  "A  curst  cow  hath  short  homes."  Wright 
gives  a  reference  to  Froude's  History  of  England  (iv.  217),  which 
I  quote  in  full:  "The  Earl  said  he  was  very  hasty,  and  God 
sent  a  shrewd  cow  short  horns.  'Yea,  my  lord,'  quoth  Blage, 
'  and  I  trust  your  horns  also  shall  be  kept  so  short  as  you  shall 
not  be  able  to  do  hurt  with  them.'"  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to 
add  that  the  usual  double  meaning  is  intended  in  these  pleasan- 
tries. 

25.  Just,  exactly,  truly;  as  in  Measure  for  Measure,  v.  i : 

"Duke.  You  say  your  husband. 

Mariana.  Why,  just,  my  lord,  and  that  is  Angelo." 

And  later  in  the  present  play,  v.  i.  i6o. 

28.  lie  in  the  woollen.  Sleep  in  rough  blankets  instead  of 
smooth  sheets. 

35.  in  earnest,  in  pay,  or,  as  a  tip. 

36.  berrord.  The  spelling  represents  the  pronunciation  of 
"bear-herd"  or  "bear-ward"- — the  bear-keeper,  who  some- 
times kept  apes  as  well,  for  the  amusement  of  our  forefathers. 

apes  into  hell.  To  mind  apes  in  hell  was  the  proverbial 
punishment  for  old  maids  who  had  evaded  the  duty  of  minding 
children  in  life.  The  same  expression  is  used  in  Taming  of  the 
Shreio,  11.  1,  where  Katherine,  jealous  of  Bianca,  exclaims: 

"Nay,  now  I  see 
She  is  your  treasure,  she  must  have  a  husband ; 
I  must  dance  barefoot  on  her  wedding-day. 
And  for  your  love  to  her  lead  apes  in  hell." 

42.  for  the  heavens.  A  passage  unnecessarily  disputed  and 
amended.  The  obvious  meaning  is  that  which  continues  the 
humour  of  Beatrice's  speech — "for  the  heavens"  being  an 
exclamation,  equivalent  to  "By  heaven!"  It  is  many  times  thus 
used  in  the  literature  of  the  period.  But  the  words  may  be  taken 
literally,  Beatrice  being  supposed  to  say  something  like  this: 
"When  I  reach  hell,  the  devil  says,  'Go  away  to  heaven, 
Beatrice,  this  is  no  place  for  maids,  this  is  where  the  husbands 
are!'  So  away  I  go  to  St  Peter,  and  for  heaven  he  shews  me  the 
place  where  the  bachelors  sit" — heaven  being  the  place  where 
there  is  neither  marrying  nor  giving  in  marriage.  I  think  the 
former  reading  preferable — "heavens"  is  not  very  likely  to 
mean  "heaven,"  save  as  an  exclamation.  But  on  any  interpreta- 
tion we  cannot  ignore  Beatrice's  identification  of  bachelordom 
with  heaven.  Yet  editors  (doubtless  all  married)  seem  deter- 
mined to  attempt  some  mollification  of  the  passage,  and  they 
re-punctuate  it  thus:    "away  to  St  Peter  for   the   heavens"; 


sc.  I]  NOTES  109 

— taking  the  phrase  blamelessly  as  indicating  her  destination. 
But  surely  it  is  absurd  to  make  Beatrice  talk  here  like  one  of 
Miss  Charlotte  Yonge's  heroines.  And  it  is  unconvincing  to 
argue  that  because  Beatrice,  quoting  the  devil,  says,  "  Get  you 
to  heaven,"  she  would  not  be  so  profane  as  to  use  "for  the 
heavens"  immediately  after  as  an  exclamation.  With  the  rest 
of  her  conversation  before  us,  it  is  hard  to  know  where  Beatrice 
would  have  drawn  the  line.  What  seems  to  me  most  tame,  flat 
and  improbable  is  that  she  would  say,  "and  away  to  St  Peter 
for  the  heavens;  he  shews  me  where  the  bachelors  sit,  etc." 
Yet  this  is  the  reading  adopted  in  all  the  modem  editions.  It 
may  be  noted  that  Story  xix  of  the  C.  Mery  Talys  describes  how 
St  Peter  at  the  gate  of  heaven  refuses  admission  to  an  oft-married 
man.  The  present  text  rejects  the  modern  re-punctuation  and 
follows  strictly  the  reading  of  Q.  and  F.  The  comma  after 
"heavens"  does  not  indicate  any  separation  from  "he  shews 
me."  What  it  probably  indicates  is  a  little  pause  of  emphasis 
after  "heavens." 

15.  44.   Well  niece,  I  trust,  etc.  Obviously  addressed  to  Hero. 

46.  curtsy.  Q.  and  F.  have  cursie  all  through;  this  was  pro- 
bably the  current  pronunciation. 

Page  16 

55.  wayward  marl,  wilful  and  incalculable  earth;  a  beautiful 
phrase  (apart  from  its  humorous  intention  here)  with  its 
suggestion  that  man — "this  quintessence  of  dust" — has  "erred 
and  strayed"  from  the  way  of  faith  and  duty. 

57.  kindred,  spelt  ki?ired  in  both  Q.  and  F. 

59.  in  that  kind,  in  that  way — i.e.  the  way  of  marriage.  We 
have  already  seen  that  Leonato  expects  the  Prince  himself  to  be 
the  wooer. 

61.  in  good  time,  a  punning  allusion  to  the  music;  later  we 
have  "measure"  with  the  meaning  of  "moderation"  as  well  as 
its  musical  sense.  The  significance  of  the  dance-measures 
alluded  to  is  explained  by  Beatrice  herself.  A  jig  is  a  lively 
dance  tune,  usually,  though  not  always,  in  six-eight  time. 
Amateurs  of  music  will  be  more  familiar  with  the  jig  in  the 
spelling  "gigue,"  for  Bach  made  great  use  of  this  measure — 
all  the  English  and  French  Suites  and  most  of  the  Partitas 
ending  with  a  Gigue.  In  this  he  followed  his  English  fore- 
runners, who  had  included  "  Jiggs  "  with  "Almands,"  "  Corants  " 
and  "  Sarabands"  in  their  suites.  A  "measure"  was  any  stately 
dance  with  a  well-defined  rhythm — such,  for  instance,  as  a 
Pavane  or  a  Minuet.  Its  "ancientry"  may  be  understood  as  its 
antique  or  traditional  dignity.  It  was  a  courtly  dance.  Although 


no  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  ii 

the  word  "measure"  is  very  frequently  used  to  describe  a  dance, 
no  specific  composition  called  a  "Measure"  appears  among  the 
numerous  dance  forms  used  by  Bach  and  his  English  prede- 
cessors in  their  Suites.  The  Cinquepace  (literally  a  "five-step") 
is  the  same  as  the  "nimble  Galliard,"  also  referred  to  by  Shake- 
speare. Its  music  was  in  triple  time  (e.g.  three  minims  to  the 
bar)  and  apparently  the  sequence  of  movement  was  a  step  to  the 
left,  a  step  to  the  right,  a  step  to  the  left,  a  step  to  the  right,  and 
a  "sault  majeur"  which  seems  to  have  lasted  for  t\vo  bars — 
probably  a  leap  with  a  curtsy.  The  figure  was  then  repeated. 
Elizabethan  dancing  was  more  acrobatic  than  our  own  and 
required  a  good  deal  of  high-stepping  and  capering.  It  should 
be  noticed  that  the  "cinquepace"  of  Repentance  (with  his  bad 
legs)  is  a  pun  on  "  sink  apace  " ;  and  further,  that  the  Elizabethan 
sound  of  "pace"  (pass)  is  caught  up  in  Leonato's  "passing 
shrewdly."  Sir  John  Davies's  Orchestra;  or  A  Poem  on  Dancing 
gives  us  some  stanzas  of  interest  in  this  connection : 

"Under  that  spangled  sky,  five  wandring  flames, 
Besides  the  king  of  day  and  queen  of  night, 
Are  wheel'd  around,  all  in  their  sundry  frames. 
And  all  in  sundry  measures  do  delight. 
Yet  altogether  keep  no  measure  right : 
For  by  itself,  each  doth  itself  advance, 
And  by  itself  each  doth  a  Galliard  dance. 

*  *  *  * 

Not  those  young  students  of  the  heavenly  book, 
Atlas  the  great,  Prometheus  the  wise. 
Which  on  the  stars  did  all  their  life-time  look, 
Could  ever  find  such  measure  in  the  skies, 
So  full  of  change  and  rare  varieties ; 
Yet  all  the  feet  whereon  these  measures  go. 
Are  only  spondees,  solemn,  grave  and  slow. 

But  far  more  diverse  and  more  pleasing  show, 
A  swift  and  wandring  dance  she  did  invent, 
With  passages  uncertain  to  and  fro. 
Yet  with  a  certain  answer  and  consent 
To  the  quick  music  of  the  instrument. 
Five  was  the  number  of  the  music's  feet. 
Which  still  the  dance  did  with  five  paces  meet." 

1 6.  Gl.  important,  here  in  the  sense  of  importunate.  Such  a 
reading  would  be  questionable  were  it  not  that  Shakespeare  has 
"  Maria  writ  the  letter  at  Sir  Toby's  great  importance  "  {Ticelfth 
Night,  V.  i)  where  no  other  sense  is  possible. 

67.  ancientry, spe\xaunchentrymQ.3ind  F.,  and  so  pronounced. 


SCI]  NOTES  III 

l6.  71.  see  a  church,  not  merely  as  something  large,  but  as 
something  suggesting  marriages. 

Enter,  etc.  Q.  has  Enter  prince,  Pedro,  Claudia,  and  Benedicke, 
and  Balthaser,  or  dwnb  John.  F.  has  Enter  Prince,  Pedro,  Claudia, 
and  Benedicke,  and  Balthasar,  ar  dumbe  John,  Maskers  zcith  a 
drum.  There  are  several  difficulties  here.  To  take  first  the  most 
obvious,  Pedro  is  the  prince;  why,  therefore,  the  comma  that 
divides  them?  The  entrants  include  Claudio  who,  as  far  as  we 
can  tell,  does  not  dance  with  anyone  and  does  not  speak  till 
much  of  the  scene  is  over.  John  also  enters  here,  though  he,  too, 
does  not  dance  (as  far  as  we  can  tell)  and  does  not  speak  till 
much  of  the  scene  is  over.  Indeed,  for  dramatic  purposes,  there 
is  no  reason  why  his  entry  should  not  be  postponed  to  the  point 
where  he  intervenes  with  "  Sure  my  brother  is  amorous,  etc." 
Borachio  speaks  here,  and  neither  Q.  nor  F.  marks  an  entry  for 
him.  He  and  John  could  very  well  enter  together.  If  Claudio 
and  John  enter  at  the  beginning,  what  do  they  do  during  the 
"promenade"  and  dance?  Does  Claudio  sit  in  a  comer  and 
sulk?  It  would  be  like  him.  And  who  is  Balthasar?  We  know 
from  the  Folio  that  he  was  one  "  lacke  Wilson,"  and  in  the  play 
itself  his  only  real  function  is  to  sing  his  song.  He  is,  in  fact, 
Shakespeare's  first  dramatic  singing  character ;  but  as  we  shall 
see  later,  he  is  so  indeterminate  that  certain  words  probably 
spoken  by  him  in  this  scene  are  headed  Bene,  instead  of  Balth.  Let 
us  remember,  too,  that  the  Enter  So-and-So  in  any  scene  repre- 
sents (almost  certainly)  the  theatre  direction,  not  the  author's 
direction :  Shakespeare  did  not  write  lacke  Wilson,  Kemp  or 
Cowley  when  he  meant  Balthasar,  Dogbery  or  Verges.  A  con- 
sideration of  all  these  facts  may  help  us  to  explain  the  odd  stage- 
direction  of  Q.  and  F.  We  must  dismiss  the  comma  in  prince, 
Pedro  as  a  mistake.  W^e  can  also  dismiss  as  fanciful  (to  put  it 
kindly)  the  explanation  offered  by  some  commentators  that 
dumb  John  is  so  called  in  this  scene  because  he  was  taciturn,  or 
because  the  printer  was  trying  for  the  Portuguese  "  Dom  "instead 
of  the  Spanish  "  Don  " ;  for  if  either  was  even  slightly  probable, 
the  or  would  remain  a  difficulty.  No  definite  explanation  can 
be  given:  we  can  do  no  more  than  conjecture.  I  think,  myself, 
that  stage  practice  in  this  scene  varied — that  the  pairs  of  dancers 
— Pedro  and  Hero,  Anthony  and  Ursula,  Benedick  and  Beatrice, 
etc.,  were  increased,  decreased  or  otherwise  changed  according 
to  circumstances  of  performance.  I  think,  in  particular,  that 
Balthasar  is,  so  to  speak,  an  optional  character  in  the  scene. 
Remember  the  uncertain  heading  of  his  speeches.  He  need  not 
appear  at  this  point  at  all:  there  is  no  connection  between  him 
and  Margaret.    Margaret's  partner  might  just  as  well  be  Don 


112  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  ii 

John  as  Balthasar.  The  theatre-copy  of  the  play  may  have 
indicated  that  in  this  scene  either  Balthasar  or  John  (silent) 
could  pair  off  with  Margaret.  See.  however,  111.3.  102,  where  the 
form  Dun  John  is  used.  From  Dun  to  Dum  and  thence  dumbe 
is  a  not  impossible  printing-house  transition.  No  entry  at  all  is 
marked  for  Margaret  and  Ursula,  so  that  they,  too,  might  on 
occasions  be  dispensed  with,  if  the  scene  had  to  be  shortened. 
The  explanation  is  not  very  satisfactory,  but  then  neither  is 
the  matter  to  be  explained.  Of  all  parts  of  the  script  probably 
the  most  confused  were  the  producer's  varying  directions  for 
the  appearance  of  the  players  at  various  performances.  The 
old  direction  here  is  useless  for  a  modem  edition  and  we  have 
therefore  changed  it.  We  have  given  an  entry  for  Margaret  and 
Ursula  earlier,  on  the  assumption  that  they  would  come  in 
with  Hero  and  Beatrice,  and  an  entry  for  Borachio  here,  on 
the  assumption  that  he  would  come  in  with  John.  We  have 
omitted  F.'s  picturesque  "Maskers  with  a  drum."  The  men 
are  masked;  but  the  women  (as  usual  in  such  revels)  are  not. 
Beatrice  speaks  openly  in  her  own  character  and  Benedick  does 
not.  Hero  is  wooed  as  Hero  though  her  wooer  is  visored.  But 
the  men,  of  course,  are  recognised.  The  ability  of  a  mask  to 
conceal  the  identity  of  a  known  person  can  easily  be  exaggerated ; 
though,  by  time-honoured  stage  convention,  the  mere  exchange 
of  a  hat  or  cloak  is  always  sufficient  to  make  a  lady  take  a  com- 
plete stranger  for  her  own  husband. 

16.   75.  friend,  lover. 

82.  favour,  face — at  present  "cased"  in  its  mask  or  visor. 

God  defeyid,  God  forbid. 

Page  17 

84.  Philemon's  roof.  An  allusion  to  the  story  of  Philemon 
and  Baucis  told  in  the  Metamorphoses  of  Ovid.  Philemon  and 
Baucis  were  two  old  peasants  of  Phrygia,  living  in  a  poor  hovel, 
where  Jupiter  and  Mercury  (disguised)  were  hospitably  enter- 
tained after  being  driven  away  from  the  other  dwellings.  The 
grateful  gods  transformed  the  hut  into  a  temple,  of  which  the 
pair  were  made  the  long-lived  priest  and  priestess.  The  Meta- 
morphoses  in  the  translation  of  Arthur  Golding  is  a  book  that 
Shakespeare  obviously  knew;  and  it  has  been  admirably  sug- 
gested by  Blakeway  that  the  present  lines  are  meant  to  run  in 
the  rhymed  "  fourteeners"  used  by  Golding: 

"My  visor  is  Philemon's  roof,  within  the  house  is  Jove. 
Why  then  your  visor  should  be  thatcht ;  speak  low  if  you  speak 
Love." 


SCI]  NOTES  113 

The  house  of  Philemon  is  described  by  Ovid  as  thatched  with 
straw  and  marsh-reeds. 

17.  84.  wj'owe.  Misprinted  "as  Love  "in  F.  It  is  a  tribute  to  the 
instinct  of  Theobald  that,  not  knowing  the  Quarto,  he  amended 
the  "Love"  of  F.  to  "Jove."  After  this  speech,  the  Prince  and 
Hero  resume  their  promenade  and  the  next  pair  come  forward. 
The  reader  will  easily  follow  the  changes. 

86.  Well,  I  would,  etc.  As  a  prelude  to  this  note  of  emenda- 
tion let  us  quote  exactly  the  text  of  Q.: 

Bene.  Well,  I  would  you  did  like  me. 

Mar.  So  would  not  I  for  your  owne  sake,  for  I  have  many  ill 
qualities. 

Bene.  Which  is  one? 

Mar.  I  say  my  praiers  alowd. 

Bene  [i.e.  catch-word  leading  to  next  page] 

Bene.  I  love  you  the  better,  the  hearers  may  cry  Amen. 

Marg.  God  match  me  with  a  good  dauncer. 

Balth.  Amen. 

With  a  negligible  difference  in  spelling  this  is  exactly  the 
reading  of  F.  as  well.  Thereafter  the  conversation  is  continued 
for  one  more  speech  between  Balthasar  and  Margaret,  and 
Ursula  then  follows.  The  first  appropriate  utterance  of  Bene- 
dick is  his  answer  to  Beatrice,  "No,  you  shall  pardon  me."  I 
have  (very  reluctantly)  followed  the  now  traditional  emendation 
of  Theobald  that  assigns  the  speeches  of  Benedick  (quoted 
above)  to  Balthasar.  The  probabiHties  are  all  in  favour  of  the 
alteration.  The  speech-headings  of  plays  are  sometimes  capri- 
ciously given,  and,  in  their  abbreviated  form,  might  easily 
have  been  misprinted.  There  are  obvious  mistakes  later  on  in 
the  present  play.  And  Balthasar,  in  this  scene,  as  we  have 
pointed  out,  is  not  important.  But  the  strongest  argument  for 
the  change  is  what  may  be  called  the  dramatic  pattern  of  the 
scene,  which  is  simply  a  placid  promenade  of  four  couples.  The 
author  makes  no  attempt  whatever  at  the  comic  misunder- 
standings of  disguise — Donna  Elvira  (so  to  speak)  does  not 
mistake  Leporello  for  Don  Giovanni.  There  is  no  dramatic 
reason  or  justification  for  any  breach  of  the  rhythmic  circle  by 
an  intrusion  of  Benedick  in  the  wrong  place  with  a  few  in- 
significant remarks.  Margaret  is  later  mistaken  for  Hero:  we 
are  surely  not  to  imagine  that  she  is  mistaken  for  Beatrice  as 
well.  However,  we  have  given  the  exact  text  in  this  note,  and 
the  reader  can  follow  it  if  he  pleases.  It  could  be  justified. 
Shakespeare  may  have  preferred  to  break  the  even  tenor  of  the 
scene  with  a  brief  misunderstanding.  Benedick  may  have  mis- 
taken Margaret  for  Beatrice  for  a  moment,  and  Balthasar  may 

SMA  8 


114  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  ii 

have  happened  to  be  conveniently  anxious  and  adjacent;  but 
these  things  are  not  all  probable  together.  Now,  had  Balthasar 
been  Borachio  we  should  have  excellent  reasons  for  keeping  to 
the  old  text. 

17,  96.  answered,  silenced. 

97.  /  know  you,  etc.  We  now  (for  the  first  time)  learn  the 
name  of  Leonato's  brother. 

99,  At  a  word,  in  brief;  or,  in  a  word,  as  modern  writers 
often  say  before  a  lengthy  periphrasis.  In  Q.  there  is  no  comma 
after  word  here,  but  there  is  one  in  the  repetition  below.  We 
may  perhaps  take  this  as  indicating  a  greater  degree  of  emphasis 
in  speech;  but  as  in  F.  the  position  of  the  comma  is  exactly 
reversed,  the  probability  is  that  we  have  nothing  more  than 
a  printer's  caprice — or  a  poet's  inconsistency. 

102.  so  ill  well,  copy  his  defects  with  such  unkind  accuracy. 

103.  dry  hand,  bony  with  age. 

up  and  down,  completely,  in  all  details,  as  elsewhere  in  Shake- 
speare, e.g.  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  iv.  3 : 

"What's  this?  a  sleeve?  'tis  like  a  demi-cannon: 
What,  up  and  down,  carved  like  an  apple  tart?" 
107.  mum,  say  no  more — "mum,"  or  something  like  it,  being 
the  characteristic  sound  from  closed  lips. 

113.  That  I  was  disdainful.  Plainly  Beatrice  is  speaking  in  her 
own  person — an  indication  that  she  was  not  masked. 

114.  out  of  the  "Hundred  Merry  Tales,"  or,  as  a  modern  wit 
might  complain,  "that  I  got  all  my  stories  out  of  back  numbers 
of  Punch";  for  A  C.  Mery  Talys  had  been  drawn  upon  for 
sevenr>'-four  years,  the  original  edition  having  appeared  in  1526. 
The  book  has  a  singular  history.  It  was  often  quoted,  yet  it 
could  never  be  traced  until  an  imperfect  copy  was  discovered 
by  Prof.  Conybeare  of  Oxford  and  reprinted  in  18 14.  Another 
copy — perfect,  and  the  only  perfect  copy  known  to  exist — was 
discovered  still  later  in  the  library  at  Gottingen.  To  modern 
taste  anyone  might  reasonably  object  to  the  charge  of  relying 
upon  A  C.  Mery  Talys  for  wit.  It  contains  one  excellent  story 
and  a  few  good  ones;  but  of  wit  not  a  trace. 

116.   What's  he';'   A  clear  proof  that  Benedick  was  masked. 

Page  18 

122.  only  his  gift.  It  is  tempting  to  take  only  as  an  adjective 
here,  the  phrase  being  then  equivalent  to  his  otily  gift  is,  etc. 
I  am  sure,  however,  that  it  is  an  adverb.  Its  position  is  certainly 
adverbial,  as  in  Measure  for  Measure,  III.  i.  162:  "Angelo  had 
never  the  purpose  to  corrupt  her:  only  he  hath  made  an  assay 


sc.  I]  NOTES  115 

of  her  virtue  to  practise  his  judgment,  etc."  The  word  is  so 
much  used  in  the  plays  that  a  general  note  may  usefully  be  made 
about  it  here.  Grammarians  are  sometimes  over-anxious,  not 
to  say  pedantic,  about  the  position  of  only  in  a  sentence.  When 
Shakespeare  writes : 

"Of  this  matter, 

Is  little  Cupid's  crafty  arrow  made, 

That  only  wounds  by  hearsay," 

we  must  not  say  that  only  is  misplaced.  It  does  not  modify 
wounds,  and  it  does  not  modify  by  hearsay ;  it  modifies  the  whole 
statement,  wounds-by-hearsay ,  and  its  position  is  not  wrong. 
When  he  writes,  "I  will  only  be  bold  with  Benedick,"  he  does 
not  misplace  only,  because  what  is  modified  is  the-being-bold- 
with-Benedick.  Even  in  an  extreme  instance,  not  parallel  with 
those  quoted,  we  can  defend  the  popular  usage.  Most  of  those 
who  need  to  make  such  a  statement  would  say,  "  I  only  eat 
when  I  am  hungry."  This  looks  wrong,  and  apparently  we 
should  correct  it  to,  "I  eat  only  when  I  am  hungry" — which, 
however,  sounds  pedantic.  But  is  the  more  natural  form  wrong? 
The  sentence  is  really  a  blend  of  two  separate  statements, 
(i)  "  I  eat  when  I  am  hungr>',"  and  (2)  "  I  eat  at  no  other  time." 
It  is  (2)  that  is  represented  by  "only,"  which  therefore  modifies 
the  whole  statement  about  eating  and  is  not  wrongly  placed  in 
front  of  the  verb.  Those  who  wish  to  make  a  statement  about 
eating  as  distinguished  from  drinking  would  not  say,  "  I  only 
eat  when  I  am  hungry";  they  would  say,  "  I  never  drink  when 
I  am  hungry."  There  is  no  ambiguity-  in  the  popular  form  of 
the  sentence.  The  adverb  is  really  only-when-I-am-hungry, 
part  of  which  is  used  before  the  verb  and  part  after,  as  the 
French  use  ne...que — this  is  merely  a  rough  analogy,  not,  of 
course,  an  exact  parallel.  We  need  suffer  no  grammatical  pangs, 
therefore,  when  Shakespeare  writes,  "He  only  lived  but  till  he 
was  a  man,"  and  the  Bible  says,  "They  besought  him  that  they 
might  only  touch  the  hem  of  his  garment." 

18.  123.  libertines,  those  who  follow  inclinations  unrestrained 
by  decent  conventions. 

the  commetidation,  etc.  This  is  not  clear.  What  Beatrice  pro- 
bably means  is  something  like  this :"  It  is  his  wickedness  rather 
than  his  wit  that  is  enjoyed,  for  they  all  enjoy  his  libels  upon 
others  and  resent  his  libels  upon  themselves,  so  that  he  gets  both 
applause  and  detestation." 

126.  in  the  fleet,  etc.,  generally  explained  as  "  in  the  company 
here ;  I  wish  he  had  spoken  to  me,  that  I  might  have  told  him 
what  I  think  of  him";  for  boarded  see  Sir  Toby's  explanation 
to  Sir  Andrew  {Tivelfth  Night,  i.  3):   "You  mistake,  knight; 

8 — 2 


ii6  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  ii 

accost  is  front  her,  board  her,  woo  her,  assail  her."  The  latter 
part  is  clear;  what  is  not  convincing  is  the  use  of  "  Fleet"  (spelt 
with  a  capital  in  Q.,  F  i,  F  2,  F  3)  as  "company."  Shakespeare 
nowhere  uses  the  word  as  a  common  noun  except  to  mean  a 
company  of  ships  and  "boarded"  bears  out  the  nautical  idea. 
Perhaps  Beatrice  may  be  referring  to  the  company  of  maskers 
moving  up  and  down  in  the  garden,  their  dominos  bellying  like 
sails  in  the  breeze;  but  this  is  rather  fanciful.  In  Merchant  of 
Venice,  1. 1 ,  the  "  argosies  with  portly  sail "  are  likened  to  "  signiors 
and  rich  burghers  " ;  but  not  in  the  sense  of  personal  appearance. 
No  explanation  of  "  Fleet "  is  really  satisfactory.  Perhaps  it  em- 
bodied some  joke  of  the  moment. 

18.  130.  ire«/j  a  cr;wpamo«,  an  uncomplimentary  comparison, 
of  course,  which  he  would  metaphorically  break  against  her.  We 
still  talk  of  "  cracking  a  joke." 

134.  the  leaders,  of  the  dance  that  is  then  about  to  commence 
— a  contredanse  of  some  sort,  as  we  gather  by  a  later  reference 
to  the  "turning."  The.  stage-direction  in  Q.  is  that  given  in  the 
text,  and  it  implies  that  the  dance  took  place  on  the  stage,  and 
that  after  the  dance  the  company  retired  in  the  manner  described 
in  Don  John's  speech.  In  the  original  texts  there  is  no  direction 
for  John,  Borachio  and  Claudio  to  remain ;  I  have,  therefore, 
added  it.  Indeed,  much  more  significant  is  the  fact  that  neither 
Q.  nor  F.  gives  Borachio  an  entry.  We  may  perhaps  detect  a 
meaning  in  "We  must  follow  the  leaders,"  and  the  reply,  "In 
every  good  thing,"  for  "  the  leaders"  are  Hero  and  the  amorous 
Prince — amorous  as  Claudio 's  proxy.  The  stage-direction  in  F. 
is  first,  Exeunt  and  then,  quite  separate,  and  placed  a  line  below, 
Musicke  for  the  dance.  This  seems  to  imply  that  the  dance  takes 
place  "off,"  only  the  music  being  heard:  a  most  improbable 
arrangement.  If  that  reading  is  adopted,  the  following  speeches 
must  be  spoken  "through"  the  music.    Q.  is  better. 

138.  Sure  my  brother,  etc.  Not  an  easy  speech  to  explain, 
with  no  more  than  the  existing  text  to  guide  us.  John  has  already 
been  clearly  told  by  Borachio  that  Hero's  suitor  is  Claudio  and 
that  Pedro  is  merely  a  royal  and  persuasive  intermediary. 
Indeed  John's  own  readiness  to  interfere  is  confessedly  due  to 
his  hatred  of  Claudio.  One  explanation  offered  is  that  his 
remark  is  a  deliberate  suggestio  falsi  meant  to  reach  the  ears  of 
the  only  remaining  "visor,"  Claudio,  the  answer  of  Borachio 
being  uttered  sotto  voce.  The  first  suspicion  would  thus  be 
planted  in  the  jealous  mind  of  Claudio.  John's  later  speech 
when  he  pretends  to  mistake  Claudio  for  Benedick  gives  support 
to  this  view.  But  then  not  only  does  Claudio  know  all  about  the 
Prince's    pretended    amorousness:   John    himself  knows    that 


sc.  I]  NOTES  117 

Claudio  knows!  (see  i.  3).  Why  then  should  a  professional 
villain  begin  a  piece  of  villainy  by  telling  the  victim  something 
he  knows  the  victim  already  knows?  There  is,  I  fear,  no  satis- 
factory solution  of  the  problem  that  way.  A  more  probable 
explanation  is  that  Shakespeare  is  careless  about  the  minor 
details  of  the  plot  and,  having  already  given  two  inconsistent 
accounts  of  the  wooing,  is  just  as  ready  to  give  a  third.  I  suspect 
(see  Introduction)  that  Shakespeare  is  condensing  and  adapting 
an  old  play  or  story  of  wooing  by  proxy,  and  that  certain  in- 
consistent details  have  survived  the  abbreviation.  Thus,  John 
exclaims,  "  Come  let  us  to  the  banquet,"  although  we  know  that 
the  great  supper  is  over.  It  is  suggested,  however,  that  banquet 
here  means  a  dessert  or  lighter  portion  of  a  meal.  Thus  the 
company  has  a  "great  supper,"  a  dance,  and  then  a  "banquet." 
They  were  evidently  hearty  persons ;  but  perhaps  the  second 
banquet,  like  John's  speech,  is  a  trace  of  some  older  scene  im- 
perfectly assimilated.  It  should  be  noticed  that  Claudio  neither 
speaks  nor  dances  in  this  important  part  of  the  scene. 

18.  151.  to-night.  Sometimes  explained  as  modifying  swore, 
not  marry.  This  seems  to  me  a  very  proper  but  most  improbable 
explanation.  Either  the  Prince,  in  his  avowed  character  of  a 
strong  and  forcible  wooer,  did  swear  to  be  so  hasty,  or  else 
Borachio,  eager  to  corroborate  his  master,  invents  the  incident 
as  a  further  stimulus  to  Claudio 's  jealous  rage. 

Page  19 

153.  Thus  ansiver  I.  Claudio  at  once  proves  himself  the  com- 
plete gull.  He  is  ready  to  believe  the  worst  of  friend  or  lover 
at  the  bare  shadow  of  suggestion,  and  without  the  least  attempt 
at  original  inquiry. 

158.  Therefore  all  hearts,  etc.  An  imperative,  the  sense  being, 
"Use  your  own  tongues,  all  hearts  in  love!"  The  "let"  in  the 
next  line  indicates  this.  The  line  can  be  read  simply  as  a  state- 
ment; but  the  sentiment  hardly  becomes  a  man  who  is  love- 
making  by  proxy  at  his  own  desire. 

161.  faith  melteth  into  blood.  Blood  is  passion,  as  often  in 
Shakespeare.  The  passage  thus  means,  "Before  the  witchery  of 
beauty,  honour  melts  into  a  flood  of  passion."  The  thought  is 
the  same  as  Hamlet's,  "the  power  of  beauty  will  sooner  trans- 
form honesty  from  what  it  is  into  a  bawd  than  the  force  of 
honesty  can  translate  beauty  into  his  likeness."  The  imagery 
(as  Capell  suggests)  may  have  been  drawn  from  the  ancient 
device  of  making  a  waxen  image  of  a  person  one  wished  to 
injure.  Rossetti's  Sister  Helen,  with  its  opening  lines,  "Why 
did  you  melt  your  waxen  man,  Sister  Helen?"  will  occur  to  the 


ii8  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  ii 

reader.  But  Claudio,  surely,  was  the  last  man  with  any  right  to 
denounce  the  weak  faith  of  others. 

19.  163.  Which  1 7mstrusted  not.  Wright  explains  mistrusted  as 
suspected;  but  this  is  contrary  to  the  whole  tenor  of  Claudio 's 
speech ;  for  he  suspects  everybody,  and  declares  such  breaches 
of  faith  to  be  of  hourly  occurrence.  To  make  sense  of  the  line 
as  it  stands,  we  must  supply  some  qualification  like  "on  this 
occasion  " — "  although  I  know  this  constantly  happens,  I  had  no 
doubt  here."  The  Hne,  it  will  be  seen,  is  a  foot  too  long;  hut  the 
extra-metrical  use  of  a  concluding  proper  name  is  not  uncommon. 

164.  Count  Claudio.    Claudio  is  plainly  still  masked. 

168.  the  next  willow.   The  willow  is  the  traditional  symbol  of 

the  jilted  lover:  "In  such  a  night 

Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand 
Upon  the  wild  sea  banks  and  waft  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage." 

{Merchant  of  Venice,  V.  i.  9.) 

169.  county.    Count  (as  F.  gives  it). 

Tvhat  fashion.  Pedantically  written,  the  sentence  would  run 
"of  what  fashion  will  you  wear  the  garland.?" 

170.  usurer's  chain.  Explained  variously  as  an  alderman's  or 
mayor's  chain,  a  view  that  pessimistically  assumes  the  identity 
of  alderman  and  usurer ;  or  as  a  chain  actually  containing  some 
of  the  gold  with  which  the  usurer  did  business.  Compare  the 
interesting  passage  in  Richard  Whiteing's  Number  Five,  John 
Street,  describing  how  a  London  flower-girl  used  to  buy  wedding 
rings  as  a  means  of  saving  her  money — rings  being  easily 
strung  together  and  carried  for  safety  on  the  body,  and  wedding 
rings  being  so  near  pure  gold  as  to  be  easily  negotiable.  The 
first  explanation  is  the  more  probable.  Merchants  were  bankers 
too  in  older  times. 

174.  drovier,  drover,  like  Drapier  for  draper  in  the  famous 
Letters  of  Swift  (see  Glossary).  An  apt  comparison  of  Bene- 
dick's, for  Claudio  is  apparently  as  ready  to  part  with  Hero  as 
a  drover  is  willing  to  sell  bullocks.  Nobody  troubles  to  ascertain 
Hero's  own  view  of  the  transaction. 

178.  like  the  blind  man.  Since  Eschenberg  first  made  the 
suggestion  in  1778,  this  allusion  has  been  fathered  upon 
Lazarillo  de  Tormes,  a  popular  Spanish  romance  resembling 
the  later  French  Gil  Bias.  The  encyclopedic  Fumess  not  only 
quotes  the  story  of  Lazaro  and  a  blind  man  (a  stolen  sausage 
being  "the  meat"),  but,  after  expressing  a  definite  doubt  whether 
this  is  the  source  of  Benedick's  comparison,  roundly  declares 
that  "  there  is  no  jest  at  all  resembling  it  in  The  Hundred  Merry 


SCI]  NOTES  119 

Tales  or  in  any  of  the  numerous  Jest-Books  reprinted  by  W.  C. 
Hazlitt";  and  he  then  adds:  "At  the  same  time  we  must  re- 
member that  Lazarillo  de  Tormes  was  translated  by  David 
Rowlands  and  has  always  been  a  popular,  well-known  book." 
Later  editors  have  followed  Furness ;  but  he  and  they  are  quite 
wrong.  The  story  does  not  come  from  Lazarillo  and  it  certainly 
is  in  one  of  the  numerous  Jest-Books  reprinted  by  W.  C.  Hazlitt, 
namely,  the  Mery  Tales,  Wittie  Questions  and  Quiche  Answeres, 
Very  pleasant  to  Readde,  printed  by  H.  Wykes,  1567 — a  com- 
panion volume  to  the  famous  C.  Mery  Talys  described  in  a  note 
on  p.  114.  Tale  cxxxi  of  the  Mery  Tales  is  called  Of  the  blynde 
man  and  his  boye,  and  it  reads  thus :  A  certayne  poore  blynde 
man  in  the  countrey  was  ledde  by  a  curst  boy  to  an  house  where 
a  weddyng  was:  so  the  honest  folkes  gave  him  meate,  and  at 
last  one  gave  hym  a  legge  of  a  good  fatte  goose :  whiche  the  boy 
receyvyng  kept  a  syde,  and  did  eate  it  up  hym  selfe.  Anon  the 
blynde  man  saide:  lacke,  where  is  the  leg  of  the  goose?  What 
goose  (quod  the  boy)  ?  I  have  none.  Thou  liest  (quoth  the  blinde 
man),  I  dyd  smell  it.  And  so  they  wente  forth  chidyng  together, 
tyll  the  shrewde  boye  led  the  poore  man  against  a  post:  where 
hittyng  his  brow  a  great  blow,  he  cryed  out :  A  hoorson  boy,  what 
hast  thou  done?  Why  (quod  the  boy)  could  you  not  smell  the 
post,  that  was  so  nere,  as  wel  as  the  goose  that  was  so  farre  from 
your  nose? 

There  was  an  earlier  edition  of  the  Mery  Tales  but  it  is  much 
shorter  than  the  edition  of  1567  and  does  not  contain  the  present 
story. 

19.  181.  If  itwillnot  be.  The  general  meaning  is  clear, the  mind 
supplying  the  words  left  unsaid :  "  if  it  is  not  to  be  that  you  will 
let  me  alone,  as  I  ask  you,  I  will  go  away  myself."  And  he  goes. 

186.  base  {though  bitter).  It  is  Benedick  who  is  now  the  "  poor 
hurt  fowl."  "Base  (though  bitter)"  sounds  remarkably  like 
"poor,  but  honest."  What  antagonism  is  there?  If  we  under- 
stand "though"  to  be  equivalent  to  "or  rather,"  the  difficulty 
vanishes ;  for  Benedick  then  means  something  like  this :  "  Beatrice 
pretends  to  speak  for  the  world  when  she  calls  me  'the  prince's 
jester';  but  this  is  only  her  horrid — or  rather  her  sarcastic 
disposition."  It  is  permissible  to  be  bitter,  but  not  base.  The 
reading  of  though,  however,  as  equivalent  to  or  rather  is  rather 
a  violence. 

Page  20 

Enter  the  Prifice.  The  stage-direction  in  Q.  is  Enter  the  Prince, 
Hero,  Leonato,  John  and  Borachio,  and  Conrade.  F.  has  simply 
Enter  the  Prince.  If  John  and  his  coadjutors  enter  at  this  point 
they  are  silent,  and  obviously  hear  nothing  of  what  is  discussed. 


I20  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  ii 

Leonato  and  Hero  are  also  in  the  way.  We,  therefore,  adopt  the 
reading  of  F.  See  the  Introduction  for  a  full  discussion  of  this 
point. 

20.  192.  Lady  Fame.  Rumour,  "painted  full  of  tongues," 
and  all  of  them  false. 

193.  a  lodge  in  a  warren,  or,  as  we  might  say,  a  "lodge  in  a 
wilderness";  a  keeper's  hut,  remote  from  company,  and  there- 
fore melancholy. 

207.  bestowed  on  you.  A  bold  speech  for  Benedick  to  make  to 
his  sovereign.  Later,  he  is  equally  bold  when  he  declines  the 
Prince's  company.  Benedick  evidently  is  not  in  the  secret  of  the 
proxy  wooing. 

213.  quarrel  to  you,  towards  or  against  you. 

214.  the  gentleman  that  danc'd.  Benedick  himself,  of  course 
— as  Pedro  knew  quite  well. 

215.  wrong'd,  misrepresented. 

216.  misus'd,  misrepresented,  mis-called. 

217.  but  with  one  green  leaf,  barely  alive. 

221.  a  great  thaw.  The  comparison  is  not  apt,  and  certainly 
not  in  harmony  with  the  climate  of  Messina.  The  change  in  our 
English  winter  from  N.E.  to  S.W.  sometimes  induces  languor, 
but  hardly  dulness.  We  may  remark  that  Beatrice  did  not  say 
anything  like  this  in  the  conversation  here  reported. 

222.  such  impossible  conveyance;  "convey"  in  Shakespeare  is 
frequently  a  euphemism  for  "steal,"  and  a  "conveyer"  is  a 
thief.  "Conveyance"  is  thus  the  unadmirable  dexterity  that 
succeeds  in  inflicting  injuries  so  rapidly  that  the  victim  has  no 
chance  of  retort;  "impossible"  is  therefore  a  very  fitting 
adjective  and  needs  none  of  the  suggested  emendations.  It  is 
used  again,  in  just  this  sense  of  "incredible,"  in  Twelfth  Night, 
III.  2,  where  Maria,  describing  the  antics  of  Malvolio  says,  "no 
Christian,  that  means  to  be  saved  by  believing  rightly,  can  ever 
believe  such  impossible  passages  of  grossness." 

a  man  at  a  mark,  the  marker  at  the  butts,  safe  from  the  good 
shots  and  only  in  danger  from  the  wild  ones. 

Page  21 

224.  if  her  breath.  Reference  to  foul  breath  is  not  uncommon 
in  Shakespeare — the  most  ungallant  being  that  in  Sonnet  cxxx : 
"And  in  some  perfumes  is  there  more  delight 
Than  in  the  breath  that  from  my  mistress  reeks." 
Beatrice's  "terminations"  are  her  terms,  her  epithets,  her 
phrases.    Benedick   therefore  means,  "  If  her  breath  were  as 
horribly  foul  as  her  invective  there  would  be  no  living  in  the 
same  world  with  her." 


sc.  I]  NOTES  121 

21.  226.  /  would  not  marry  her;  dramatic  irony,  for  we  are 
sure  that  he  will. 

228.  had  left  him,  had  given  or  bequeathed  to  him,  i.e. 
everything. 

229.  have  turn'd  spit,  as  he  turned  Omphale's  spinning-wheel, 
and  endured  other  indignities  from  that  Queen,  who  tyrannized 
over  her  mighty  lover. 

231.  infernal  Ate.  Ate  is  the  goddess  who,  as  Homer  tells 
in  Iliad,  xix,  created  such  strife  that  Zeus  "seized  her  by  her 
bright-haired  head  in  the  anger  of  his  soul,  and  sware  a  mighty 
oath  that  never  again  to  Olympus  and  the  starry  heaven  should 
Ate  come,  who  blindeth  all  alike.  He  said,  and  whirling  her  in 
his  hand  flung  her  from  the  starrv^  heaven,  and  quickly  came  she 
down  among  the  works  of  men."  Here  below  (or  lower)  she 
became  the  goddess  of  Strife  and  Discord.  Shakespeare  makes 
several  allusions  to  her.  The  new  Ate  is  "in  good  apparel," 
doubtless  because  the  original,  after  being  whirled  out  of  heaven 
by  the  hair  of  her  head,  might  be  presumed  to  have  suffered 
some  "disorder  in  the  dress." 

232.  some  scholar,  someone  who  knew  Latin,  the  only  language 
that  evil  spirits  recognized.  "  Get  thee  behind  me,"  exclaims 
the  admirable  and  alarmed  Dominie  to  Meg  in  Chapter  XLVI 
of  Guy  Mannering:  Conjuro  te,  scelestissima — nequissima — 
spurcissima — iniquissima — atque — miserrima — conjuro  te  !  Con- 
juro, abjuro,  contestor,  atque  viriliter  impero  tibi! — but  Meg 
merely  thought  it  was  French,  a  clear  proof  (if  there  were  no 
other)  that  she  was  not  an  evil  spirit.  Benedick  becomes  a  little 
confused  in  his  excitement.  What  he  means  is  this :  "  She  makes 
a  hell  of  earth,  therefore  I  wish  some  exorcist  would  send  her 
back  to  hell;  other\vise,  hell  without  her  will  be  as  quiet  as  a 
sanctuary,  and  people  will  sin  purposely  to  go  there  in  order  to 
escape  the  discord  she  causes  here."  People  have  been  found  to 
take  Benedick's  embroideries  seriously. 

Enter  Claudio,  etc.  This  is  the  reading  of  F.  Q.  has  merely 
Enter  Claudio  and  Beatrice. 

239.  the  world's  end.  Here  in  these  mock-heroic  flourishes  of 
Benedick  we  get  glimpses  of  the  lands  east  of  the  Sun  and  west 
of  the  Moon,  as  seen  by  those  who  lived  in  an  almost  magically 
expanding  world.  It  was  in  the  year  of  Much  Ado,  remember,  that 
the  East  India  Company  received  its  Charter.  The  "  world's  end" 
was  further  off  than  it  had  been.  "  Farthest  from  thee  is  best," 
says  Benedick  in  effect,  apostrophizing  the  approaching  Beatrice. 

240.  the  Antipodes,  people  rather  than  places,  as  we  may  see 
by  reference  to  familiar  lines  m.  Midsummer-Night's  Dream,  iii. 
2;  Merchant  of  Venice,  v.  i ;  Rich.  II,  III.  2. 


122  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  ii 

21.  241.  tooth-picker,  merely  a  variant  of  toothpick. 

242.  Prester  John's  foot.  "Prester"  is  but  old  "presbyter" 
writ  small.  Purchas  even  calls  him  "Priest  John,"  and  Rabelais 
promised  (ii.  34)  to  tell  us  how  Pantagruel  "espousa  la  fille  du 
roy  d'Inde,  diet  Prestre  Jean."  Rabelais  unfortunately  failed 
to  keep  this  promise;  otherwise  he  would  certainly  have  men- 
tioned the  length  of  that  potentate's  foot.  Prester  John  has  a 
long  history  and  has  lived  in  many  centuries  and  cities.  Some 
allege  that  he  belongs  to  Abyssinia,  where  he  reigned  as  a 
descendant  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba  and  Solomon  (whose  ring 
he  wore),  his  name,  according  to  Selden,  being  "Belul  Gian," 
or  "  precious  stone,"  which  by  translation  and  adaptation 
became  "Precious  John"  and  finally  "Prester  John."  It  is 
unnecessary  in  a  note  to  pursue  Prester  John  in  all  his  mani- 
festations and  through  all  his  local  habitations  from  Asia  Minor 
to  Far  Cathay.  What  is  highly  probable  is  that  his  personality 
is  derived  from  the  Grand  Lama  of  Tibet,  and  the  legend  of  his 
Christian  empire  from  the  remarkable  adventures  of  Nestorian 
Christianity  in  China,  dating  from  the  first  missionary  enter- 
prise in  the  seventh  century.  The  reader  desirous  of  pursuing 
this  strange  story  should  consult  Legge's  Christianity  in  China, 
Yule's  Cathay,  and  (for  other  aspects  of  Prester  John)  Howarth's 
History  of  the  Mongols.  Gibbon  (chap.  XLVii)  is  an  easily  avail- 
able summary.  Gibbon  remarks  characteristically  that  "the 
fame  of  Prester  or  Presbyter  John  has  long  amused  the  credulity 
of  Europe."  It  certainly  amused  Europe  in  the  Travels  of  the 
probably  fabulous  Sir  John  Mandeville,  alleged  to  belong  to  the 
fourteenth  century,  for  an  abundance  of  MSS  testifies  to  great 
popularity.  Mandeville  tells  us  many  marvels  about  Prester 
John  but  notes  nothing  extraordinary  about  his  feet.  Marco 
Polo  is  equally  silent. 

243.  the  Great  Cham's  beard.  The  great  Cham  is  the  Khan  or 
Great  Lord  of  the  Tartar  hordes.  "The  most  successful  of  the 
Tartar  princes  assumed  the  military  command,  to  which  he  was 
entitled  by  the  superiority  either  of  merit  or  of  power.  He  was 
raised  to  the  throne  by  the  acclamations  of  his  equals ;  and  the 
title  of  Khan  expresses,  in  the  language  of  the  North  of  Asia, 
the  full  extent  of  the  regal  dignity,"  Gibbon,  chap.  xxvi.  The 
Tartar  is  proverbially  whiskered,  and  to  bring  a  hair  from  some 
powerful  monster  is  a  traditional  impossible  labour — see,  for 
instance,  the  story  of  Kilhzvch  and  Olwen  in  The  Mabinogion. 

244.  the  Pigmies.  The  pygmies  were  "that  small  infantry 
warr'd  on  by  cranes"  mentioned  in  Par.  Lost,  Bk  i,  1.  575,  and 
taken  by  Milton  from  Iliad,  in:  "the  Trojans  marched  with 
clamour  and  with  shouting  like  unto  birds,  even  as  when  there 


sc.  I]  NOTES  123 

goeth  up  before  heaven  a  clamour  of  cranes  which  flee  from  the 
coming  of  winter  and  sudden  rain,  and  fly  with  clamour  towards 
the  streams  of  Ocean,  bearing  slaughter  and  fate  to  the  Pygmy 
men."  The  Ilfy/idiot  were  a  Truy^ir;' (13I- inches)  tall.  They  were 
probably  monkeys — as  Marco  Polo  himself  suggested.  Marco 
Polo  had  been  translated  into  English  in  1579. 

21.  245.  harpy.  The  harpies  were  the  fabulous  creatures,  half- 
women  and  half-birds,  who  tormented  Phineus  (prophet  old  and 
blind)  by  carrying  off  his  food.  Ariel  impersonates  a  harpy  in 
The  Tempest.  Beatrice  was  likened  to  a  harpy  no  doubt  on 
account  of  her  virulence. 

248.  7ny  Lady  Tongue.  Benedick's  third  coinage  of  the  sort, 
the  earlier  two  being  "my  dear  Lady  Disdain"  and  "Lady 
Fame."   There  are  others. 

251.  he  lejit  it  me  awhile.  For  an  explanation  of  this  see  the 
Introduction. 

255.  put  him  dozvti,  put  him  out  of  countenance— as  Maria 
did  Sir  Andrew. 

Page  22 

258.  I  have  brought.  This  mission  of  hers  is  not  mentioned  in 
the  play.  It  is  a  device  to  bring  both  her  and  Claudio  on  the 
stage. 

265.  civil.  Observe  the  pun  here  on  "Seville."  Cotgrave 
defines  aigre-douce  as  "A  civile  Orange,  that  is  between  sweet 
and  sower."  Shakespeare  joins  "sad  and  civil"  in  Olivia's 
description  of  Malvolio;  but  the  present  direct  reference  to 
"orange"  leaves  no  doubt  that  a  pun  was  intended. 

266.  jealous  complexion,  yellow  is  traditionally  associated  with 
jealousy. 

267.  blazon,  a  blazon  is  technically  a  coat  of  arms,  or  heraldic 
shield  or  banner ;  hence  it  is  also  the  proper  heraldic  description 
of  armorial  bearings.  Here,  as  elsewhere  in  Shakespeare,  it 
means  a  notable  description  or  proclamation  of  qualities.  The 
touch  of  colour  in  Beatrice's  speech  makes  the  word  very  apt  here. 

268.  conceit,  fancy,  supposition,  imagination,  as  always  in 
Shakespeare. 

271.  God  give  thee  joy,  the  traditional  marriage  wish. 

275.  all  grace,  the  heavenly  source  of  grace. 

276.  cue,  spelt  Qu  in  Q.  and  F. 

277.  herald,  spelt  herault  in  Q.  and  F. 

281.  Speak  cousin.  The  most  remarkable  fact  about  Hero  is 
that  she  seems  never  to  speak.  Perhaps  the  constant  com- 
panionship of  Beatrice  has  reduced  her  to  silence.  Claudio,  too, 
is  scarcely  gracious  at  such  a  moment. 

284.  poor  Jool,  a  term  of  endearment,  used  with  almost  un- 


124  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  ii 

bearable  pathos  in  Lear's  dying  exclamation  about  Cordelia. 
"And  my  poor  fool  is  hanged !" 

22.  285.  zt^mdy  5tWe,  the  side  from  which  the  wind  comes,  and 
so  the  side  of  greatest  tactical  advantage.  In  boat-sailing  you 
endeavour  to  get  to  windward  of  your  opponent  and  so  "take 
the  wind  out  of  his  sails." 

286.  her  heart.    F.  reads  "my  heart." 

288.  Good  Lord  for  alliance.  Probably  an  exclamation  meaning 
(ironically)  "Heaven  send  me  a  marriage,  too."  The  objection 
seems  to  be  that  Shakespeare  uses  "alliance"  several  times,  but 
never  to  mean  the  marriage  of  individuals :  families  or  factions 
are  allied  by  marriage,  individuals  are  wedded.  But,  though 
weighty,  the  objection  is  not  final.  Beatrice  was  as  likely  to  call 
herself  "an  alliance"  as  "a  marriage,"  especially  in  her  present 
mock-heroic  vein.  At  any  rate,  this  explanation  fits  the  facts. 
Capell's  view,  shared  by  some,  is  that  the  phrase  is  a  retort  to 
Claudio's  use  of  "cousin,"  the  meaning  being,  "Good  Lord, 
here  have  I  got  a  new  cousin."  This  does  not  sound  very 
probable  to  me,  nor  does  it  fit  so  well  with  the  conclusion — 
such  as  it  is. 

289.  to  the  zvorld.  "  To  go  to  the  world  "  is  evidently  a  phrase 
for  "To  get  married" — i.e.  to  follow  the  way  of  the  world,  to 
marry  and  beget  children,  something  in  the  sense  of  As  Yoii  Like 
It,  III.  2 :  "  I  drove  my  suitor  from  his  mad  humour  of  love  to  a 
living  humour  of  madness :  which  was,  to  forswear  the  full 
stream  of  the  world  and  to  live  in  a  nook  merely  monastic." 
Later  in  the  same  play  (v.  3)  Audrey  says:  "  I  hope  it  is  no  dis- 
honest desire  to  desire  to  be  a  woman  of  the  world."  A  more 
striking  parallel,  however,  occurs  in  All's  Well,  I.  3,  where  the 
Clown,  desiring  to  get  married,  says:  "If  I  may  have  your 
ladyship's  good  will  to  go  to  the  world,  Isbel  the  woman  and  I 
will  do  as  we  may." 

/  am  sunburnt.  No  really  satisfactory  explanation  of  this 
has  ever  been  offered.  The  same  expression  of  disparagement 
occurs  in  Tro.  and  Cress.  1.3.  280,  etc.,  where  Aeneas  delivers 
the  challenge  of  Hector  to  the  Greeks: 

"If  any  come,  Hector  shall  honour  him: 
If  none,  he'll  say  in  Troy  when  he  retires, 
The  Grecian  dames  are  sunburnt  and  not  worth 
The  splinter  of  a  lance." 
It  is  deserving  of  notice  that  old  Nestor,  in  replying  to  the 
message,  declares  that,  if  no  one  else  will  take  up  Hector's 
challenge,  he  will, 

"And  meeting  him  will  tell  him  that  my  lady 
Was  fairer  than  his  grandam,  and  as  chaste." 


sc.  I]  NOTES  125 

Obviously  the  expression  means  something  more  than  that 
blondes  were  considered  handsome  and  brunettes  were  not. 
That  is  certainly  true;  but  it  is  only  part  of  the  truth.  "Sun- 
burnt" is  the  opposite  of  "fair"  in  all  senses,  fair  in  face  and 
fair  in  fame.  It  has  something  like  the  meaning  of  "  tarnished." 
Another  quotation  may  illustrate  the  passage : 

"  Ham.  For  if  the  sun  breed  maggots  in  a  dead  dog,  being  a 
god  kissing  carrion, — Have  you  a  daughter? 

Pol.  I  have,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Let  her  not  walk  i'  the  sun...." 

The  story  of  Danae  is  also  to  the  point.  If  it  be  objected  that 
Beatrice  was  not  likely  to  say  such  a  thing,  we  can  only  add  that 
it  is  hard  to  know  just  where  Beatrice,  in  her  expansive  humour, 
would  draw  the  line. 

22.  290.  Heigh-ho  for  a  husband.  Malone  gives  the  title  of  an  old 
ballad  in  the  Pepysian  Collection  at  Magdalene  College:  "Hey 
ho,  for  a  Husband.  Or  the  willing  Maids  wants  made  known." 
Wright  quotes  another  allusion  to  it  in  Burton's  Anatomy  of 
Melancholy  (1651,  p.  565):  "Hai-ho  for  a  husband,  cries  she, 
a  bad  husband,  nay  the  worst  that  ever  was  is  better  than 
none." 

Page  23 

295.  Will  you  have  me  ?  In  Bandello's  story,  and  in  fact, 
Pedro  was  married. 

299.  no  matter,  no  solid  stuff,  therefore,  no  sound  sense. 

304.  a  star  danc'd.  Wright  says,  "As  the  sun  was  supposed 
to  do  on  Easter  Day."   The  best  known  allusion  is  Suckling's: 

' '  Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat. 
Like  little  mice,  stole  in  and  out. 

As  if  they  fear'd  the  light: 
But  O  she  dances  such  a  way ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter-day 
Is  half  so  fine  a  sight." 

In  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  Vulgar  Errors,  Bk  V,  chap.  XXIII,  14 
(ed.  Wilkins)  we  read:  "We  shall  not,  I  hope,  disparage  the 
resurrection  of  our  Redeemer,  if  we  say  the  sun  doth  not  dance 
on  Easter-day.  And  though  we  would  willingly  assent  unto  any 
sympathetical  exultation,  yet  cannot  conceive  therein  any  more 
than  a  tropical  expression.  Whether  any  such  motion  there  were 
in  that  day  wherein  Christ  arose,  Scripture  hath  not  revealed, 
which  hath  been  punctual  in  other  records  concerning  solary 
miracles ;  and  the  Areopagite,  that  was  amazed  at  the  eclipse, 
took  no  notice  of  this." 


126  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  ii 

23.  308.  by  your  Grace's  pardon,  Beatrice's  request  to  be 
allowed  to  leave  the  royal  presence. 

310.  the  melancholy  element.  The  "humours"  of  the  body, 
according  to  Elizabethan  physiology,  were  blood,  phlegm, 
choler,  and  melancholy.  According  as  these  were  tempered, 
the  corresponding  dispositions  were  sanguine,  phlegmatic, 
choleric,  and  melancholic. 

313.  unhappiness .  At  first  sight  this  looks  like  a  mistake;  but 
the  meaning  is,  "  She  is  so  little  given  to  sadness,  that  even  in 
her  dreams  she  laughs  away  imhappiness."  As  a  modern  would 
say,  happiness  predominates  even  in  the  unconscious. 

317.  out  of  suit.  Deighton  suggests  that  a  legal  quibble  is 
used  here — that  she  non-suits  her  suitors. 

325.  a  just  seven-night,  an  exact  week.  The  word,  pronounced 
"sennight,"  continued  to  be  used  quite  late  in  the  nineteenth 
century.  The  dramatic  reason  for  the  delay  is  given  in  the 
next  speech. 

327.  a  breathing,  we  say  "a  breathing  space." 

Page  24 

331.  th'one,  "one"  is  pronounced  like  the  first  syllable  of 
"only." 

334.  give  yuu  direction.  There  is  either  too  much  or  too  little 
here.  "As  I  shall  direct"  would  be  enough;  "as  I  shall  give  you 
direction"  seems  to  lack  a  concluding  preposition. 

339.  any  modest  office.  Hero's  remark  is  a  little  prudish — even 
a  little  uncalled-for.  But  the  adjective  serves  to  emphasize  the 
shocking  effect  of  the  charge  made  against  her. 

313.  strain,  descent. 
approved,  tried,  attested. 
confirmed,  well-founded. 

honesty,  not,  of  course,  in  its  present  restricted  sense,  but 
like  the  Latin  honestas,  honour. 

340.  practise,  play  tricks  or  use  devices,  as  the  lord  says  of 
poor  Christopher  Sly  (Taming  of  the  Shrew,  Ind.  1.  36): 

"Sirs,  I  will  practise  on  this  drunken  man." 
The    corresponding    noun    is    similarly   used,   as    in    Tivelfth 
Night,  V.  I.  360,  where  Olivia  says  to  Malvolio: 

"This  practice  hath  most  shrewdly  pass'd  upon  thee." 
347.  queasy  stoinach,  inclined  to  sickness;  a  reference  to  his 
supposed  constitutional  dislike  of  women. 


sc.  II]  NOTES  127 


Scene  II 

No  change  marked  in  Q.  or  F.  "A  front-stage  scene... the 
time  is  either  Monday,  late  at  night,  or  Tuesday  in  the  morning" 
(Boas).  Don  John  and  his  henchmen  have  a  chronic  habit, 
apparently,  of  hearing  false  news,  or  only  a  misleading  part  of 
the  news.  Undoubtedly  the  clumsiest  scenes  of  the  play  are 
those  in  which  these  improbable  persons  appear. 

24.  1.  shall  marry,  is  to  marry;  "shall"  is  used  with  all  per- 
sons in  Shakespeare,  and  not  merely  with  the  first,  as  now. 

3.  cross  it,  thwart  it. 

5.  medcinable,  curative,  medicinal;  pronounced  med-cinable. 
I  have  kept  the  spelling  of  Q. 

6.  ranges  evetily,  accords;  affection  means  desire  or  inclination 
as  well  as  love. 

11.  a  year  since,  another  Uttle  hint  of  "time  before"  in  the 
present  play. 

Page  25 

19.  to  te?nper,  to  mingle — see  note  on  11.  i.  310. 
23.  a  contaminated  stale,  an  unchaste  woman. 

25.  misuse,  deceive. 

vex,  a  much  stronger  word  then  than  now. 

26.  undo,  ruin. 

2^.  find  me,  the  "ethical  dative"  again;  Borachio  means, 
simply,  "  find  a  fitting  time  to  draw,  etc." 

31.  intend,  pretend. 

32.  as  in  love,  etc.  Q.  (followed  in  the  main  by  F.)  reads  thus : 
"intend  a  kind  of  zeale  both  to  the  prince  &  Claudio  (as  in  love 
of  your  brothers  honor  who  hath  made  this  match)  and  his  friends 
reputation,  who  is  thus  like  to  bee  cosen'd  with  the  semblance 
of  a  maid,  that  you  have  discover 'd  thus:  etc."  The  general 
meaning  is  clear,  but  the  structure  is  not.  Capell  re-punctuated 
the  passage,  his  main  alteration  being  to  move  the  first  bracket 
between  "as"  and  "in"  and  to  put  the  last  after  "maid."  In 
Steevens  (1793)  it  therefore  appears  thus :  "  intend  a  kind  of  zeal 
both  to  the  Prince  and  Claudio,  as^in  love  of  your  brother's 
honour  who  hath  made  this  match;  and  his  friend's  reputation, 
who  is  thus  likely  to  be  cozen'd  with  the  semblance  of  a  maid, — 
that  you  have  disco ver'd  thus."  That  "maid"  is  the  logical  end 
of  the  parenthesis  is  undeniable;  but  what  is  the  beginning?  On 
Capell 's  interpretation  (and  he  has  been  followed  by  most  other 
editors),  "as"  becomes  equivalent  to  "for  example,"  and  is 


128         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  ii 

connected  with  the  very  remote  "  that  you  have  discover 'd,"  the 
meaning  then  being,  "for  example,  that  you  have  discovered 
thus:  etc."  But  the  question  arises,  how  can  John  be  said  to 
have  made  this  discovery  in  love  of  his  brother's  honour?  If 
he  had  really  made  such  a  discovery,  he  would  have  made  it,  so 
to  speak,  absolutely,  not  relatively.  It  seems  to  me  a  much  better 
reading  to  leave  the  beginning  of  the  parenthesis  as  in  Q.: 
"(as  in  love,  etc."  the  meaning  then  being,  "intend  a  kind  of 
zeal  both  to  the  prince  and  Claudio,  as  if  in  love  of  your  brother's 
honour,  etc."  But  this  reading  leaves  the  dependent  clause 
"  that  you  have  discovered  thus,  '  apparently  unconnected.  Only 
apparently,  however;  for  it  is  plainly  a  rhetorical  repetition  of 
"that  you  know  that  Hero  loves  me" — a  resumption  of  the 
original  form  of  the  sentence  broken  by  the  long  parenthesis. 
In  other  words,  all  that  is  needed  is  to  understand  a  repetition 
of  "tell  them"  before  "that  you  have  discovered  thus." 

25.   30.  instances,  proofs,  facts. 

39.  term  me  Claudio.  Another  difficulty  in  a  difficult  passage. 
The  obvious  emendation  is  to  change  "  Claudio  "  to  "  Borachio  " ; 
and  Theobald  first  made  the  suggestion.  On  the  whole  it  is  the 
best  solution  of  an  insoluble  difficulty.  Borachio  (at  the  plain 
risk  of  being  slain  by  the  infuriated  Claudio)  is  quite  willing 
that  his  name  should  be  mentioned  with  Hero's,  for  the  sugges- 
tion is  actually  made  by  him  in  the  present  speech.  The  objection 
to  this  reading  is  that  Margaret  is  supposed  to  be  innocent. 
Borachio  declares  it,  Leonato,  with  some  natural  qualification, 
admits  it,  and  she  appears  as  a  cheerful  chatterbox,  joking  with 
Hero  on  the  very  morning  of  the  tragedy  she  has  helped  to  cause. 
Why,  then,  should  she  let  herself  be  called  Hero?  Well,  it  may 
be  observed  that  a  lady  who  will  let  Borachio  persuade  her  to 
appear  at  a  window  "at  any  unseasonable  instant  of  the  night," 
might  easily  let  herself  be  called  Hero  in  fun,  and  might  even 
call  Borachio  Claudio  in  fun ;  for  the  suddenly  proposed  marriage 
between  Hero  and  Claudio  may  be  assumed  to  be  the  universal 
topic  of  conversation  in  the  household.  The  fact  is  that  the  story 
is  here  very  faulty,  and  no  substitution  of  one  name  for  another 
will  remove  the  difficulties.  The  passage  is  another  indication 
that  the  play  was  hastily  written  or  adapted.  In  Bandello's 
story,  the  rejected  lover  Girondo  employs  a  young  man  to  tell 
Timbreo  of  Fenicia's  infidehty,  and  the  young  man  takes  the 
precaution  (which  Shakespeare  overlooks)  of  exacting  from 
Timbreo  a  promise  of  indemnity  for  himself  and  his  employer. 
Moreover,  though  another  young  man  is  dressed  to  impersonate 
the  supposed  gallant  at  night,  there  is  no  impersonation  of 
Fenicia — there  is  no  equivalent  to  Margaret  in  the  story.   Ban- 


sc.  II]  NOTES  129 

dello's  tale  is  well-fashioned  and  entirely  credible.  The  im- 
personation of  Hero  by  Margaret  is  apparently  taken  from 
Ariosto's  story,  or  the  play  of  Ariodante  and  Genevra  based 
upon  it  (see  Introduction).  But  in  Ariosto,  Dalinda  (the  equi- 
valent to  Margaret)  is  the  mistress  of  Polinesso  (the  villain), 
and  is  accustomed  to  admit  him  frequently  to  the  house  by  means 
of  a  rope-ladder  she  lets  down  from  a  window.  She  is  persuaded 
by  him  (though  she  does  not  clearly  understand  why)  to  come 
to  the  window  one  night  in  Genevra's  clothes— Polinesso,  it 
should  be  understood,  being  desirous  of  wedding  Genevra,  and 
actually  using  his  mistress  to  plead  his  suit  with  her  lady.  This 
arranged,  Polinesso  goes  himself  to  Ariodant  (Claudio),  asks 
the  knight  why  he  should  intrude  into  a  love-affair  already 
settled,  and  arranges  to  give  him  ocular  proof  of  the  relations 
between  Genevra  and  himself.  Obser\'e  the  difference  in  the 
stories.  In  Ariosto  there  is  a  guilty  impersonating  woman,  and 
no  impersonating  man;  in  Bandello  there  is  an  impersonating 
man  and  no  impersonating  woman.  Shakespeare  tries  to  use  the 
guilty,  impersonating  lady  of  Ariosto,  and  the  disguised,  sham 
gallant  of  Bandello,  and  then  declares  the  impersonating  lady 
innocent.  The  result  is  a  tangle  that  cannot  be  set  straight.  The 
only  solution  is  to  read  Borachio  for  Claudio,  and  to  think  as 
charitably  of  Margaret  as  we  can. 

25.  41.  I  will  so  fashion  the  matter.  Nothing  more  is  heard  of 
this,  and  apparently  no  special  importance  is  to  be  attached  to 
the  sentence. 

43.  disloyalty,  specific  unfaithfulness  in  love. 

jealousy  shall  be  calVd  assurance,  "suspicion  shall  be  called 
certainty"  (Wright).  Malcolm's  words  {Macbeth,  iv.  3.  29), 
"  I  pray  you,  let  not  my  jealousies  be  your  dishonours,  but  mine 
own  safeties,"  exhibit  clearly  the  Elizabethan  general  meaning 
as  opposed  to  our  restricted  modem  meaning  oi  jealousy. 

44.  all  the  preparation,  for  the  marriage. 

45 .  Grow  this,  let  this  grow — a  form  of  the  imperative  common 
in  Shakespeare. 

46.  in  the  zvorking  this.  A  form  common  in  Shakespeare,  e.g. 
Macbeth,  i.  4.  8: 

"  Nothing  in  his  Ufe 
Became  him  like  the  leaving  it." 

If  zvorking  is  a  participle,  we  should  expect,  "be  cunning  in 
working  this";  if  it  is  a  verbal  noun,  we  should  expect  "be 
cunning  in  the  working  of  this."  The  Shakespearean  form  is 
a  blend  of  both  constructions ;  zvorking  is  therefore  a  verbal  noun 
taking  an  object.  Abbott,  Shakespearian  Grammar  (par.  93) 
has  a  long  historical  note  on  the  construction. 

SMA  o 


130  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  ii 

25.  47.  ducats.  It  is  difficult  to  assign  an  exact  value  to  this  very 
Shakespearean  coin.  The  gold  ducat  may  be  taken  as  something 
between  seven  and  ten  shillings.  A  silver  coin  known  as  a  ducato 
(more  correctly  perhaps  as  ducalis)  was  struck  in  Apulia  by 
Roger  II  of  Sicily  in  11 40.  It  bears  on  the  obverse  a  bust  of 
Christ  with  the  inscription  IC  xc  RE  IN  aetrn  {Jesus  Christus 
regnat  in  aeternum);  on  the  reverse  the  figures  of  Roger  II  and 
his  son  Roger,  Duke  of  Apulia,  standing,  holding  a  cross,  with 
the  inscription  R  •  R  •  SLE  •  (Rogeriiis  Rex  Siciliae)  and  alongside 
the  cross  anrx  {anno  regni  decimo).  The  gold  ducat  was  first 
struck  at  Venice  in  accordance  with  the  decree  of  31  Oct.  1284. 
It  bears  the  inscription  sit  tibi  xpe  datvs  qve.m  tv  regis  iste 
DUCATVS — "To  thee  O  Christ  be  given  this  duchy  which  thou 
rulest."  The  silver  coin  struck  first  by  Enrico  Dandolo  in  1202 
was  also  at  first  called  ducat,  afterwards  grosso,  but  it  does  not 
bear  the  ducatus  inscription.  The  name  thus  came  from  Roger's 
ducatus  or  duchy  of  Apulia,  and  was  confirmed  by  the  Venetian 
ducatus  inscription.  At  least  there  appears  to  be  no  coin  earlier 
than  Roger's  called  ducat. 

48.  Be  you  constant.  F.  has  "be  thou";  Q.  is  obviously  better. 


Scene  III 
Page  26 

No  change  marked  in  Q.  or  F.  "A  full-stage  scene  as  in  i.  i 

the  time  of  this  scene  is  probably  Saturday  evening"  (Boas). 
The  suggestion  is  quite  sound,  but  there  is  no  definite  indication 
in  the  text.   Plainly,  several  days  have  elapsed. 

Enter  Benedick  alone.  Thus  Q.  and  F.  The  "alone,"  which 
some  modern  editors  omit,  is  surely  intended.  We  are  to  imagine 
Benedick  first  musing  in  silence.  No  provision  is  made  for  the 
boy's  entry — the  present  stage-direction  is  ours ;  but  he  may  be 
supposed  to  be  Benedick's  page,  near  at  hand  and  coming  when 
called.  Boas  finds  in  the  reference  to  "a  book"  proof  of  Bene- 
dick's literary  tastes;  but  as  the  boy  never  returns  and  is,  so  to 
speak,  still  searching,  we  must  not  be  too  optimistic  about  a 
remark  that  is  merely  a  device  for  getting  rid  of  the  boy :  Bene- 
dick desires  to  be  alone  with  his  apprehensive  thoughts  about 
matrimony.  Why,  it  may  be  asked,  is  the  boy  introduced  at  all? 
Plainly  because  a  little  conversation,  embodying  the  kind  of 
quibble  so  loved  of  Elizabethans  (and  Shakespeare),  is  a  better 
opening  for  a  scene  than  a  long  soliloquy.  Probably  Benedick 
appeared  alone,  had  a  few  moments  of  semi-comic  gesture  in 


sc.  Ill]  NOTES  131 

silence,  and  then  called  for  the  boy,  who  was,  no  doubt,  an 
amusingly  diminutive  imp,  like  Falstaff's  page.  His  appearance 
and  the  quibble  raised  a  laugh  and  so  struck  the  right  note  for 
the  scene. 

26.  5.  /  am  here  already.  "  I  shall  be  gone  and  back  again  in  an 
instant."  In  Q.  and  F.  the  exit  is  placed  at  the  end  of  the  boy's 
speech,  as  if  Benedick's  rather  second-rate  quibble  were  uttered 
to  nobody.  But  Benedick's  speech  is  a  solid  block  of  prose,  and 
the  printers  would  not  be  anxious  to  break  it  with  an  exit. 

9.  behaviours,  points  of  bearing  or  deportment — such  as 
Malvolio  practised  to  his  own  shadow. 

11.  argument,  subject. 

14.  tabor,  small  drum  or  tambourine.  The  drum  and  fife  are 
martial,  the  pipe  and  tabor  pastoral.  Furness  aptly  quotes 
Aubrey:  "When  I  was  a  boy,  before  the  late  civill  warres,  the 
tabor  and  pipe  were  commonly  used,  especially  Sundays  and 
Holydayes,  and  at  Christnings  and  Feasts. ...Now  it  is  almost 
lost ;  the  drumme  and  trumpet  have  putte  that  peacable  musique 
to  silence." 

15.  ten  mile. ..ten  nights.  It  is  curious  how  we  always  tend  to 
drop  the  plural  form  in  measures  of  distance.  To  this  day,  a 
carpenter  carries  a  "two-foot  rule"  and  is  "six  foot"  tall;  but 
he  doesn't  work  for  "eight  hour"  a  day. 

16.  carving.  Shaping — in  his  mind's  eye,  of  course.  The 
doublet  was  the  waisted  jacket  of  Elizabethan  dress.  The 
dandyism  of  the  Elizabethan  gallant  was  a  constant  theme  of 
jest. 

19.  orthography.  "Now  he  is  become  Orthography  itself  in 
his  fantastical  (i.e.  fanciful)  display  of  words";  or,  "now  he 
talks  like  a  dictionary." 

20.  strange  dishes.  Shakespeare  had  used  the  same  idea  in 
Love's  Labour's  Lost,  v.  i,  where  Moth  and  Costard  comment 
on  the  flourishes  of  Armado  and  Holofernes:  "They  have  been 
at  a  great  feast  of  languages,  and  stolen  the  scraps." 

21.  may  I  be  so  converted.  "Is  it  possible  I  shall  behave 
thus?"  That  Benedick  already  fears  is  plain  from  the  fact  that 
he  will  not  admit  he  fears. 

29.  cheapen,  offer  a  price  for  her,  bid  for  her.  The  punctuation 
here  is  that  of  Q.  It  is  not  necessary  to  make  changes  for  mere 
consistency's  sake  where  the  meaning  is  perfectly  clear. 

30.  noble... angel.  The  names  of  these  coins  lend  themselves 
to  quibbles.  See  Bassanio's  elaborate  fantasia  on  "angel"  in 
his  apostrophe  to  Portia's  picture.  The  two  coins  were  worth 
6s.  8d.  and  10s.  respectively. 

32.  of  what  colour  it  please  God.  Possibly  a  parallel  to  Viola's 

9—2 


132         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  ii 

arch  reply  to  Olivia  about  her  complexion :  "  Excellently  done — 
if  God  did  all."  That  Shakespeare  specially  disliked  unnatural 
hair  and  "make-up"  is  evident  in  several  passages.  Perhaps 
Benedick's  remark  may  be  taken  as  indicating  indifference ;  but 
I  think  not.  He  is  clearly  a  man  of  taste — if  not  of  "literary" 
taste. 

Page  27 

Enter  Prince,  etc.  Thus  Q.  The  direction  in  F.  is  interesting: 
Enter  Prince,  Leonato,  Claiidio  and  lacke  Wilson — "  lacke 
Wilson"  obviously  being  the  singer  who  played  Balthasar.  It 
seems  clear  from  the  text  that  Balthasar  sings  "off"  during  the 
first  speeches,  and  then  comes  on,  and  is  asked  to  sing  again. 
The  conversation  here  begun  is  one  of  many  passages  that  attest 
Shakespeare's  deep  understanding  of  music  and  its  power. 
There  is  no  English  poet  who  refers  so  often  and  so  "  know- 
ledgeably  "  to  the  art.  Like  Pepys  (that  Shakespearean  creature) 
Shakespeare  had  the  instincts  and  affections  of  a  musician. 

36.  hoiv  still  the  evening  is.  The  corresponding  passage  in 
Merchant  of  Venice,  v.  will  occur  to  the  mind  of  every  reader. 

40.  the  hid-fox.  An  emendation  not  to  be  rejected,  even 
though  first  made  by  Warburton.  Q.  and  F.  both  read  kid-fox 
and  some  strenuous  attempts  have  been  made  to  defend  that 
reading.  They  are  unconvincing  in  themselves  and  are  surely 
invalidated  by  Hamlet's  exclamation  (iv.  2):  "Hide  fox,  and 
all  after" — a  reference  to  the  game  of  "hide  and  seek."  The 
"penny-worth"  with  which  Benedick  was  to  be  "fitted"  was 
his  share  of  the  evening's  amusement,  namely,  to  be  the  theme 
of  their  jest. 

Enter  Balthasar  with  ?nusic,  i.e.  with  an  instrument  on  which 
to  accompany  his  song.  There  is  (of  course)  no  entry  in  F., 
"  lacke  Wilson"  having  already  appeared. 

42.  tax  not,  etc.,  do  not  task  a  bad  voice  to  do  injustice  twice 
to  good  music. 

44.  It  is  the  witness,  etc.  "  Excellence  always  proves  itself  by 
a  depreciation  of  itself."  This  is  not  usual  in  the  modern  world 
of  music. 

46.  let  me  woo,  let  me  beg.  Here  follows  one  of  Shakespeare's 
frequent  verbal  fantasias. 

55.  and  nothing.  A  pun  on  "noting."  That  this  was  the 
pronunciation  is  clear  from  Sonnet  xx,  where  "nothing" 
rhymes  with  "doting."  Shakespeare  used  the  same  pun  later 
in  The  Winter's  Tale,  iv.  4.  624.  "  Crotchets,"  of  course,  is  still 
another  pun. 

56.  ravisht,  "drawn  out,"  as  well  as  "delighted." 

57.  sheeps'  guts,  the  "catgut"  of  stringed  instruments. 


sc.  Ill]  NOTES  133 

hale,  to  draw.  Compare  Twelfth  Night,  11.  3,  where  Toby 
says:  "But  shall  we  make  the  welkin  dance  indeed?  shall  we 
rouse  the  night-owl  in  a  catch  that  will  draw  three  souls  out  of 
one  weaver?" 

Page  28 

68.  ditties,  the  words  of  songs. 

moe,  more;  used  frequently  by  Shakespeare.  See  Glossary. 

69.  dumps,  doleful  tunes.  The  original  meaning  is  "a  melan- 
choly state  of  mind,"  and  the  word  is  used  in  the  singular  in 
Hudibras,  i.  ii.  973  : 

"To  rouse  him  from  lethargic  dump, 
He  tweak'd  his  nose,  with  gentle  thump." 

It  is  now,  however,  used  only  in  the  plural  in  this  sense.  From 
this  meaning  came  the  application  of  the  word  to  a  doleful  tune, 
and  then  to  any  tune  in  general.  Thus,  Ralphe  Roister  Doister, 
II.  I.  21-2: 

"Then  twang  with  our  sonets,  and  twang  with  our  dumps. 
And  hey  hough  from  our  heart,  as  heavy  as  lead  lumpes." 

See  also  Sidney,  My  mistresse  lozvers  etc.: 
"Some  good  old  dumpe,  that  Chaucer's  mistresse  knew," 
See  also  Peter's  conversation  with  the  musicians,  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  IV.  The  word  first  appears  in  the  sixteenth  century  and 
its  origin  is  not  known. 

80.  the  night-raven.  An  admirable  touch!  That  the  raven 
is  a  bird  of  ill-omen  is  clear  from  many  passages  in  Shakespeare 
— to  say  nothing  of  Poe's  poem : 

"Would  I  could  meet  that  rogue  Diomed!  I  would  croak 
like  a  raven;  I  would  bode,  I  would  bode!"  (Troil.  and  Cress. 
V.  2). 

"  The  croaking  raven  doth  bellow  for  revenge "  (Ham.  iii.  2). 

"The  raven  himself  is  hoarse 
That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements"  (Macbeth,  i.  5). 

A  specific  "  night-raven"  appears  to  be  unknown  to  ornithology. 
But  what  of  that? 

81.  Yea  marry.  This  speech  gives  colour  to  a  stage  device 
of  conversation  between  Pedro  and  Balthasar  while  Benedick  is 
uttering  his  comment.  The  word  is  consistently  spelt  7nary  in  Q. 
Both  forms  appear  in  F.  I  have  retained  the  accepted  marry; 
for  though  Q.  shows  the  origin  (now  generally  known)  F.  gives 
the  pronunciation,  which  is  practically  that  of  the  French 
Marie. 


134         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  ii 

28.  82.  fo-worro?i)m]§'/2<.  Probably  the  wedding-eve,  i.e.  Sunday 
night.  The  time  of  the  present  scene  is  thus  fixed. 

88.  stalk  071.  As  the  wary  fowler  behind  his  "stalking  horse." 
The  reader  should  have  no  difficulty  in  telling  which  are  the 
asides  and  which  the  speeches  meant  for  Benedick's  ear.  We 
have  strictly  followed  the  old  texts  which  give  no  unnecessary 
directions. 

96.  past  the  infinite  of  thought,  past  even  the  limitless  power 
of  thought  to  conceive,  i.e.  she  is  "unthinkably  "  deep  in  love, 
as  people  might  now  say. 

Page  29 

101.  discovers,  reveals. 

104.  she  will  sit  you,  as  Bottom  "will  roar  you" — in  the 
ethical  dative;  the  repeated  "you"  following  is  obviously 
addressed  to  Claudio. 

107.  /  would  have  thought.  "Would"  is  taken  by  some  as  a 
strong  asseveration — "  I  certainly  thought " ;  but  "  would  "  with 
the  first  person,  as  the  simple  equivalent  of  "should,"  is  quite 
usual  in  Shakespeare. 

112.  gull,  used  either  for  the  deception  or  the  deceived;  here 
the  former.    See  Glossary. 

115.  hold  it  up,  keep  it  up,  he  has  caught  it! 

125.  smock,  "chemise  ^  femme"  (Cotgrave). 

128.  told  us  of.    So  F.;  "told  of  us"  in  Q. 

130.  the  sheet,  the  sheet  folded  into  two. 

132.  That,  that's  so. 

133.  a  thousand  halfpence.  The  silver  halfpenny  of  Elizabeth 
was  a  very  tiny  coin. 

Page  30 

139.  prays,  curses.  Halliwell-Phillipps  suggested  a  transposi- 
tion of  these  words.    It  is  hardly  necessary. 

142.  ecstasy,  literally,  the  being  beside  herself  with  passion. 
Spelt  extasy  in  Q.  and  F.    See  Glossary. 

149.  alms,  a  singular  noun.  In  Chaucer  it  is  "  almesse."  Here 
it  means  a  good  deed  in  a  general  sense.  Q.  and  F.  spell  it  almes. 
There  is  something  to  be  said  for  a  retention  of  this  spelling, 
which  is  general  in  Shakespeare. 

154.  wisdom  and  blood,  reason  and  feeling — the  "blood  and 
judgment"  of  Hamlet's  speech  to  Horatio,  ill.  2. 

157.  her  guardian.    Beatrice  is  parentless  in  the  play. 

158.  dotage,  extremity  of  fondness. 

159.  dafft,  etc.,  put  aside  all  considerations  of  my  rank.  The 
Pedro  of  fact  was  married  to  the  daughter  of  Manfred.  See 
Introduction.   For  the  word  see  Glossary. 


SC.  Ill] 


NOTES  135 


30.  170.  contemptible,  contemptuous.  Not  a  regular  use.  ''A 
contemptible  spirit"  here  means  "a  spirit  that  makes  him 
contemn  or  despise."  The  passage  is  similar  (but  not  exactly 
parallel)  to  one  in  Gibbon  {Extraits  Raisotines  de  Mes  Lectures, 
Works,  V.  286):  "I  read  Emmius,  p.  54-194,  the  end.  It  is  a 
short,  and  consequently  a  dry  abridgment;  but  it  is  concise, 
clear  and  exact.  It  contributed  a  good  deal  to  confirm  rne  in 
the  contemptible  idea  I  have  always  entertained  of  Cellarius." 

172.  outward  happiness,  he  is  fortunate  in  his  handsome 
appearance. 

Page  31 

175.  zoit,  wisdom. 

178.  he  avoids  them,  etc.,  apparently  not  meant  for  open 
depreciation;  but  in  this  speech  and  the  next  we  seem  to  be 
listening  to  Dogbery  and  Verges. 

189.  zvith  good  counsel,  probably  not  advice  from  others,  but 
her  own  better  judgment. 

196.  dinner  is  ready.  Dirmer,  in  Elizabethan  times,  was 
usually  a  noonday  meal.  But  Shakespeare  has  already  told  us 
it  is  now  evening — an  inconsistency  due  to  imperfect  revision. 

202.  and  no  such  matter,  and  it  is  not  so. 

203.  a  dumb-shew,  because  each  would  be  afraid  to  speak 
first.  A  "dumb-shew"  (as  we  know  from  Handet)  was  a  pre- 
liminary miming  of  a  spoken  scene  to  follow. 

205.  sadly  borne,  seriously  carried  on. 

207.  their  full  bent,  are  stretched  to  the  utmost,  like  a  bow  in 
making  a  shot. 

Page  32 

213.  their  detractions,  hear  their  defects  described. 
215.  reprove  it,  disprove  or  deny. 

218.  odd  quirks,  misapplied  phrases  and  scraps  of  sarcasm. 

219.  broken,  like  lances  in  a  tiltyard.   See  note  to  v.  i.  135. 

222.  sentences,  maxims,  "wise  saws,"  sententiae. 

223.  career,  the  charge  of  a  horse  in  a  tilting  match. 

It  is  worth  noting  how  the  tone  of  this  excellent  speech 
changes  characteristically  from  gravity  to  gaiety.  Its  frank 
manliness  prevents  our  confusing  Benedick  with  (say)  Malvolio, 
similarly  gulled  by  a  false  report  of  love. 

236.  choke  a  daw,  merely  an  emphatic  and  picturesque  con- 
clusion to  the  phrase. 

zvithal,  the  form  usual  when  "with"  closes  the  utterance. 
Compare  Shylock's  "To  bait  fish  withal!" 

237.  no  stomach,  no  appetite. 

239.  a  double  meaning,  i.e.  I  was  sent  against  my  will,  because 
I  wished  to  come  of  my  own  accord. 


136         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING    [act  ill 

ACT  HI 

Scene  I 
Page  33 

There  is  no  break  in  Q.  F.  has  the  heading  Actus  Tertius. 
A  full -stage  scene — the  place  being  the  same  as  that  of  the  pre- 
ceding scene,  namely  the  garden  or  "orchard."  The  time  is 
the  day  following — the  afternoon  of  Sunday.  Technically  the 
scene  is  difficult,  as  it  is  in  essence  a  repetition  of  the  scene 
before — the  "gulling"  of  a  concealed  hearer  by  a  feigned  story 
of  love.  The  reader  will  notice  at  once  how  admirably  Shake- 
speare evades  the  monotony  of  mere  repetition.  We  have  a 
change  from  prose  to  verse,  from  broad  comedy  to  romance. 
Beatrice  interposes  no  remarks  like  those  of  Benedick.  The  note 
is  lyrical,  rising  at  the  end  to  something  like  passion.  In  these 
two  scenes  Shakespeare  conveys  with  quiet  understanding  a 
sense  of  the  tragic  difference  noted  in  Byron's  familiar  lines: 
"  Man's  love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart, 

'Tis  woman's  whole  existence;  man  may  range 
The  court,  camp,  church,  the  vessel,  and  the  mart; 

Sword,  gown,  gain,  glory,  offer  in  exchange 
Pride,  fame,  ambition,  to  fill  up  his  heart. 

And  few  there  are  whom  these  cannot  estrange; 
Men  have  all  these  resources,  we  but  one, 
To  love  again,  and  be  again  undone." 
Ursley.   So  Q.  in  the  heading  and  in  1.  4,  where  the  scansion 
appears  to  need  a  dissyllable.  Elsewhere  she  is  Ursula.  We  have 
kept  the  old  and  pleasing  inconsistency.  "  Beatrice"  is  also  dis- 
syllabic or  trisyllabic  as  the  lines  require. 

1.  Good  Margaret.  It  is  startling  to  find  that  Hero's  first 
words  to  the  girl  who  was  to  play  such  a  tragic  part  in  her  life 
are  "  Good  Margaret." 

run  thee.  "Thee"  is  reflexive,  as  in  the  corresponding 
French  va-t-en. 

parlour.  The  line  should  be  read  as  if  "Margaret"  occupied 
the  time  of  two  syllables  and  "parlour"  of  three — "Margret" 
and  "par-l<'-our."  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  Cotgrave's 
Dictionary  gives  Parleor  as  a  variant  oi  parloir. 

3.  Proposing,  conversing;  an  unusual  use,  not  paralleled  else- 
where in  Shakespeare,  who  always  uses  "to  propose"  as  a 
transitive  verb.  Among  the  definitions  of  the  noun  propos 
Cotgrave  gives  "talk,  speech,  discourse,  chat,  conference."  See 
the  word  "propose,"  in  1.  12.    See  Glossar>'. 


sc.  i]  NOTES  137 

33.  7.  the  pleached  bower,  already  leferied  to  inl.  2.  It  is  difficult 
to  see  why  Wright  declares  definitely  that  they  are  not  the  same. 
This  is  attaching  too  much  importance  to  Anthony's  phrase 
"mine  orchard"  in  the  earlier  scene.  Surely  we  are  not  to 
imagine  that  all  members  of  Leonato's  numerous  family  have 
their  own  gardens  replete  with  "pleached  bowers."  For  the 
word  see  Glossary. 

9.  like  favourites,  etc.  There  is  no  need  to  seek  particular 
application  of  these  lines  to  contemporary  persons.  The  fact  is 
common  enough  to  have  become  a  generality. 

12.  our  propose,  our  talk  (propose  =Ft.  propos).  F.  reads 
purpose — less  happily  for  us,  as  the  modem  accent  falls  in  the 
wrong  place. 

14.  presently,  immediately. 

16.  trace,  pace. 

23.  That  only,  etc.  See  note  on  11.  i.  122  for  position  of  the 
adverb.   The  sense  is  "that  wound  by  mere  report." 

24.  like  a  lapwing.  "Far  from  her  nest  the  lapwing  cries 
away"  {Comedy  of  Errors,  iv.  2),  and  she  runs  close  to  the  ground 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  her  nest,  to  conceal  its  position,  for, 
like  the  lark's,  it  is  built  on  the  ground.  The  image  is  Shake- 
spearean in  its  vividness;  but  see  the  quotation  from  Lyly  in 
the  Introduction. 

Page  34 

30.  woodbine,  here  identified  with  the  honeysuckle,  as  it  is 
in  Lyte's  Niewe  Herball  (1578):  "Woodbine  or  Honeysuckle 
hath  many  small  branches  whereby  it  windeth  and  wrappeth 
it  selfe  about  trees  and  hedges. ...This  herbc.is  called... in 
Englishe  Honysuckle,  or  Woodbine,  and  of  some  Caprifoyle." 
In  Midsummer-Night's  Dream,  iv.  i,  "the  woodbine"  and  "the 
sweet  Honisuckle  "  appear  to  be  distinguished,  the  former  being 
apparently  (and  wrongly)  identified  with  the  Isindweed  or  con- 
volvulus. 

36.  haggerds  of  the  rock,  wild  hawks.    See  Glossary. 

45.  as  full  as  fortunate.  So  Q.  and  F.  There  is  no  need  for 
any  of  the  numerous  emendations  suggested.  "As  full  as  for- 
tunate" is  an  entirely  intelligible  phrase,  a  little  colloquial  in 
form.  It  means  "just  as  fortunate."  No  ordinary  person  hearing 
it  would  find  any  difficulty  in  it.  The  meaning  of  the  whole 
passage  is:  "Does  not  Benedick  deserve  to  have  a  mate  just  as 
attractive  as  Beatrice  is?" 

52.  Misprising,  undervaluing,  despising.  Cotgrave  gives  Mes- 
prisant:  A  contemning,  despising,  disesteeming,  neglecting,  heed- 
less of. 

58.' lest  she'll.    Q.  has  "lest  sheele,"  F.  "lest  she."   "Lest" 


138         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING    [act  hi 

followed  by  "will"  apparently  occurs  nowhere  else  in  Shake- 
speare. 

34.  00.  rarely,  finely,  well. 

01.  spell  him  backward,  turn  all  his  quibbles  into  defects,  as 
witches  make  good  prayers  evil  by  saying  them  backwards. 

63.  black,  dark,  especially  dark-bearded. 

antic,  something  grotesque,  extravagant,  absurd;  the  "blot" 
was  no  doubt  his  beard.   Q.  spells  it  antique. 

Page  35 

05.  agot,  so  spelt  in  Q.  and  F.  The  agate  stone  was  used  for 
seals,  and  the  figures  cut  on  it  were  naturally  tiny.  See  Glossary. 

70.  simpleness.  Used  only  once  by  Shakespeare  in  a  slighting 
sense  {Romeo  and  Juliet,  iii.  3.  77);  on  the  other  hand  "sim- 
plicity" nearly  always  has  the  meaning  of  "folly  "or  "stupidity." 

pitrchaseth,  acquire  by  right,  not  (as  now)  by  money. 
Steevens  quotes  a  striking  parallel  to  this  speech  from  Lyly's 
Euphues,  1581 : 

"  If  one  be  hard  in  conceiving,  they  pronounce  him  a  dowlte: 
if  given  to  studie,  they  proclaim  him  a  dunce :  if  merry,  a  jester : 
if  sad,  a  saint :  if  full  of  words,  a  sot :  if  without  speech,  a  cypher : 
if  one  argue  with  him  boldly,  then  he  is  impudent :  if  coldly,  an 
innocent :  if  there  be  reasoning  of  divinitie,  they  cry.  Quae  supra 
nos,  nihil  ad  nos:  if  of  humanitie,  sententias  loquitur  camifex.'' 

Again:  "if  he  be  cleanly,  they  [women]  term  him  prude;  if 
meene  in  apparel,  a  sloven :  if  tall,  a  lungis :  if  shorte,  a  dwarfe : 
if  bold,  blunt:  if  shamefast,  a  cowarde,  etc." 

It  has  been  suggested  that  Shakespeare  here  had  these 
passages  in  mind ;  it  is  quite  possible ;  but  Shakespeare  had 
observed  women  at  least  as  closely  as  Lyly. 

71.  conmietidable.  A  strong  accent  falls  on  the  first  syllable 
and  a  lighter  on  the  last  but  one,  as  in  the  familiar  lines : 

"  'Tis  sweet  and  commendable  in  your  nature,  Hamlet, 
To  give  these  mourning  duties  to  your  father." 

72.  odd,  and  from  all  fashions.  Odd  is  unusual,  eccentric,  not 
normal,  not  sorting  with  other  things,  as  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost, 
v.  I,  "He  is  too  picked,  too  spruce,  too  affected,  too  odd,  as  it 
were."  See  Glossary.  From  all  fashiom  has  much  the  same 
meaning — something  deliberately  different  from  the  usual. 
From  in  the  sense  of  contrary  to  is  quite  Shakespearean. 

70.  press  me  to  death.  The  punishment  called  peine  forte  et 
dure.  "  Such  fellons  as  stand  mute  and  speake  not  at  their 
arraignement  are  pressed  to  death  by  huge  weights  laid  upon  a 
boord,  that  lieth  over  their  brest,  and  a  sharpe  stone  under  their 


sc.  I]  NOTES  139 

backs,  and  these  commonlie  hold  their  peace,  thereby  to  save 
their  goods  unto  their  wives  and  children,  which  if  they  were 
condemned  should  be  confiscated  to  the  prince"  (Harrison, 
The  Description  of  England,  Bk  11,  chap.  xi). 

35.  79.  abetter  death,  than  die.  F.  has  "abetter  death,  to  die," 
an  inferior  reading;  "than  die"  is  of  course  "than  [to]  die." 

80.  tickling,  three  syllables,  as  if  it  were  "tickle-ing." 

84.  honest  slanders,  slanders  that  will  not  arraign  her  honour 
or  virtue.  J.  C.  Smith  observes,  "There  is  some  irony  here. 
Hero  herself  is  to  be  the  victim  of  slanders  by  no  means  honest." 

86.  impoiso7i.  Cotgrave :  "  Empoisonner,  to  poyson,  impoyson." 

90.  prised,  esteemed. 

96.  for  hearing.  Both  Q.  and  F.  omit  the  comma  after 
bearing.   This  is  obviously  a  mistake. 

Page  36 

101.  every  day  to-morrozv.  An  odd  remark.  Probably  it 
means,  "  I  am  in  such  a  turmoil  of  excitement  and  haste  that 
each  day  it  seems  as  if  my  wedding  is  to-morrow."  Another 
interpretation  suggested  is  this :  "  In  spirit  I  am  married  every 
day  and  all  the  time;  in  fact  I  am  to  be  married  to-morrow." 
The  latter  view,  though  more  pious  than  the  former,  seems  less 
convincing.  What  appear&^  to  me  even  stranger  than  Hero's 
answer  is  Ursula's  question.  The  wedding-day  had  been  fixed 
nearly  a  week  before.  Is  it  possible  that  one  of  Hero's  own 
waiting-women  did  not  know  the  date  of  her  mistress's  wedding? 
To  suppose  that  the  question  doesn't  mean  anything  and  is 
intended  only  to  change  the  conversation  doesn't  help  us.  A 
silly  question  would  be  more  likely  to  arouse  the  suspicions  of 
Beatrice  than  to  allay  them.  And  Hero  answers  seriously  if 
enigmatically.  Altogether,  the  household  of  Leonato  is  very 
remarkable.    Perhaps  the  question  is  a  survival. 

102.  some  attires.  As  F.  S.  Boas  remarks,  special  attention 
seems  to  be  drawn  to  Hero's  garments,  which  play  a  tragic  part 
in  the  sequel. 

104.  limed,  caught  like  a  bird  with  bird-lime.  The  reading  of 
F.,  "  She's  tane,"  has  nothing  to  recommend  it.  Bird-lime  is 
a  sticky  substance  made  from  hollybark  or  mistletoe  and 
smeared  upon  trees  to  entangle  the  feet  and  wings  of  the  fowler's 
victims. 

105.  goes  by  haps,  by  chance  rather  than  by  destiny. 

106.  zvith  traps,  in  continuation  of  the  bird-catching  image. 
Q.  marks  no  exit,  but  the  rhjTne  indicates  it.  We  have  inserted 
the  exeunt. 

107.  What  fire.   Observe  the  rhyming  stanza  form  here  used. 


140  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING   [act  hi 

The  scene  thus  closes  on  a  lyrical  note.  The  "fire  in  her  ears" 
is  the  traditional  ear-burning  of  those  who  are  talked  about 
"  behind  their  backs." 

36.  110.  behind  the  back.  An  obvious  meaning  is  that  when 
people  talk  about  you  "behind  your  back,"  it  is  not  your  pride 
and  contempt  that  they  praise — if  they  praise  at  all.  A  somewhat 
loftier  meaning  is  that  pride  and  contempt  (to  which  young 
people  are  generally  addicted)  are  easy  qualities,  neither  good 
in  themselves  nor  the  outward  effects  of  any  noble  inward 
endowment.   The  latter  sense  suits  the  passage  better. 

112.  Taming  my  wild  heart.  The  imagery  of  the  caged  wild- 
bird  is  continued  in  this  beautiful  line. 

116.  better  than  reportitigly ,  "  I  know  it  on  surer  ground  than 
report,  for  my  heart  is  already  yours." 


Scene  II 

"A  front-stage  scene.  The  time  is  Sunday,  soon  after  the 
preceding  scene"  (Boas).  The  place  may  be  anywhere,  indoors 
or  out. 

1 .  consummate.  In  Modem  English  we  almost  invariably  use 
the  form  in  -ed,  in  participle  and  adjective  alike.  For  the  form, 
see  note  to  i.  i.  123. 

2.  toward  Arragon.  These  speeches  of  the  Prince  and  Claudio 
are  not  meant  seriously.  The  point  is  that  the  Prince  is  going 
to  tease  Benedick  by  asking  that  newly-repentant  bachelor  to 
accompany  him — at  the  very  time  when  Benedick  will  want  to 
refuse. 

y,     I'll  bring  you,  I'll  escort  you. 

7,  only  be  bold  with  Benedick,  only  venture  to  ask  Benedick's 
company.    Position  of  ofily  as  before. 

10.  cut  Cupid's  boiu-string,  "  spiked  his  gun  "  or  "  put  him  out 
of  action" — to  vary  the  metaphor. 

the  little  hangman,  the  little  rogue,  the  term  is  no  more  to 
be  taken  literally  than  "little  devil"  applied  to  a  lively  and 
adventurous  boy;  but  some  have  been  quite  serious  about  it. 

Page  37 

17.  truant,  observe  the  punning  succession  of  true  and  truly. 

23.  hang  it  first.  Criminals  were  "hanged  "and  then  "drawn," 
i.e.  disembowelled.  Deighton  \ery  aptly  quotes  Middleton's 
The  Widow,  iv.  i.  108: 

"  Martino.  I  pray,  what's  good,  sir,  for  a  wicked  tooth? 

Ricardo.  Hang'd,  drawn,  and  quartering." 


sc.  II]  NOTES  141 

37.  26.   Where  is,  where  [there]  is. 

a  humour  or  a  worm.  Fumess  quotes  Batman  uppon  Bar- 
tholome.  His  Books  De  Proprietatibus  Rerwn  (1582),  where  in 
Liber  quintus,  cap.  20,  we  read:  "The  cause  of  such  aking  is 
humors  that  come  doune  from  the  head,  eyther  up  from  the 
stomacke,  by  meane  of  fumositie,  either  els  by  sharp  humours, 
and  beating  in  the  gums :  and  then  is  sore  ach  felte  with  leaping 
and  pricking,  through  the  mallyce  and  sharpnesse  of  the 
humours.... Also  sometime  teeth  be  pearced  with  holes  and 
sometime  by  worms  they  be  changed  into  yelow  colour,  greene, 
or  black. ...And  if  Wormes  be  the  cause,  full  sore  ache  is  bred; 
for  they  eating,  pearce  into  the  subtill,  and  make  the  teeth  to  ake, 
and  grieve  them  very  sore...."  And  again  {Lib.  sept.  cap.  25): 
"  Wormes  breede  in  the  cheeke  teeth  of  rotted  humours  that  be 
in  the  holownesse  thereof.... Wormes  of  y«  teeth  be  slaine  with 
Mirre  and  Opium."  I  have  extended  Wright's  quotations.  On 
the  whole,  the  science  of  this  is  not  so  fanciful. 

27.  every  one  cannot  master  a  grief.  Pope  amended  cannot  to 
can,  the  sense  being,  "it  is  easy  for  those  who  haven't  a  pain  to 
show  the  one  who  has  how  to  bear  it."  But  the  original  reading 
can  be  defended,  as  meaning,  "No  one  can  master  a  grief  but 
the  one  who  has  it" — the  sense  being;  "your  advice  is  entirely 
superfluous,  not  to  say  useless,  it  is  only  the  sufferer  who  can 
conquer  his  sufferings."  Readers  will  probably  prefer  the 
amended  and  simpler  can. 

30.  fancy... jancy.  In  two  different  senses,  the  first  being 
love,  that  fantasy  of  the  imagination,  and  the  second  a  whim  or 
fantastical  caprice. 

31.  strange  disguises,  one  among  many  hits  at  the  Englishman 
who  borrowed  fashions  from  all  countries  and  wore  them  taste- 
lessly and  incongruously.  Everyone  will  remember  Portia's 
description  of  the  young  baron  of  England  who  came  to  woo 
her.  The  most  striking  parallel  in  this  connection  is  to  be  found 
in  Dekker's  The  Seven  Deadly  Sinnes  of  London:  "  For  an 
Englishmans  suite  is  like  a  traitors  bodie  that  hath  beene  hanged, 
drawne,  and  quartered,  and  is  set  up  in  severall  places :  the  coUer 
of  his  Dublet  and  the  belly  in  France :  the  wing  and  narrow  sleeve 
in  Italy:  the  short  waste  hangs  over  a  Dutch  Botchers  stall  in 
Utrich :  his  huge  sloppes  speaks  Spanish :  Polonia  gives  him  the 
Bootes:  the  blocke  for  his  heade  alters  faster  then  the  Felt- 
maker  can  fitte  him,  and  thereupon  we  are  called  in  scome 
Blockheades.  And  thus  we  that  mocke  everie  Nation,  for  keeping 
one  fashion,  yet  steale  patches  from  everie  one  of  them,  to  peece 
out  our  pride,  are  now  laughing-stocks  to  them,  because  their 
cut  so  scurvily  becomes  us."   (Quoted  from  Fumess,  who  gives 


142         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  hi 

other  parallels  from  Lodge's  Wit's  Miserie  and  Fynes  Moryson's 
Itinerary.)  Wright  quotes  Harrison's  Description  of  England  and 
Lyly's  Euphiies. 

37.  32.  orinthe  shape... no  doublet. ¥.OTmXsthese\m&^ — doubt- 
less by  design,  for  James  I  was  king  in  1623.  His  daughter 
Elizabeth  married  the  Elector  Palatine  of  the  Rhine  in  1613,  and 
he  was  cultivating  the  friendship  of  Spain.  The  Scottish  King 
of  England  might  not  have  seen  the  joke. 

34.  slops,  loose,  baggy  breeches.  No  doubt  a  contrast  is 
intended  between  the  thick,  heavy  German  and  the  spare, 
slender  Spaniard — all  legs  and  no  body. 

36.  no  fool  for  fancy ,  "not  a  fool  on  account  of  love  (as  you 
say) — unless  it  be  love  of  this  dandiacal  excess." 

44.  tennis-balls.  Steevens  quotes  Nashe's  A  Wonderfull 
Strange  and  miraculous  Astrologicall  Prognostication,  etc.  (1591) : 
"they  may  sell  their  haire  by  the  pound,  to  stuffe  Tennice 
balles."  Henderson  quotes  Ram  Alley  (161 1):  "Thy  beard 
shall  serve  to  stuff  those  balls  by  which  I  get  me  heat  at 
Tenice." 

47.  civet,  a  musk-like  perfume  obtained  from  the  Viverra 
civeta,  the  civet-cat.  See  As  You  Like  It,  iii.  2.  66-9.  In  the 
Epilogue  to  the  Satires  Pope  calls  dandies  "courtly  civet-cats," 
and  Cowper  in  Tirociniion  (829,  etc.)  refers  to 

"  Fops  at  all  corners,  lady-like  in  mien, 
Civeted  fellows,  smelt  ere  they  are  seen." 
49.  sweet,  a  play  on  "scented." 

51.  The  greatest  note,  etc.  Q.  gives  this  speech  to  Benedick. 
An  obvious  mistake,  which  F.  corrects. 

52.  to  wash  his  face,  to  use  "washes"  for  his  face — as  (in  the 
next  line)  he  is  supposed  to  use  "  colour."  We  are  not  to  suppose 
that  Benedick  was  hitherto  unaccustomed  to  the  use  of  water. 
Furness  quotes  Greene's  A  Quippe  for  an  Upstart  Courtier: 
"  His  head  being  once  drest  [by  the  Barber]  which  requires  in 
combing  and  rubbing  some  two  howers,  he  comes  to  the  bason  : 
then  beeing  curiously  washt  with  no  woorse  than  a  camphire  bal, 
he  descends  as  low  as  his  herd  and  asketh  whether  he  please  to 
be  shaven  or  no." 

Page  38 

56.  a  lute-string,  his  jesting  spirit  is  now  embodied  in  the 
melancholy  of  a  lute-string,  the  lover's  instrument;  it  is  now 
kept  in  check,  and  subject  to  "stops" — an  obvious  pun.  The 
"stops"  or  "frets,"  were  the  marks  on  the  finger-board  of  a 
lute,  indicating  where  the  fingers  of  the  left  hand  should  be  put 
to  shorten  the  string  for  higher  notes.   The  modem  banjo  has 


sc.  II]  NOTES  143 

a  marked  finger-board,  but  the  violin  has  no  "  stops,"  though  we 
still  speak  of  "double-stopping."  The  repetition  of  the  word 
"now"  seems  awkward,  and  a  suggestion  has  been  made  that 
"now  governed"  should  be  read  "new-governed."  Boas,  how- 
ever, points  out  very  justly  that  if  one  now  is  to  be  changed  to 
new  it  ought  to  be  the  first.  Actually,  no  change  is  necessary; 
the  sentence  is  exclamatory,  and  the  second  now  is  merely  a 
repetition — the  phrases  are  not  alternative  or  successive.  F. 
omits  one  conclude  in  the  next  speech. 

38.  62.  Yes,  and  his  ill  conditions.  The ''yes"  is  not  Bssent,hut 
dissent,  or  rather  emphasis — "  It  is  one  who  knows  him,  and  all 
his  bad  qualities,  and  is  ready  to  die  for  his  sake,  in  spite  of 
them  all." 

64.  buried  with  her  face  upwards,  continues  the  idea  of  "  dies  " 
for  him.  The  "face  upwards"  has  unnecessarily  exercised  the 
wits  of  many  editors.  The  meaning  is  fairly  obvious.  Malone 
had  no  doubt  about  it.   See  II.  i.  255-9. 

65.  Old  signior,  to  Leonato.  A  stage  device  to  leave  Claudio 
and  Pedro  the  sole  repositories  of  John's  disclosure. 

67.  hobby-horses,  these  frivolous  feUows.  The  "hobby- 
horse" figured  in  morris-dances,  and  other  festive  shows. 
Fasten  round  yourself  a  wicker  framework  made  roughly  in  the 
shape  of  a  horse's  body;  let  there  be  something  like  a  horse's 
head  in  front  and  a  tail  behind,  and  draperies  all  round,  like  the 
gorgeous  trappings  of  a  decked-out  steed  (to  conceal  the  actor's 
possession  of  two  legs  instead  of  four),  and  you  will  be  able  to 
prance  about  furiously  to  the  amusement  of  the  younger 
spectators.    Such  was  the  "hobby-horse." 

70.  Hero  and  Margaret.  It  was  Ursula,  not  Margaret.  The 
substitution  is  probably  no  more  than  a  slip,  and  has  no  sinister 
meaning. 

71.  the  two  bears.  Beatrice  and  Benedick — creatures  sure  to 
quarrel  at  sight. 

74.  Good  den.  Good  evening.  Various  forms  appear — gooden, 
godden,  good  e'en.  Thus  in  Romeo  and  Jxdiet,  I.  2,  Romeo  says, 
"  Godden  good  fellow,"  and  the  Servant  replies,  "  Godgigoden !" 

83.  discover,  reveal. 

86.  aim  better  at  me,  attempt  a  better  estimate  of  me. 

Page  39 

91.  circumstances  shortned,  an  "absolute"  participial  con- 
struction: "unnecessary  details  being  omitted." 

98.  paint  out,  depict,  represent,  or  simply  to  paint,  as  in 
The  Epistle  Dedicatorie  to  Harrison's  Description  of  England: 


144  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING    [act  hi 

"rather  than  with  vaine  affectation  of  eloquence  to  paint  out 
a  rotten  sepulchure." 

39.  102.  enfreJ.  According  to  Borachio's  story  in  the  next  scene 
the  window  was  not  actually  entered.  There  is  an  entry,  how- 
ever, in  Ariosto  and  Bandello. 

108.  if  you  love  her,  then.  Punctuation  of  Q.  and  F.,  altered 
by  Hanmer  and  succeeding  editors  to  "  if  you  love  her  then, " — 
quite  unnecessarily. 

107.  If  you  dare  not,  etc.  If  you  cannot  believe  what  you  see, 
then  keep  silent. 

112.  to-morrow  in  the  congregation,  etc.  Many  editors  have 
decided  that  the  punctuation  is  wrong,  but  they  have  not 
decided  unanimously  what  punctuation  is  right.  The  Cambridge 
editors  (the  only  ones  we  need  cite)  insert  a  comma  after  to- 
morrow. All  we  need  say  is  that  the  punctuation  in  the  text  is 
that  of  Q.  and  F.,  that  it  is  quite  intelligible  (and  even  intelli- 
gent), and  that  no  deletion,  insertion  or  alteration  of  any  kind 
is  needed. 

119.  untowardly,  adversely,  perversely. 


Scene  III 
Page  40 

A  full-stage  scene,  the  place  being  a  street,  with  a  pent- 
house or  projecting  roof  under  which  the  watch  may  shelter, 
and  a  bench  in  the  church  porch  upon  which  they  may  sit  down. 
The  time  is  past  one  o'clock  on  Monday  morning,  and  the  night 
is  very  dark  and  wet.  Dramatically  the  scene  is  excellent  in 
itself  and  in  its  contribution  to  the  total  effect:  the  spectator 
can  endure  the  painful  incidents  of  the  repudiation  scene 
because  he  knows  that  the  malefactors  are  already  apprehended 
and  that  explanation  and  atonement  cannot  be  far  away.  For 
Dogbery  and  Verges  see  the  Introduction. 

3.  suffer  salvation,  i.e.  damnation.  We  give  the  probable 
equivalents  of  the  Constables'  utterances.  The  sublimer  fatuities 
defy  annotation. 

5.  allegiance,  the  opposite  is  meant. 

7.  give  them  their  charge,  as  a  judge  "charges"  a  grand  jury 
by  declaring  their  duties. 

9.  desartless,  the  opposite. 

10.  constable,  i.e.  active  constable  in  charge,  not  Dogbery,  the 
"right  maister  constable." 

1 1 .  George  Seacoal,  not  Francis  Seacoal  who  appears  later, 
and  is  probably  the  double  officed  Clerk  and  Sexton. 


sc.  in]  NOTES  145 

40.  15.  comes  by  nature,  one  of  Dogbery's  most  delightful 
cliches. 

17.  master  Constable.  Q.  has  full  stop;  but  the  utterance  is 
plainly  left  incomplete  by  Dogbery's  interruption. 

21.  no  need,  another  absurdity,  but  solemnly  amended  by 
Warburton  to  more  need. 

24.  comprehend,  apprehend. 

vagrom,  vagrant. 

Page  41 

35.  tolerable,  intolerable. 

36.  We  will  rather  sleep,  etc.  This  and  the  next  eight  "Watch  " 
speeches  are  not  definitely  assigned.  In  both  Q.  and  F.  they 
are  simply  headed  Watch.  It  is  not  until  the  exclamation,  "We 
charge  you  in  the  prince's  name  stand"  that  the  differentiation 
into  "Watch  i"  and  "Watch  2"  is  resumed.  Editors  usually 
assign  them  all  to  "Watch  2,"  who  seems  to  be  the  intelligent 
one ;  but  we  have  here  followed  the  vagueness  of  the  original. 
Readers  and  producers  can  therefore  make  what  assignment 
they  wish. 

40.  your  bills,  tall  staves  with  axe-heads  to  them.  Johnson's 
note  (1765)  is  interesting:  "A  bill  is  still  carried  by  the  watch- 
men at  Lichfield.  It  was  the  old  weapon  of  the  English  infantry, 
which,  says  Temple,  gave  the  most  ghastly  and  deplorable 
wounds." 

55.  they  that  touch  pitch.  "He  that  toucheth  pitch,  shal  be 
defiled  therewith,  and  hee  that  hath  fellowship  with  a  proude 
man,  shall  be  like  unto  him"  (Ecclesiasticus,  xiii.  i). 

57.  steal  out  of  your  company.  A  pun  that  Shakespeare  used 
again  when  he  made  Pistol  (Henry  V)  say,  "To  England  will 
I  steal,  and  there  I'll  steal." 

60.  much  more,  much  less. 

Page  42 

72.  present,  represent — not  necessarily  a  Dogberyism. 

74.  birlady,  by  our  Lady. 

76.  statutes.  So  in  Q.;  F.  has  sto^Mes,  a  tempting  Dogberyism. 
No  one  can  decide  if  it  is  a  misprint  or  an  emendation.  Readers 
must  take  their  choice.  I  think  it  should  be  statutes.  Dogbery 
would  know  an  official  word  like  that.  The  old  army  sergeant 
might  call  regulations  "  reggerlations " ;  but  he  would  be  un- 
likely to  say  "relegations." 

80.  Ha  ah  ha.  As  Fumess  remarks,  this  is  not  mere  merri- 
ment, but  a  chuckle  of  triumph  over  Verges,  who  now  admits 
what  he  formerly  denied. 

SMA  10 


146  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING    [act  hi 

42.  82.  keep  your  felloivs'  counsels,  andyour  ovm. "  Dogberyuses 
the  very  words  of  the  oath  administered  by  the  Judge's  marshal 
to  the  grand  jury  at  the  present  dav"  (Lord  Chancellor  Camp- 
bell). 

88.  coil,  disturbance,  fuss,  trouble;  a  word  used  several  times 
by  Shakespeare,  and  later  in  the  present  play. 

89.  vigilant,  vigilant. 

90.  Borachio.  Here  follows  an  admirable  sketch  of  a  partially 
intoxicated  man  exhibiting  the  curious  obstinacy,  both  logical 
and  quarrelsome,  common  in  that  condition. 

94.  Mass.  By  the  Mass ;  many  times  used  in  Shakespeare  in 
spite  of  changed  times. 

my  elbow  itcht,  as  a  sign  that  wickedness  was  near.  "The 
fiend  is  at  my  elbow,"  says  Launcelot  Gobbo,  in  The  Merchant 
of  Venice,  and  the  second  Witch  of  Macbeth  exclaims : 
"  By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs. 
Something  wicked  this  way  comes." 

95.  scab,  used  with  a  double  meaning,  literally,  and  meta- 
phorically for  a  low  fellow.  Wright  quotes  a  parallel  play  on  the 
word  from  Coriolamis,  I.  i.  169: 

"What's  the  matter,  you  dissentious  rogues, 
That,  rubbing  the  poor  itch  of  your  opinions, 
Make  yourselves  scabs?" 

98.  Stafid  close,  in  concealment. 

99.  like  a  true  drunkard.   As  Fumess  remarks.  In  vino  Veritas. 
102.  Don  John,  printed  Dun  John  in  Q.     Perhaps  the  dumbe 

John  of  II.   I   arose  from  Don  pronounced  as  Dun  by  reading- 
boy,  heard  as  Dutn  by  compositor,  and  set  up  as  dumbe. 

Page  43 

306.  so  rich,  the  question  repeated — with  a  change  in  the 
point  of  view:  villainy  is  "dear"  (costly)  to  the  one  who  pays, 
and  "rich"  (profitable)  to  the  one  who  receives.  Borachio  then 
answers  the  question  by  saying,  "Yes,  villainy  can  certainly  be 
profitable  (or  rich)  because  when  rich  villains  have  to  employ 
poor  ones,  the  poor  ones  can  put  a  high  price  on  their  services." 

110.  unconfirju'd,  unpractised,  not  yet  accustomed  in  the 
ways  of  rascality. 

111.  the  fashion  of  a  doublet,  etc.,  the  drunken  man  here 
becomes  (as  drunken  men  will)  both  obstinate  and  incoherent. 
He  is  obstinate  because  he  is  bent  on  trying  to  connect  the 
notion  of  changing  garments  according  to  fashion  with  the  fact 
of  the  actual  change  of  garments  made  by  Margaret  that  night : 
i.e.  he  is  trying  to  play  upon  fashion  —mode,  and  fashion  =form; 


sc.  Ill]  NOTES  147 

and  he  is  incoherent  because  he  is  too  little  master  of  himself  to 
make  these  connections.  What  he  is  endeavouring  to  say  is 
possibly  something  like  this:  "People  don't  care  what  form  (or 
fashion)  their  garments  take  as  long  as  they  are  fashionable. 
When  fashion  demands,  they  will  instantly  and  easily  change 
the  form  of  their  clothes.  Well,  all  that  has  happened  to-night 
is  that  somebody  has  changed  the  fashion  (form)  of  a  few 
garments." 

43.  113.  Yes  it  is  apparel.  Conrad  apparently  means,  "Yes,  it 
is  something  to  him :  it  is  clothing."  But  Borachio  insists  on 
"fashion"  because  a  glimmering  of  the  double  meaning  is 
shedding  its  uneffectual  fire  upon  his  fuddled  brain. 

116.  a  deformed  thief,  a  disfiguring  robber  of  men's  natural 
appearance.  "Deformed"  for  "deforming"  appears  in  one 
other  place : 

"O,  grief  hath  chang'd  me  since  you  saw  me  last. 
And  careful  hours  with  time's  deformed  hand 
Have  written  strange  defeatures  in  my  face." 

{Comedy  of  Errors,  v.  i.  297.) 

118.  that  Deformed.    For  "Deformed"  or  "Amorphus"  see 

Introduction.   Q.  and  F.  have  no  capital  here;  later  they  have, 

when  the  name  is  used.    We  have  therefore  altered  it  in  this 

place. 

124.  how  giddily  a  turns.  Borachio  catches  the  idea  from  the 
vane. 

126.  reechy,  foul,  begrimed.  What  painting  Shakespeare  had 
in  his  mind  we  cannot  tell.  Many  altar-pieces  are  "reechy," 
indeed,  at  the  present  day  from  a  few  centuries'  exposure  to  the 
smoke  of  church  candles.  But  it  is  possible  that  Borachio,  who 
uses  contemptuous  adjectives  freely  here,  simply  uses  "reechy" 
(=dirty,  disgusting)  as  a  modem  would  use  "rotten,"  without 
any  precise  meaning.    For  the  word  see  Glossary'. 

127.  like  god  Bel's  priests.  See  'fhe  History  of  the  Destruction 
of  Bel  and  the  Dragon  in  the  Apocrypha : 

"  Now  the  Babylonians  had  an  Idol  called  Bel,  and  there  were 
spent  upon  him  ever>'  day  twelve  great  measures  of  fine  flowre, 
and  fourtie  sheepe,  and  sixe  vessels  of  wine.... 

Now  the  Priests  of  Bel  were  threescore  and  tenne,  besides 
their  wives  and  children." 

We  do  not  know  what  "old  church-window"  told  the  story  of 
Bel's  priests. 

128.  the  shaven  Hercules.  Hercules  is  nearly  always  repre- 
sented in  manhood  as  thickly  bearded.  Warburton  suggested 
that  Samson  was  meant ;  but  Samson's  famous  weapon  was  not 
a  club.  Here  again  we  have  a  reference  to  some  tapestry  picture 

10 — 3 


148  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING    [act  hi 

of  which  we  know  nothing.  One  commentator  is  certain  that  it 
must  have  been  a  representation  of  Hercules  dressed  in  female 
clothes  and  spinning  for  Omphale ;  but  in  that  legend  it  is  no- 
where suggested  that  Hercules  was  shaven.  Indeed,  the  point 
of  the  transformation  would  be  lost  if  he  were,  as  Sidney  points 
out,  when  discussing  how  delight  and  mirth  can  go  together: 
"Yet  I  deny  not,  but  that  they  may  goe  well  together,  for  as  in 
Alexanders  picture  well  set  out,  wee  delight  without  laughter, 
and  in  twenty  mad  Anticks  we  laugh  without  delight:  so  in 
Hercules,  painted  with  his  great  beard,  and  furious  countenance, 
in  womans  attire,  spinning  at  Omphales  commandment,  it 
breedeth  both  delight  and  laughter."  One  famous  and  familiar 
"shaven  Hercules"  is  not  a  picture  but  a  statue — the  great 
bronze  figure  in  the  Palazzo  dei  Conservatori  in  Rome. 

43.  132.  shifted  out  of,  as  out  of  a  garment. 

13(i.  she  leans  me,  the  ethical  dative. 

139.  possessed,  told,  informed,  as  elsewhere  in  Shakespeare; 
but  also,  surely,  with  a  further  meaning — possessed  by  his  evil 
influence. 

Page  44 

142.  they  Margaret.  F.  has  "thy  Margaret,"  which  some 
prefer. 

155.  lechery,  treachery. 

158.  wears  a  lock,  a  "love-lock."  Fumess  quotes  many 
authorities  in  a  long  note  to  which  the  curious  may  refer. 
Perhaps  the  most  striking  contemporary  allusion  is  in  Greene's 
Defence  of  Connycatching  (1592):  "Is  there  not  heere  resident 
about  London,  a  crew  of  terr^'ble  Hacksters  in  the  habite  of 
Gentlemen,  wel-appareld,  and  yet  some  weare  bootes  for  want 
of  stockings,  with  a  locke  wome  at  thayr  lefte  eare  for  their 
mistresse  favour,  etc."  There  is  a  suggestion  in  many  references 
that  the  wearing  of  a  lock  indicated  a  slightly  raffish  or  dis- 
reputable person.    Hence  the  Watch's  exclamation. 

103.  Never  speak.  Q.  and  F.  both  print  this  as  Conrad's 
speech:  "  Masters,  never  speake,  we  charge  you,  let  us  obey  you 
to  go  with  us."  Theobald  first  made  the  excellent  emendation 
here  adopted;  "obey"  is  simply  Dogberian  for  "command." 
It  is  not  Dogbery  who  speaks,  but  his  henchmen  have  a  portion 
of  his  spirit. 

105.  We  are  like,  etc.  A  succession  of  puns,  which  J.  C. 
Smith  aptly  summarizes  thus:  " commodity  =  (1)  goods,  (2)  a 
bargain,  a  handful ;  taken  up  =  (i)  got  on  credit,  (2)  apprehended ; 
bilU^ii)  bonds,  (2)  halberts." 

107.  in  question,  another  pun:  (i)  a  questionable  or  doubtful 
bargain ;  (2)  a  suspicious  bargain,  likely  to  be  questioned  in  law. 


sc.  iv] 


NOTES  149 


Scene  IV 


"A  front-stage  scene.  The  time  is  almost  five  o'clock  on 
Monday  morning"  (Boas).  The  time  is  fixed  by  1.  30.  The 
conversation  between  Hero  and  Margaret  suggests  that  Shake- 
speare, like  Francis  Feeble,  must  have  been  a  woman's  tailor. 
Hero,  it  may  be  observed,  is  downhearted  and  Beatrice  appre- 
hensive. Margaret  is  either  extraordinarily  callous  or  extra- 
ordinarily obtuse. 

44.  6.  rebato,  at  first  the  wire  support  or  "  shape  "  of  a  ruff  or 
collar,  and  then  the  ruff  itself — as  here.  Cotgrave  gives : 
"Rabat,  a  Rebatoe  for  a  woman's  ruff;  also,  a  falling  band." 

were  better,  would  be  better. 

Page  45 

8.  '5  not  so  good.  The  omission  of  the  pronoun  represents  the 
rapid  movement  of  conversation. 

12.  the  new  tire,  a  feminine  adornment — a  head-dress, 
apparently  made  of  hair.  Fynes  Morjson  speaks  of  "  Gentle- 
women virgins  "  wearing  "  caps  of  haire  that  is  not  their  owne." 

within,  in  another  room  off  the  stage. 

14.  the  Duchess  of  Mtllaine's  gown.  What  "Dutchesse  of 
Millaine?"  At  the  date  of  Much  Ado  there  was  no  such  person. 
How  far  Shakespeare  knew  the  romantic  story  of  the  Visconti 
and  their  supplanters  the  Sforza  in  Milan,  from  Francesco  I 
(1401-1466)  the  first  Duke,  son  of  the  condottieie  Giacomuzzo 
Attendolo  (nicknamed  Sforza),  to  Francesco  H  (1495-1535)  the 
last  Duke,  could  be  more  appropriately  discussed  in  The  Tempest, 
where  usurpation  in  Milan  is  the  first  postulate  of  the  story. 
Two  of  the  Sforza  duchesses  are  famous  in  art  and  story,  the 
brilliant  Beatrice  d'Este,  wife  of  Ludovico  il  Moro,  and  Christina 
of  Denmark,  wife  of  the  last  Francesco.  The  names  of  both  are 
attached  to  famous  pictures.  A  beautiful  and  familiar  profile 
portrait  in  the  Ambrosiana  at  Milan  was  long  catalogued  as 
Beatrice  d'Este  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci;  but  later  criticism  calls 
it  Bianca  (Ludovico 's  daughter,  not  his  wife)  by  Ambrogio  di 
Predis.  Beatrice  and  Ludovico,  in  sculpture,  lie  side  by  side 
on  their  tomb  in  the  Certosa.  The  portrait  of  Christina  by 
Holbein  is  one  of  the  finest  things  in  our  own  National  Gallery; 
but  it  represents,  not  the  child-bride,  but  the  child-widow.  The 
entr>'  of  Christina  into  the  city  as  a  bride  of  sixteen  in  the  spring 
of  1534  caught  the  fancy  of  Renaissance  Milan.    "Christina's 


I50  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING    [act  hi 

blue  dress  (we  are  told)  matched  the  colour  of  her  eyes,  and  she 
seemed  more  like  a  vision  than  a  human  being."  Was  this 
Shakespeare's  duchess?  After  the  death  of  Francesco  II  in 
1535  the  duchy  of  Milan  was  merged  in  the  vast  possessions  of 
Charles  V,  who  gave  the  dukedom  to  his  son  Philip — Philip  II 
of  Spain,  an  ill-omened  figure  to  Englishmen.  Shakespeare's 
allusion  is  therefore  rather  puzzling.  Why  should  he  refer  to  a 
non-existent  Duchess  of  Milan  at  all?  The  description  of  the 
gown,  though  puzzling,  is  so  particular  that  we  suspect  some 
contemporary  piece  of  nuptial  splendour  ("Oh,  that  exceeds 
they  say" — exceeds,  not  exceeded).  We  cannot  guess  why  he 
should  have  mentioned  Milan.  That  city  which,  in  The  Tempest, 
he  endows  with  sea  and  shipping  at  its  very  gates,  may  have 
been  to  him  a  vaguely  distant  region,  like  Illyria  or  Bohemia, 
where  anything  romantic  might  happen. 

45.  16.  exceed<!,  excels.   See  Pericles,  11.  3.  16: 

"In  framing  an  artist,  art  hath  thus  decreed. 
To  make  some  good,  but  others  to  exceed." 

17.  a  night-gown,  apparently  not  what  is  now  understood  by 
that  name,  but  a  gown  worn  over  the  actual  bed-dress,  when  the 
sleeper  rose.  The  clearest  parallel  is  Macbeth,  v.  i : 

"Since  his  majesty  went  into  the  field,  I  have  seen  her  rise 
from  her  bed,  throw  her  night-gown  upon  her,  etc." 

Thus  she  sat  and  wrote.  Beatrice,  as  will  be  seen  from  11.  3, 
was  less  particular — and  inhabited  a  land  less  chilly.  Night- 
gowns were  generally  made  of  silk  or  satin  faced  with  fur.  They 
were  important  enough  to  be  mentioned  in  wills  and  inventories. 
See  Shakespeare's  England,  chap.  xix. 
in  respect  of,  compared  with. 

18.  cloth  a  gold  and  cuts,  cloth  with  threads  of  gold  inter- 
woven. The  "cuts"  were  perhaps  what  is  called  a  "scallop- 
edging";  or  perhaps  the  "slashes"  famiUar  in  the  slashed 
doublets  of  the  period.  A  cloth-of-gold  doublet  from  Whaddon, 
now  at  South  Kensington,  has  two  cuts,  about  twelve  or  eighteen 
inches  long,  on  each  shoulder,  giving  the  effect  of  strapping. 
Possibly  these  may  have  been  the  "cuts."  The  traditional 
costume  of  "Joey"  the  clown  in  the  old-fashioned  Harlequinade 
is  a  white  doublet,  breeches  and  hose,  slashed  with  red.  A 
"dublet  of  peche  collered  satten  al  over  covered  with  white  cut 
worke,"  and  "  a  dublet  of  sad  tawny  satten  covered  with  white 
cut  worke"  were  among  the  presents  made  to  Queen  Elizabeth 
on  New  Year's  Day  (Shakespeare's  England,  chap.  xix). 

lac'd,  braided. 

19.  dozvn  sleeves,  side  sleeves.  This  passage  has  caused  com- 


sc.  IV]  NOTES  151 

mentators  much  trouble.  The  earlier  interpretations  tended  to 
drop  a  comma  after  pearls,  and  take  "  down  "  as  indicating  where 
the  garment  was  "set  with  pearls."  Some  take  it  so  still.  The 
"side  sleeves"  are  comparatively  easy.  Furness  assembles  the 
quotations  of  several  commentators  showing  that  side  sleeves 
were  large  open,  hanging  sleeves.  Thus,  Laneham's  account  of 
Queen  Elizabeth's  entertainment  at  Kenilworth  Castle  mentions 
that  the  minstrel's  "gooun  had  syde  sleevez  dooun  to  mid- 
legge."  Within  the  "side  sleeves"  were  close-fitting  sleeves 
(like  cassock  sleeves  within  surplice  sleeves)  that  came  down  to 
the  wrist,  and  it  is  suggested  that  these  were  the  "  down  sleeves." 
It  may  be  so;  but  the  expression  has  not  been  found  elsewhere. 
No  one  seems  to  have  connected  "down"  with  plumage. 
Possibly  "down  sleeves"  were  sleeves  edged  with  "down." 
The  point,  though  disputable,  is  unimportant.  "Side  sleeves" 
hanging  from  the  shoulder  are  clearly  shown  in  the  picture  of 
Queen  Elizabeth  given  as  the  frontispiece  to  vol.  I  of  Shake- 
speare's England  and  in  the  Plate  facing  p.  86,  vol.  i  {ib.). 

round  underborne  zvtth  a  bluish  tinsel,  either  an  underskirt,  or 
a  lining,  stiff  enough  to  carry  out  and  display  the  beauty  of  the 
gown,  and  perhaps  showing  in  front  where  the  gown  was  open. 

45.  20.  quaint,  choice,  almost  "smart" — certainly  with  very 
little  of  its  modern  meaning. 

28.  Clap's  into  'Light  0'  love,'  "to  clap  into"  is  "to  strike 
into"  or  "to  begin  quickly,"  as  in  Measure  for  Measure,  iv.  3: 
"Truly,  sir,  I  would  desire  you  to  clap  into  your  prayers;  for, 
look  you,  the  warrant's  come."  Margaret's  speech  is  addressed 
to  Beatrice,  and  "Clap  us  into"  simply  means  "Then  strike  at 
once  into,"  the  "us"  being  another  example  of  the  ethical 
dative:  the  sense  is  clear  without  it,  as  in  all  other  examples. 
The  tune  of  "  Light  o'  Love"  is  known.  It  is  a  lively  measure, 
printed  in  Chappell's  Popular  Music  of  the  Olden  Time,  where 
it  appears  in  three-eight  time.  What  matters,  here,  however, 
is  not  the  tune  but  the  words,  or  rather  the  repeated  phrase. 
Here  is  a  stanza  as  given  by  Chappell — obviously  a  later  version : 

"By  force  I  am  fixed  my  fancy  to  write, 

Ingratitude  willeth  me  not  to  refrain : 
Then  blame  me  not,  ladies,  although  I  indite 

What  lighty  love  now  amongst  you  doth  reign. 
Your  traces  in  places  to  outward  allurements, 

Do  move  my  endeavour  to  be  the  more  plain : 
Your  nicings  and  ticings  with  sundry  procurements, 

To  publish  your  lighty  love  do  me  constrain." 

29.  without  a  burden.  The  burden  or  "drone"  was  borne  by 
male  voices.    For  the  most  accessible  example  of  a  drone,  see 


152         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING    [act  hi 

Sumer  is  i-atmen  in.   The  punning  reference  to  what  has  gone 
before  should  be  obvious. 
45.  31.  hey  ho,  a  sigh. 

33.  H,  that  is,  "ache" — the  noun  being  pronounced  with  the 
ch  soft,  the  verb  with  the  ch  hard,  the  distinction  still  preserved 
in  "speech"  and  "speak."  Barron  Field  quoted  the  following 
lines  from  Wit's  Recreations  (1640): 

"Nor  hawk,  nor  hound,  nor  horse,  those  letters  hhh, 
But  ach  itself  'tis  Brutus  bones  attaches." 

34.  timi'd  Turk,  become  a  renegade  from  your  former  pro- 
fession of  man-hater. 

35.  sailing  by  the  star,  the  almost  unchanging  Pole  Star  being 
an  emblem  of  constancy.  The  whole  exclamation  means :  "Well, 
if  you  are  not  in  love  after  all,  there's  nothing  certain  in  this 
world !" 

36.  trow,  I  trow,  I  wonder. 

41.  I  am  stuff t,  I  have  a  cold,  etc. 

Page  46 

45.  professt  apprehension,  made  a  speciality  of  quick  wit. 

46.  you  left  it,  ever  since  you  gave  up  apprehension — i.e. 
gave  up  having  wit  enough  to  understand  when  tricks  are  played 
on  you. 

49.  in  your  cap,  something  worn  in  the  cap  was  meant  to  be 
noticed — as  Fluellen's  leek. 

50.  this  distill'd  carduus  benedictus,  "this"  in  the  sense  of 
"this  notorious" — carduus  benedictus  being  plainly  the  fashion- 
able remedy  that  everybody  talked  about.  Wright  says:  "The 
virtues  of  this  plant  were  well  known  to  the  old  herbalists." 
Steevens  refers  to  The  Haven  of  Health  (1558)  by  Thomas 
Cogan,  in  which  there  is  a  chapter  (46)  "Of  Blessed  thistill." 
"  Carduus  benedictus,  or  blessed  Thistell  so  worthily  named  for 
the  singular  virtues  that  it  hath....Howesoever  it  be  used  it 
strengtheneth  all  the  principall  partes  of  the  bodie,  it  sharpeneth 
both  the  wit  and  the  memorie,  quickeneth  all  the  senses,  com- 
forteth  the  stomacke,  procureth  appetite,  and  hath  a  speciall 
yertue  against  poyson,  and  preserveth  from  the  pestilence,  and 
is  excellent  good  against  any  kind  of  fever.... For  which  notable 
effects  this  herbe  may  worthily  be  called  Benedictus  or  Omni- 
nwrbia,  that  is  a  salve  for  every  sore."  Furness  quotes  Joseph 
Hunter's  Nezv  Illustrations,  etc.,  to  the  effect  that  it  was  specially 
good  for  the  heart.  Hence  the  aptness  of  Margaret's  recom- 
mendation. Galatea  in  Philaster  recommends  it  to  Pharamond: 
"  Your  only  remedy... is,  in  a  morning,  a  cup  of  neat  white  wine 
brewed  with  carduus"  (11.  2). 


sc.  v] 


NOTES  153 


46.  54.  some  moral,  some  hidden  meaning. 

56.  you  may  think,  etc.,  this  gabbUng  speech  proceeds  on  the 
well-known  plan  of  saying  what  it  professes  not  to  say.  But 
surely  Margaret  is  too  voluble.  Beatrice  must  indeed  have  "  left 
apprehension"  if  she  failed  to  see  that  she  was  being  fooled. 

64.  he  eats  his  meat  zvithout  grudging;  "he  is  resigned  to  the 
common  lot  of  man — he  has  come  to  it,  like  all  the  rest ;  and  as 
for  you,  well,  you  are  no  more  than  a  woman!"  The  more 
obvious  meaning,  "  In  spite  of  his  heartache,  his  appetite  is 
still  good,"  does  not  fit  the  case. 

68.  Not  a  false  gallop ;  the  "false  gallop"  was  the  technical 
term  for  a  motion  that  was  neither  a  trot  nor  a  gallop.  Margaret 
indicates  that  she  means  what  she  says.  Thus  Margaret,  who 
helps  to  spoil  the  marriage  betw'een  Hero  and  Claudio,  comes 
very  near  to  spoiling  the  match  betw^een  Beatrice  and  Benedick. 

69.  the  prince,  the  count... are  come.  The  cool  of  the  early 
morning  has  not  abated  their  rash  and  unworthy  purpose  of 
the  night  before.  To  resolve  this  pubUc  shame  in  hot  blood  may 
be  pardonable;  to  pursue  it  in  cold  blood  is  not.  And  what  were 
"  all  the  gallants  of  the  town  "  doing,  when  they  let  a  "  foreigner" 
from  Florence  insult  the  daughter  of  their  own  governor? 


Scene  V 
Page  47 

A  front-stage  scene.  Time:  early  on  Monday  morning.  In- 
credible as  it  may  seem,  this  scene,  both  delightful  and  necessary, 
has  often  been  cut  out  of  ordinary  modern  productions  of  the  play. 

the  Headborotigh.  Verges.  For  the  Headborough  see  the 
Introduction. 

2.  some  confidence,  conference;  decerns,  concerns. 

10.  blunt,  sharp. 

11.  honest  as  the  skin,  etc.  Fumess  suggests  that  this  pro- 
verbial phrase  arises  from  the  custom  of  branding  criminals 
on  the  forehead.    It  may  be  so. 

15.  odorous,  odious. 

palabras.  From  the  Spanish  pocas  palabras,  few  words. 
Why  should  Dogbery  break  out  into  Spanish?  Because,  as 
Steevens  observ'es,  the  phrase  had  been  given  currency  in  The 
Spanish  Tragedie,  where  it  appears  in  iii.  14: 

"What  new  device  have  they  devised,  tro? 
Pocas  palabras!   Milde  as  the  lambe ! 
1st  I  will  be  reveng'd?   No,  I  am  not  the  man." 


154         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING    [act  iv 

47.  17.  tedious.  Dogbery  takes  it  as  a  compliment,  but  what  he 
imagines  it  to  mean  we  cannot  say,  nor  could  the  printer  of  F., 
for  he  altered  pound  to  times. 

19.  the  poor  duke's  officers,  "poor  Duke"  indeed!  but  Dog- 
bery means  "the  Duke's  poor  officers" — understanding 
"Duke"  as  Prince  or  ruler. 

21 .  bestozv. . .of  your  zoorship,  "of"  where  we  should  say  " on " 
is  quite  Shakespearean.  See  Abbott,  Shakespearian  Grammar, 
par.  175.  Compare  Taming  of  the  Shrezv,  iv.  i.  72,  where  we 
have  a  reference  to  riding  "both  of  one  horse";  i  Hen.  IV, 
II.  4.  127,  where  Falstaff  exclaims  "A  plague  of  all  cowards"; 
Merry  Wives,  i.  4.  80,  "He  came  of  an  errand";  etc.  etc.  See 
below,  "an  two  men  ride  of  a  horse." 

J.  C.  Smith  suggests  very  plausibly  that  the  use  of  "o"  in- 
differently for  "of"  and  "on"  assisted  the  interchange.  To-day 
"I'd"  stands  indifferently  for  "I  had"  and  "I  would." 

23.  a  thousand  pound.    F.  has  "a  thousand  times." 

24.  exclamation,  outcry,  complaint. 

29.  excepting,  etc.  Verges'  politeness  makes  him  accuse 
Leonato  of  being  "an  arrant  knave." 

33.  token  the  age,  etc.  Dogbery's  happy  variation  of  "when 
the  ale  is  in,  the  wit  is  out." 

34.  a  zvorld  to  see,  a  marvel,  or  something  worth  seeing — as 
in  Taming  of  the  Shrezv,  11.  i.  313. 

Page  48 

35.  God's  a  good  man,  another  proverbial  exclamation,  roughly 
equivalent  to  "All's  right  with  the  world."  Dogbery's  speech 
is  a  tissue  of  such  sayings,  and  no  special  meaning  need  be 
sought  for. 

43.  comprehended,  apprehended. 

aspitious,  suspicious. 

1-7.  suffigance,  sufficient;  Dogbery,  like  Mrs  Quickly,  seems 
to  have  contributed  something  to  the  immortal  peculiarities  of 
Mrs  Gamp. 

49.  A  Messenger.    No  entry  is  marked  for  him  in  Q.  or  F. 

52.  Francis  Seacoal  a  "learned  writer,"  but  not  necessarily 
the  George  Seacoal  of  an  earlier  scene.  True,  George  also  could 
read  and  write.  They  were  obviously  a  gifted  family.  No  doubt 
Francis  is  the  "Towne  Clearke"  and  Sexton  of  iv.  2. 

54.  to  examination.    F.  has  "  to  examine." 

56.  here's  that,  "For  I  have  that  within,"  as  another  philo- 
sophical character  of  Shakespeare's  observed. 

57.  to  a  non-come,  probably  a  Dogberian  blend  of  non  plus 
and  non  com.,  an  abbreviation  of  non  compos  mentis. 


sc.  I]  NOTES  155 

48.  58.  excommunication,  examination? 

59.  gaol.  The  student  may  care  to  note  that  the  word  is  here 
spelt  "  laile,"  and  "  Gaole"  at  1.  53,  both  in  Q.  and  F. 


ACT  IV 

Scene  I 

A  full-stage  scene.  Time:  immediately  after  the  last.  The 
place  is  a  church.  Q.  has  no  break  whatever.  F.  has  Actus 
Quartus  with  no  indication  of  place.  This  is  the  dramatic  church 
scene  to  which  Shakespeare  has  sacrificed  a  good  deal  of  pro- 
bability.   It  has  no  parallel  in  Bandello  or  Ariosto. 

1.  only  to,  to  the  main  point  at  once. 

Page  49 

19.  not  knowing  what  they  do.  F.  omits — probably  by 
accident.  See  Introduction  for  a  possible  metrical  reading  of 
these  lines. 

20.  Interjections,  used  punningly  of  Claudio's  exclamations, 
and  of  exclamations  in  the  grammatical  sense — part  of  the  old 
definition  being  given.  Hunter  says:  "Shakespeare  had  been 
anticipated  in  this  ludicrous  mode  of  applying  the  language  of 
the  grammar.  It  occurs  in  Lyly's  Endymion,  where  Sir  Tophas 
says,  'An  interjection,  whereof  some  are  of  mourning:  as  eho, 
vahl'" 

22.  father,  not  merely  a  touch  of  dramatic  irony,  but  meant 
by  Claudio  as  a  word  of  contempt — "You  who  are  in  such  haste 
to  make  yourself  my  father." 

28.  render  her  again,  understood  metaphorically  by  all  but 
Claudio  and  Pedro,  who,  of  course,  mean  it  literally. 

29.  learn,  teach,  as  often  in  Shakespeare. 

34.  authority,  guarantee. 

35.  withal,  used  (as  noted  earlier)  when  the  preposition  closes 
the  sentence,  the  normal  order  being,  "  O  with  what  authority, 
etc." 

36.  modest  evidence,  evidence  of  modesty. 

38.  she  were.  The  subjunctive,  grammatically  unnecessary,  is 
a  fine  literary  touch,  with  its  implication  of  doubt  and  sup- 
position. 

40.  luxurious,  in  a  bad  sense,  as  elsewhere  in  Shakespeare — 
"wanton,"  "loose,"  "lascivious." 


156         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING    [act  iv 

Page  50 

43.  Not  to  hiit;  "approved"  is  written  in  full,  both  in  Q.  and 
F.,  and  is  plainly  meant  to  be  trisyllabic: 

"N6t  to  knft  my  soiil  to  an  approved  wanton." 

44.  in  your  own  proof,  "proof"  in  Shakespeare  sometimes 
means  "example,"  as  in  Measure  for  Measure,  iii.  2.  31 : 

"Nay,  if  the  devil  have  given  thee  proofs  for  sin, 
Thou  wilt  prove  his." 

And  in  Merchant  of  Venice,  i.  i.  144:  "I  urge  this  childhood 
proof,"  etc.  Thus,  "if  you  in  your  own  proof"  means  "if  vou 
in  your  own  example,"  "if  you  yourself." 

48.  You  otY/, printed  in  full  in  Q.  and  F. — a  "  double  up-beat." 

49.  extenuate  the  forehand  sin,  "mitigate  the  sin  of  antici- 
pating marriage";  but  according  to  very  general  custom  in 
olden  times,  the  formal  betrothal  was  warrant  enough,  and 
"sin"  would  therefore  be  too  hard  a  word. 

50.  large,  free. 

52.  Bashful  sincerity,  etc.  As  noted  in  the  Introduction, 
Claudio  and  Hero  never  once  appear  alone  together.  They  are 
the  least  lover-like  lovers  in  Shakespeare. 

54.  /  zvill  write  agairut  it.  "  I  will  denounce  it  as  false  to  all 
the  world."  Observe  the  whole  of  this  speech  with  its  glut  of 
rhetoric.  What  evidence  has  Claudio  for  all  this?  Even  if  he 
had  proof  of  a  deed,  he  had  none  of  character. 

55.  Dian  in  her  orb.  Diana,  the  type  of  chastity,  was  also 
identified  with  the  moon — "Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and 
fair." 

<J0.  so  wide,  so  extravagantly. 

66.  True,  O  God,  not  in  reply  to  Benedick,  but  a  heartbroken 
echo  of  Don  John's  "these  things  are  true."  Benedick's  ejacu- 
lation must  be  read  as  an  "aside,"  or  a  whisper  to  Beatrice, 
if  the  antiphony  of  "true"  is  not  to  be  spoiled. 

67.  stand  I  here.  The  reply  to  Leonato's  question,  "do  I 
but  dream?" 

71.  move  one  question,  put  or  propose  one  question — "move" 
for  "put"  or  "propose"  is  still  the  form  in  debates  and  public 
meetings. 

72.  kindly,  natural,  according  to  "kind." 

Page  51 

77.  answer  truly  to  your  name,  obviously  an  echo  of  Hero's 
"catechising,"  the  first  question  of  the  Catechism  being  "What 
is  your  name?" 

80.  Hero  itself,  that  is,  the  name.  Borachio's  confession  shows 


sc.  I]  NOTES  157 

how  the  name  Hero  had  been  played  with  at  that  midnight 
inter^dew. 

51.  83.  if  you  are  a  maid,  if  you  are  innocent  you  can  give 
a  satisfactory  answer. 

85.  are  you  no  maiden,  your  denial  proves  your  guilt,  for  we 
know  you  did  so. 

90.  liberal,  in  a  bad  sense — licentious. 

91.  Confest;  when  and  where  had  this  confession  been  made  ? 
It  is  not  mentioned  elsewhere.  And  no  one  asks  who  or  where 
he  is,  or  challenges  the  preposterous  charge  of  "a  thousand" 
secret  interviews.  Not  until  v.  i,  does  Leonato  discover  who  the 
villain  is.    It  does  not  occur  to  this  remarkable  father  to  ask, 

97.  thy  much  misgovernment,  thy  Ucentiousness,  irregularity. 

104.  Conjecture,  suspicion.  Claudio's  eyes  (and  ears)  seem 
already  furnished  with  a  sufficiency. 

107.  Hath  no  ?nan's  dagger.  What  Leonato  needed  was  not  a 
dagger,  but  a  sensible  woman — the  absent,  excised  "  Innogen, 
his  wife."  We  are  surprised  that  Beatrice  is  so  long  in  recovering 
her  spirited  self. 

109.  Come  let  us  go,  neither  Q.  nor  F.  marks  the  exeunt  of 
Pedro,  Claudio  and  John. 

Page  52 

117.  wherefore  should  she  not.  This  question  of  the  Friar  is 
worth  remarking  as  the  first  sensible  utterance  of  the  scene. 

120.  printed  in  her  blood,  the  father  interprets  his  daughter's 
blush  of  indignation,  decency  and  natural  shock  as  evidence  of 
guilt. 

124.  the  rearward  of  reproaches,  a  lovely  phrase  spoilt  in  F, 
by  being  printed  "reward." 

125.  /  had  but  one,  but  one  child. 

126.  at  frugal  nature's  frame,  at  frugal  Nature's  disposition 
or  order  of  things.  "  Frame"  for  "framing"  occurs  a  little  later 
in  this  very  scene,  1.  187. 

131.  smirched.  F.  (less  happily)  has  "smeered."  Wright 
reminds  us  that  participial  phrases  of  this  kind  (the  ablative 
absolute  in  Latin)  are  not  uncommon  in  Shakespeare. 

134.  But  nmie,  and  tnine  I  loved.  The  comma  after  7nine 
appears  in  F.  but  not  in  Q.  Other%vise  the  texts  are  alike.  The 
reading  of  F.  is  an  improvement.  The  extent  to  which  we  have 
re-punctuated  the  passage  can  be  best  shown  by  a  quotation 
of  the  original  from  Q. : 

"  But  mine  and  mine  I  loved,  and  mine  I  praisde, 
And  mine  that  I  was  prowd  on  mine  so  much. 
That  I  my  selfe,  was  to  my  selfe  not  mine : 
Valewing  of  her,  why  she,  O  she  is  falne,  etc." 


iS8         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING    [act  iv 

That  is :  "  the  beggar's  issue  is  not  '  mine ' ;  but  the  real  *  mine ' 
— she  that  I  loved,  and  praised,  and  was  proud  of,  she  who  was 
so  much  '  mine '  that  my  own  self  seemed  unimportant  to  myself, 
so  highly  did  I  value  her, — why  she,  O  she,  etc." 

Such  forms  as  "  proud  on  "  for  "  proud  of"  and  "  valuing  of" 
for  "valuing"  have  already  been  noted. 

52.  138.  that  the  tvide  sea,  so  that,  etc. 

141.  Sir,  sir,  be  patient.  This  is  printed  in  Q.  thus: 

"Sir,  sir,  be  patient,  for  my  part  I  am  so  attired  in  won- 
der, I  know  not  what  to  say." 

The  Friar's  speech  below  is  printed  thus : 

"Heare  me  a  little,  for  I  have  only  bin  silent  so  long,  & 
given  way  unto  this  course  of  fortune,  by  noting  of  the  lady,  I 
have  markt,  G.  [signature]  A  [catch-word]." 

The  Friar's  lines  are  at  the  very  bottom  of  p.  49  of  Q.  and  have 
an  appearance  of  being  unduly  crowded.  Even  sheet-signature  G 
and  the  "catch-word"  of  the  next  page,  "A,"  are  printed  on 
the  same  line  as  "  have  markt."  Moreover,  there  are  thirty-nine 
lines  of  text  on  this  page,  and  thirty-eight  in  a  few  of  the  others, 
the  normal  number  being  thirty-seven.  P.  49  is  the  beginning 
of  sheet  G.  For  some  printing-house  reason — perhaps  an  in- 
sertion in  the  text  somewhere,  or  perhaps  a  necessity  for  fitting 
these  pages  on  to  something  already  set  up — an  extra  quantity 
of  matter  had  to  be  crushed  into  this  single  page,  and  space  was 
found  by  printing  Benedick's  interposition  and  the  beginning  of 
the  Friar's  speech  as  prose.  There  is  a  technical  note  in  the 
Facsimile  Quarto  (i886)  to  which  the  reader  may  refer.  It  was 
seen  very  early  that  the  speeches  quoted  are  metrical,  and  they 
are  therefore  printed  here  in  the  probable  lines.  See  further 
below.     Here  again  we  probably  have  signs  of  revision. 

142.  so  attired  in  wonder,  so  wrapped  in  wonder. 

Page  53 

146.  No  truly.  In  Q.  this  is  printed,  "  No  truly,  not  although, 
etc.";  in  F.,  "No  truly:  not  although,  etc."  The  modern 
practice  is  to  print  "No,  truly,  not;  although,  etc."  or,  "No, 
truly  not ;  although,  etc."  Is  this  necessary? — ^is  it  even  desirable 
that  definite,  doubly  authorised  punctuation  should  be  changed? 
The  "not"  before  "although,"  awkward  as  it  is,  seems  to  me 
to  introduce  a  strong  negative-adversative  of  the  "not-but- 
that"  type — an  emphasis  of  the  difference  between  the  two 
statements,  the  sense  being,  "Last  night  I  was  not;  but  observe 
the  opposite  fact:  until  last  night,  etc."  The  charge,  remember, 
refers  not  merely  to  one  night,  but  to  "a  thousand";  and 


sc.  I]  NOTES  159 

Beatrice,  in  emphasising  the  falseness  of  the  general  charge,  is 
really  weakening  the  plausibility  of  the  particular.  Borachio 
himself  had  mentioned  a  "twelvemonth."  I  therefore  retain 
the  original  punctuation,  and  feel  sure  that  it  is  right. 

53.  148.  Confirm'd,  confirm'd.  Leonato,  it  will  be  observed, 
clings  to  the  one  doubtful  charge,  ignoring  the  thousand  just 
decisively  confuted. 

152.  Washt  it,  the  subject  "he"  is  understood. 

153.  Hear  me  a  little.  The  arrangement  of  this  speech  into 
lines  is  discussed  above.  Most  editors  agree  in  finding  the 
beginning  obscure.  There  seems  to  be  something  omitted : 

"Hear  me  a  little. 
For  I  have  only  bin  silent  so  long, 
And  given  way  unto  this  course  of  fortune," 

and  then  we  expect  something  like, 

"That  I  might  seek  to  remedy  your  woe." 
The  Cambridge  text,  arranging  the  lines  differently,  boldly 
indicates  a  lacuna : 

"Hear  me  a  little;  for  I  have  only  been 

Silent  so  long  and  given  way  unto 
■fThis  course  of  fortune... 

By  noting  of  the  lady  I  have  marked 

A  thousand,  etc." 
One  cannot  be  dogmatic  upon  such  a  matter,  but  it  seems  to  me 
that  the  Cambridge  barring  of  the  lines  is  much  less  good  than 
the  older  arrangement  adopted  here.  And  is  there  really  a 
lacuna?  The  difficulty,  such  as  it  is,  appears  to  lie  in  the  word 
"  only  "  and  in  the  phrase  "  by  noting  of  the  lady."  The  simplest 
solution  is  to  take  them  together:  "I  have  been  silent  so  long 
only  through  noting  of  the  lady."  We  have  already  discussed 
Shakespeare's  habit  of  separating  only  from  the  special  phrase 
to  which  it  seems  attached.  The  separation  here  is  hardly 
greater  than  in 

"  I  do  know  of  those 
That  therefore  only  are  reputed  wise 
For  saying  nothing."  {Merchant  of  Venice,  I.  i.  95-7.) 
Upon  any  interpretation,  "by  noting  of  the  lady"  is  awkward: 
it  joins  on  with  "  I  have  marked  "  just  as  uneasily  as  to  "  I  have 
only  been  silent  so  long."  Taking  the  passage  as  it  stands  both 
in  Q.  and  F.,  and  with  only  one  change  in  punctuation,  we  can 
read  it  thus :  "  Now  hear  me,  for  I  have  only  been  silent  so  long, 
and  allowed  events  to  take  their  course  unchecked,  through 
watching  the  lady.  I  have  observed  many  signs  of  innocence, 
etc."  The  one  alteration  we  have  made  is  to  change  the  comma 


i6o         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING    [act  iv 

after  lady  into  a  full  stop — no  violence  at  all,  as  commas  where 
we  should  use  full  stops  abound  in  Q.,  as  any  page  of  the  present 
text  will  show.  Those  who  are  uneasy  about  the  remoteness  of 
only  and  read  it  as  an  adjective — "  For  I  alone  have  been  silent, 
etc." — would  interpret  the  passage  substantially  as  we  have 
done.  Personally,  I  think  otily  is  not  an  adjective  here.  Those 
who  believe  there  is  a  lacuna  read,  "Now  hear  me,  for  I  have 
only  been  silent  so  long,  and  allowed  events  to  take  their  course 
unchecked  [for  reasons  given  in  an  omitted  passage].  In 
watching  the  lady  I  have  observed  many  signs  of  innocence, 
etc." 

The  reader  has  now  all  the  important  facts  before  him  and  can 
choose  which  reading  he  prefers.  Nothing,  of  course,  is  certain 
• — not  even  that  the  original  text  is  wrong.  It  may  be  obsen^ed 
against  those  who  believe  there  is  a  lacuna,  that,  crowded  as  the 
last  three  lines  of  p.  49  are  in  Q.,  there  is  still  room  on  the  last 
line  for  at  least  ten  more  words,  especially  if  the  sheet-signature 
G  were  moved  up  nearer  to  the  catch- word. 

53.  159.  6eaf  azi'aj'.  Q.  reads  "beate  away,"  F."beare  away." 
The  former  is  better — the  sense  being  that  the  blushes  (takerj 
as  a  sign  of  guilt)  have  been  beaten  back  by  the  whiteness  of 
innocence. 

160.  afire,  To  burn.  A  professional  image.  The  Friar  has  in  his 
mind's  eye  some  contumacious  heretic  being  purged  of  his 
errors  at  the  stake. 

1G4-.  Which  ivith  experimental  seal,  etc.,  which  with  the  seal 
of  long  experience  attest  the  truth  of  what  I  have  read.  It  is 
contrary  to  the  general  imagery  of  seal  and  warrant  to  read 
"zeal"  for  "seal." 

105,  tenour.   Q.  spells  it  tenure. 

Page  54 

184.  the  very  bent  of  honour,  "bent,"  used  often  by  Shake- 
speare, is  an  archery  term.  It  may  mean  direction,  or,  extent  of 
stretch.  The  latter  meaning  is  better  here — "Two  of  them  are 
men  with  the  fullest  stretch  of  honour." 

180.  practice,  used  in  a  bad  sense. 

lives,  some  prefer  to  read  lies;  but  lives  is  thoroughly 
Shakespearean. 

187.  in  frame  of  villanies,  in  framing  villainies. 

192.  my  invention,  pronounced  in  four  syllables  (probably 
something  Uke  "in-ven-si-oon"). 

193.  Nor  Fortune,  etc.    Bandello's  Lionato  is  a  poor  man. 

194.  tny  bad  life,  a  bad  life ;  the  form  seems  to  make  Leonato 
say  the  opposite  of  what  he  means. 


sc.  I]  NOTES  i6i 

54.  195.  But  they  shall  find,  etc.  Editors  (beginning  with  Capell) 
have  found  these  lines  un-Shakespearean,  chiefly  on  account  of 
the  jingle  of  "find,"  "kind"  and  "mind,"  and  have  proposed 
(or  accepted)  certain  alterations.  We  can  only  say  that  the  lines 
as  printed  in  Q.  and  F.  (the  sole  authorities)  make  perfect  sense 
and  not  xevy  imperfect  sound.  We  propose  to  keep  them  un- 
changed. 

200.  the  princess  {left  for  dead).  Q.  has  "the  princesse  (left 
for  dead)";  F.  "the  Princesse  (left  for  dead)."  This  has  been 
emended  to  "  the  princes  left  for  dead,"  on  the  ground  that  Hero 
was  not  a  "princess."  But  surely  Hero  was  as  much  a  princess 
as  Claudio  was  a  prince.  The  punctuation  and  printing  in  Q. 
and  F.  seem  to  me  too  deliberate  and  purposed  to  be  a  misprint. 
I  therefore  retain  the  original  reading.  The  broken  structure  of 
the  sentence  (anacoluthon)  is  exactly  parallel  to : 

"Rather  proclaim  it,  Westmoreland,  through  my  host, 
That  he  which  hath  no  stomach  to  this  fight, 
Let  him  depart;  his  passport  shall  be  made. 
And  crowns  for  convoy  put  into  his  purse." 

{Henry  V,  IV.  3.  34.) 

203.  osfewtoiz'on,  not  in  its  present  derogatory  sense.  It  means 
the  appropriate  funeral  ceremonies  and  customs. 

207.  shall... icill,  "What  is  destined  to  result  from  this  project? 
What  does  this  project  intend  to  do  for  us?"  (Abbott's  para- 
phrase). 

209.  remorse,  general  pity  as  well  as  particular  regret. 

212.  She  dying.  Fenicia  in  Bandello  seems  to  be  actually 
dead  and  is  believed  to  be.  She  does  not  revive  till  her  body  is 
washed  for  burial. 

Page  55 
218.  rack  the  value,  stretch,  exaggerate  the  value.  The  term 
s,  unhappily,  familiar  in  "rack-rent" — rent  stretched  to  the 
utmost  possible  extent. 

222.  Th'Idaea.  As  Boas  remarks,  this  is  almost  a  Platonic  use 
of  the  word.  It  is  printed  "  Idaea"  in  Q.  and  capitalized  in  F. 
We  retain  (platonically)  the  spelling  of  Q. 

223.  his  study  of  imagination,  into  the  reflections  or  rumina- 
tions of  his  mind. 

226.  moving  delicate,  never  to  be  separated  by  a  comma,  as 
some  editors  prefer!  If  we  must  insert  a  stop  at  all,  let  it  be  a 
hyphen. 

227.  eye  and  prospect,  immediate  and  ultimate  vision. 

229.  in  his  liver.  This  organ,  now  the  mere  theme  of  adver- 
tised remedies,  was  once  looked  upon  as  the  seat  of  love,  courage 

SUA  XZ 


i62         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING    [act  iv 

and  other  noble  affections.  Allusions  to  it  are  frequent  in 
Shakespeare. 

55.   232.  success,  that  which  follows. 

237.  Will  quench,  etc.,  discussion  about  her  sudden  death  will 
stop  discussion  of  the  charge  against  her. 

240.  reclusive,  cloistered. 

religious,  conventual. 

243.  inwardness,  intimacy.  This  is  a  frank  and  manly  speech 
of  Benedick's. 

247.  Being  that,  etc.  This  construction  is  not  used  in  Modem 
English.  The  suggested  parallel  with  seeing  that  cannot  be  main- 
tained. 

/  flow.  It  has  been  suggested  that  float  would  suit  the 
context  better;  but  there  is  no  need  for  the  change;  the  word 
"flow"  equally  suggests  unusual  ductility  or  docility,  which  is 
just  the  idea  conveyed  by  the  speech. 

250.  strain  the  cure,  the  old  doctrine  that  desperate  diseases 
need  desperate  remedies  is  referred  to  more  than  once  by 
Shakespeare. 

Page  56 

252.  prolonged,  postponed.  Note  that  the  end  of  this  scene 
is  marked  by  the  emphatic  rhymes  of  a  quatrain,  with  a  line 
of  extra  length  for  the  last. 

253.  Lady  Beatrice.  The  beginning  of  a  new  scene,  without 
change  of  place  or  passage  of  time.  It  is  possibly  the  finest 
scene  of  the  play.  We  have  discussed  it  fully  in  the  Introduction. 
The  only  point  that  calls  for  comment  here  is  the  fact  that 
Beatrice  does  not  go  out  with  the  fainting  Hero,  as  we  should 
expect.  Probably  she  moves  to  go  out,  and  Benedick  detains 
her.   She  is  willing  to  be  detained,  for  she  needs  his  help. 

256.  You  have  no  reason.  A  smile  through  the  tears ! /ree/3' 
is  no  doubt  a  pun — (i)  copiously,  (2)  by  my  ozvn  desire. 

263.  but  not  yours.  This  is  not  meant  as  a  taunt.  The  quarrel 
cannot  be  Benedick's,  for  he  is  unconnected  with  Hero's  family 
and  is  attached  by  old  ties  to  Pedro  and  Claudio.  The  quarrel 
cannot  be  his — unless  new  ties  bind  him  to  Beatrice.  See 
Introduction. 

266.  As  strange  as,  etc.,  "  as  strange  as — oh,  I  know  not  what !" 
Beatrice  confesses  in  her  denial;  and  then  turns  hastily  back 
for  safety  to  the  tragedy  of  the  morning. 

270.  By  my  sivord.  A  prophetic  exclamation,  anticipating 
with  dramatic  irony  the  demand  that  was  to  be  made  of  that 
weapon . 

271.  and  eat  it.    F.  has  "do  not  sweare  by  it  and  eat  it," 


sc.  I]  NOTES  163 

possibly  because  the  printer  saw  "sweare  by  it"  in  the  line 
below.    "Do  not  swear  and  eat  it"  is  generally  explained  as 
"Do  not  swear  and  then  eat  your  words,"  i.e.  unsay  them.    I 
doubt  whether  this  is  the  meaning.   I  think  the  meaning  is  the 
obvious  one,  "Do  not  swear  by  your  sword  and  then  eat  it"; 
for  Benedick  immediately  replies,   "  I   will   swear  by  it   [my 
sword]  that  you  love  me,  and  I  will  make  him  eat  it  [my  sword] 
that  says  I  love  not  you."  Surely  no  one  doubts  that  in  the  latter 
speech  both  the  words  it  refer  to  szvord?   "To  eat  a  sword"  is 
to  be  defeated,  to  be  thrashed.  Thus  in  Antony  and  Cleopatra, 
III.  13.  198-200,  Enobarbus  says,  foreseeing  the  end: 
"A  diminution  in  our  captain's  brain 
Restores  his  heart :  when  valour  preys  on  reason, 
It  eats  the  sword  it  fights  with." 

In  Troilus  and  Cressida,  11.  3.  225,  etc.,  Ajax  exclaims:  "An 
all  men  were  o'  my  mind,  a  should  not  bear  it  so,  a  should  eat 
swords  first."  In  i  Hen.  IV,  v.  4.  153,  etc.  Falstaff  says:  "I'll 
take  it  upon  my  death,  I  gave  him  this  wound  in  the  thigh:  if 
the  man  were  alive  and  would  deny  it,  zounds,  I  would  make 
him  eat  a  piece  of  my  sword." 

What  Beatrice  means,  then,  is,  "  Do  not  swear  and  then  have 
to  eat  steel  as  :a  beaten  man";  i.e.  "the  last  word  about  my 
loving  you  is  surely  with  me!"  Benedick  replies,  "  I  will  swear 
by  my  sword  that  I  love  you,  and  I  will  make  any  fellow  eat  it 
who  denies  that  you  love  me."  It  seems  to  me  that  the  quip 
is  lost  if  we  take  "and  eat  it"  to  mean  "eat  your  word."  That 
is  what  Beatrice  goes  on  to  say  next.  "Are  you  sure,"  she  asks, 
"that  you  won't  recant  the  words  you  have  said?"  Beatrice 
means  to  take  Benedick  and  his  sword  seriously.  The  reader  will 
observe  how  wonderfully  the  climax  is  prepared,  step  by  step. 

56.  277.  Godjorgive  me.  Like  Benedick,  we  ask"  What  offence, 
sweet  Beatrice?"  I  think  she  means  "God  forgive  me  all  my 
past  follies  of  speech  and  thought!  [I,  too,  love,  and  love 
deeply]."  Benedick  interrupts  her  with  "What  offence?"  and 
she  replies,  "You  have  interrupted  me  at  the  most  propitious 
moment,  for  I  was  going  to  declare  that  I,  too,  love,  and  love 
deeply." 

281.  And  do  it.   Then  do  it. 

285.  Kill  Claudia.  This  famous  utterance  raises  the  level,  not 
merely  of  the  scene,  but  of  the  whole  play.  It  is  what  all  readers 
and  spectators  have  been  saying  in  their  hearts  for  a  long  time. 

Page  57 

290.  nay  I  pray  you.  It  is  clear  that  Benedick  seizes  her  hand 
to  detain  her. 


i64         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING    [act  iv 

57.  299.  bear  her  in  hand,  delude,  deceive  her.  Fumess  quotes 
Ehvin  very  aptly  here:  "In  the  14th  of  Eliz.  1572,  an  Act  was 
passed  against  '  such  as  practise  abused  sciences,  whereby  they 
bear  the  people  in  hand  that  they  can  tell  their  destinies,  deaths, 
etc.'" 

301.  uncover' d  slander .  Both  Q.  and  F.  print  here  "and  then 
with  publike  accusation  uncovered  slaunder,  unmittigated  ran- 
cour?" It  is  difficult  to  see  the  meaning.  If  we  put  a  comma 
after  accusation  we  get  an  exclamation  left  naturally  incomplete. 
In  Q.  and  F.  the  incomplete  name  lower  down  is  printed  "  Beat?" 
The  mark  of  interrogation  is  often  used  as  a  mark  of  exclama- 
tion.   Uncovered  here  means  stark,  bare,  published. 

311.  G  goodly  Count,  count  in  its  literal  sense,  and  meta- 
phorically as  a  count  in  an  indictment — one  of  Shakespeare's 
very  happy  puns. 

Count  CoTnf ect,  "hord  Lollipop"  as  Staunton  has  happily 
paraphrased  it.  F.  spoils  the  phrase  by  omitting  the  repeated 
word  "Counte"  and  reading,  "a  goodly  Count,  Comfect." 
Cotgrave  gives  comfets  for  dragees.  Some  editors  have  strained 
at  a  comfit  in  trying  to  establish  some  association  of  sound  or 
idea  between  Count  and  Comfect.  There  is  none. 

314.  curtsies,  as  already  noted,  the  word  is  spelt  cursies  in 
Q.  and  F. — the  pronunciation  being  thus  indicated.  The 
meaning  is,  that,  instead  of  manliness,  we  have  only  femininity. 

315.  trim  ones,  very  smooth  tongues,  ready  to  boast  or  lie  or 
flatter. 

319.  by  this  hand,  his  own;  seven  lines  lower,  Beatrice's. 

Page  58 
325.  /  am  engag'd,  I  am  pledged  to  fight. 

Scene  II 

No  break  indicated  in  Q.  or  F.  A  front-stage  scene.  Time: 
later  in  the  same  day.  Time  enough  must  elapse  for  news  of 
Don  John's  flight  and  Hero's  supposed  death  to  be  known. 
The  place  may  be  imagined  as  the  Constable's  room  in  the  gaol. 
We  have  added  the  stage-direction  as  to  place,  and  retained  the 
stage-direction  of  Q.  as  to  persons,  though  the  headings  of  the 
speeches  are  not  in  accordance  with  this.  Thus,  there  is  no 
"Towne  Clearke"  among  the  speakers.  The  one  intelligent 
"porochial  officer"  introduced  here  into  the  play  is  called 
throughout  "the  Sexton,"  and  he  is  plainly  treated  with  defer- 
ence.  No  doubt  (as  we  have  suggested)  he  was  a  pluralist,  and 


i 


sc.  II]  NOTES  165 

delegated  the  mere  manual  duties  of  a  sexton  to  another.  We 
assume  that  he  is  the  Francis  Seacoal  whose  presence  (with 
pen  and  inkhorn)  Dogbery  desires  at  the  examination  (iii.  5.  52). 
The  whole  scene  is  a  tangle  of  identities.  Some  speeches  are 
headed  by  the  names  of  the  characters,  others  by  the  names  of 
the  actors ;  at  least  one  speech  is  telescoped  into  another,  so  that 
the  utterances  of  two  different  persons  are  blended.  Here  is 
the  opening  of  the  scene  as  given  in  Q.: 

Enter  the  Constables,  Borachio,  and  the  Towne 
clear ke  in  gownes. 

Keeper.  Is  our  whole  dissembly  appeard? 

Cowley.  O  a  stoole  and  a  cushion  for  the  Sexton. 

Sexton.  Which  be  the  malefactors? 

Andrew.  Mary  that  am  I,  and  my  partner. 

Cowley.  Nay  thats  certaine,  we  have  the  exhibition  to  examine. 

Sexton.  But  which  are  the  offenders?  that  are  to  be  examined, 
let  them  come  before  maister  constable. 

Kemp.  Yea  mary,  let  them  come  before  mee,  what  is  your 
name,  friend? 

Bor.  Borachio. 

Ke.  Pray  write  downe  Borachio.   Yours  sirra. 

Con.  I  am  a  gentleman  sir,  and  my  name  is  Conrade. 

Ke.  Write  downe  maister  gentleman  Conrade:  maisters,  do 
you  serve  God? 

Both.  Yea  sir  we  hope. 

Kent.  Write  downe,  that  they  hope  they  serve  God,  etc. 

Dogbery  is  obviously  the  first  speaker;  but  why  is  he  called 
"Keeper"?  The  answer  is  this:  the  part  of  Dogbery  was 
"created"  (as  they  say  professionally)  by  the  famous  comedian 
Will  Kemp,  whose  name,  as  "Kemp,"  "Kem."  or  "Ke." 
heads  the  speeches  of  Dogbery  throughout  the  scene.  As  the 
scene  clearly  shows,  the  play  was  printed  in  1600  from  a  theatre 
copy.  No  doubt  the  first  speech  had  "  Ke."  written  against  it, 
and  this  the  printer  expanded  into  "Keeper"  (the  gaol  idea 
being  in  his  mind),  and  overlooked  or  ignored  his  blunder. 
The  second  speech  belongs  to  Verges,  whose  part,  played  by 
Richard  Cowley,  is  headed  "  Cowley"  or  "  Couley "  throughout 
the  scene.  One  speech  headed  Const,  is  plainly  his,  and  the 
simplest  explanation  is  that  the  abbreviation  Cou.  for  "  Cowley" 
in  MS.  was  interpreted  by  the  printer  as  Con.  for  "Constable." 
We  have  already  explained  the  identity  of  Towne  clearke  and 
Sexton.  One  speech  headed  Constable  in  full  is  almost  certainly 
Dogbery's,  who,  after  all,  was  the  "right  maister  Constable." 
The  fourth  speech,  headed  Andrew,  is  a  difficulty.  Who  was 


i66  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING    [act  iv 

"Andrew"?  His  alacrity  in  blundering,  together  with  the 
echoing  answer  of  Verges,  make  it  almost  certain  that  the  speech 
should  be  given  to  Dogbery;  and  editors  from  Rowe  onwards 
have  assigned  it  to  him.  A  possible  suggestion  is  that  it  is  a 
speech  by  one  of  the  two  Watchmen,  played  by  some  "  Andrew." 
Against  this  must  be  set  the  strong  objection  that  the  Watchmen 
do  not  begin  to  speak  till  they  are  bidden  later  in  the  scene,  and 
a  minor  objection  that  there  is  no  "Andrew"  in  the  list  of  the 
"Principall  Actors  in  all  these  Playes"  included  in  F.  On  the 
whole,  then,  it  is  best  to  assume  that  the  speech  is  Dogbery 's, 
and  that  "Andrew"  is  a  slip  of  the  theatrical  pen,  or  a  survival. 
At  the  risk  of  repetition  we  shall  refer  to  some  of  these  points 
again  in  their  proper  place. 

58.  5.  the  exhibition  to  examine.  Steevens  suggests  that  this  is 
the  old  man's  blunder  for  "the  examination  to  exhibit." 

12.  sii-rah,  used  to  inferiors,  or  with  intent  to  annoy,  as  when 
a  modem  addresses  another  as,  "I  say,  you,  sir!"  Conrad 
therefore  protests  indignantly  that  he  is  a  gentleman,  and  not 
to  be  "sirrahed." 

16.  Both.  This  speech  and  the  beginning  of  the  next  are 
omitted  in  F.,  no  doubt  to  avoid  over-use  of  the  name  of  God — 
allowed  in  1600,  but  penalized  in  1623. 

19.  proved... thought,  a  Dogberian  reversal. 

24.  go  about  tvith  him,  I  will  circumvent  him. 

Page  59 

28.  they  are  both  in  a  tale,  they  both  tell  the  same  story. 

33.  eftest,  probably  a  Dogberian  variant  of  some  unguessable 
word — possibly  provincial,  and  not  (as  Theobald  suggested)  a 
misprint  for  deftest.  The  old  word  e/f=  again,  soon,  is  nowhere 
found  as  an  adjective. 

47.  Yea  by  mass,  headed  Const,  in  Q.  and  F.,  but  plainly 
not  Dogbery.  We  have  given  it  to  Verges,  Cou.  having  been 
mistaken  for  Con. 

49.  upon  his  words,  Borachio's  charge. 

53.  redemption,  damnation. 

56.  more... than  you  can  deny,  "for  here  is  corroborative 
evidence."  It  is  clear  that  the  Clerk  goes  out  at  the  end  of 
this  speech,  but  no  exit  is  marked  in  Q.  or  F. 

62.  opinion  d,  pinioned.  Headed  Constable,  but  plainly 
Dogbery. 

63.  Let  them  be.  Here  we  are  in  trouble.  Q.  reads  "Couley. 
Let  them  be  in  the  hands  of  Coxcombe."  F.  heads  the  speech 
Sex.  and  prints  Coxcombe  in  italics,  as  if  it  were  a  proper  name. 
The  reading  will  not  do.   Dogbery 's  next  speech  plainly  shows 


sc.  II]  NOTES  167 

that  "  Coxcombe"  was  a  word  of  contempt  used  by  one  of  the 
prisoners  to  one  of  the  officers.  Malone  suggested  very  happily, 
"  Off  Coxcombe !"  as  Borachio's  (or  Conrad's)  exclamation  when 
he  was  going  to  be  bound.  The  whole  Une  is  plainly  corrupt. 
We  therefore  read  the  speech  of  Verges  as  an  amplification  of 
Dogberv-'s  "opinion'd" — "Yes,  let  them  be  [pinioned] !  In  the 
hands!"'  i.e.,  "bind  their  hands."  We  assign  the  exclamation 
to  Conrad  as  he  seems  touchy  about  his  dignitj',  and  as  he 
immediately  adds  the  immortal  and  culminating  insult. 

Page  60 

67.  thou  naughty  varlet,  addressed  to  the  struggling  prisoner. 

68.  Azvay,  you  are  an  ass.  Assigned  to  Couley  (i.e.  Verges) 
in  Q.  and  F.  It  should  be  Conrad,  the  printer  having  wrongly 
expanded  Con.  as  Couley. 

69.  suspect,  respect. 

70.  O  that  he  were  here.  The  Clerk  (as  we  have  suggested) 
having  gone  out  at  the  end  of  his  last  speech. 

76.  as  pretty  a  piece,  etc.,  as  fine  a  man. 
78.  that  hath  had  losses.   Still  a  common  boast  among  people 
of  a  certain  class.     Emendation  is  entirely  unnecessary. 


ACTV 

Scene  I 

No  break  in  Q.  Actus  Quintus  in  F.  "Probably  a  front- 
stage  scene"  (Boas).  The  place  is  anywhere  out  of  doors 
— for  stage  purposes,  the  same  street  or  square  as  that  in  which 
we  first  meet  the  Constables  (iii.  3).  The  time  is  Monday 
(the  wedding-day),  but  much  later.  The  events  plainly  happen 
soon  after  the  judicial  interrogation  of  rv.  2.  It  may  be  observed 
that  the  Prince  says  "good  den,"  which  is  supposed  not  to  be 
a  morning  greeting,  and  Leonato,  parting  from  Claudio,  says, 
"To-morrow  then  I  will  expect  your  coming.  To-night  I  take 
my  leave." 

6.  Nor  let  no  co?K/orfer,  a  usual  Shakespearean  double  negative. 

10.  And  bid  him  speak,  some  editors  have  tried  to  fiU  out  the 
line — unnecessarily,  not  to  say  unwarrantably.  A  short  line  in 
a  dramatic  speech  is  not  uncommon  in  Shakespeare — Hamlet^ 
for  instance,  has  several. 

Page  61 

12.  every  strain  for  strain,  etc.,  "  let  his  feelings  endure  exactly 
the  same  tense  racking  as  mine,  let  his  grief  exactly  resemble 
mine  in  all  points." 


i68  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  v 

6l.  16.  And  sorrow,  wag.  A  difficult  passage.  Q.  and  F.  read: 

"And  sorrow,  wagge,  crie  hem,  when  he  should  grone," 

Capell  emended  it  by  altering  And  to  Bid  and  omitting  the 
comma,  "Bid  sorrow  wag,"  i.e.  "Bid  sorrow  go."  This  makes 
sense,  but  it  is  not  so  much  emendation  as  re-composition.  Let 
us  examine  the  original  reading.  The  statement  is,  "  If  any 
person,  who  has  suffered  exactly  the  calamity  that  has  befallen 
me,  will  smile,  stroke  his  beard,  grieve,  wag  his  head,  cry  '  hem ' 
when  he  should  groan... bring  him  to  me,  and  I  will  learn 
patience  of  him !"  The  sequence  does  not  seem  to  me  un- 
natural. It  describes  one  who  experiences  calamity,  but  bears 
it  more  lightly  than  Leonato.  An  old  man  of  less  acute  feelings 
would  be  platitudinous,  sententious,  would  wag  his  old  head 
very  wisely,  would  protest  his  sorrow,  and  patch  the  sorrow  with 
proverbs,  and  so  forth.  He  would  "sorrow"  incidentally,  and 
do  many  other  things  as  well ;  Leonato  would  do  nothing  but 
sorrow.  For  the  use  of  sorrow  as  a  verb,  see  The  Winter's  Tale, 
V.  2.  99:  "Who  was  most  marble  there  changed  colour;  some 
swooned,  all  sorrowed";  As  You  Like  It,  in.  v.  88: 

"Wherever  sorrow  is,  relief  would  be: 
If  you  do  sorrow  at  my  grief  in  love, 
By  giving  love  your  sorrow  and  my  grief 
Were  both  exterminated." 

We,  therefore,  retain  here  the  reading  of  Q.  and  F.  At  the  same 
time  we  must  admit  that  the  line  is  questionable.  The  use  of 
tvag  intransitively,  for  instance,  is  suspicious.  But  see  wring 
(1.  28). 

18.  With  candle-wasters,  with  those  who  bum  the  midnight- 
oil  in  concocting  the  proverbs  and  wise  saws  that  will  patch 
grief  and  drug  sorrow.  Other  editors,  however,  understand  the 
"  candle-wasters  "  to  be  roysterers  and  revellers  among  whom  the 
sorrowful  man  may  drink  and  forget  his  grief.  The  first  explana- 
tion is  better,  as  a  consideration  of  the  lines  that  follow  will  show. 

yet,  nevertheless,  in  spite  of  all  I  have  said. 

22.  tasting  it,  qualifies  the  they  implied  in  their. 

23.  counsel  turns  to  passion,  their  reason  turns  into  acute 
feeling — their  wisdom  into  emotion.  See  for  an  instant  example 
how  the  philosophical  brother  Anthony  behaves  to  Claudio. 

which  before,  the  antecedent  is  counsel,  not  passion. 

24.  preceptial  medicine,  the  medicine  of  precepts — would  use 
words  to  cure  madness.  Q.  prints  medcine,  F.  medicine.  W'e  want 
all  the  syllables  here. 

28.  wring,  writhe.  The  only  other  clear  intransitive  use  is  in 
Cymbeline,  iii.  6.  79:  "He  wrings  at  some  distress." 


sc.  I]  NOTES  169 

61.  29.  no  man's  virtue,  etc.,  "but  ['tis]  no  man's  virtue  nor 
sufficiency";  corresponding  to  "'tis  all  men's  office"  above. 
The  meaning  is  that  it  is  all  men's  duty  to  counsel  patience  to 
others,  but  it  is  in  no  man's  strength  or  power  to  accept  his  own 
moralizings  when  he  is  himself  the  sufferer. 

32.  My  grief s ..  .advertisement ,  my  griefs  are  so  strong  that 
they  drown  any  words  of  advice,  or  counsel;  advertisement  in 
Shakespeare  invariably  means  information  or  advice. 

33.  children,  suggested  by  cry  louder. 

35.  never  yet  philosopher,  etc.  Compare  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
Religio  Medici,  lv:  "The  Stoicks  that  condemn  passion,  and 
command  a  man  to  laugh  in  Phalaris  his  Bull,  could  not  endure 
without  a  groan  a  fit  of  the  Stone  or  Colick." 

37.  writ  the  style  of  gods,  written  as  if  above  human  feeling, 
as  did  the  Stoics.  See,  for  instance,  Epictetus,  Encheiridion,  xvi : 
"When  you  see  a  man  shedding  tears  in  sorrow  for  a  child 
abroad  or  dead,  or  for  loss  of  property,  beware  that  you  are  not 
carried  away  by  the  impression  that  it  is  outward  ills  that  make 
him  miserable.  Keep  this  thought  by  you:  'What  distresses 
him  is  not  the  event,  for  that  does  not  distress  another,  but  his 
judgment  on  the  event.'  Therefore  do  not  hesitate  to  sym- 
pathize with  him  as  far  as  words  go,  and,  if  it  so  chance,  even  to 
groan  with  him ;  but  take  heed  that  you  do  not  also  groan  in  your 
inner  being." 

38.  made  a  push  at,  spurned  them  in  contempt;  or,  more 
strongly,  defiantly  attacked  them.  Some  take  it  as  a  con- 
temptuous exclamation,  like  "Pish."  To  me,  "to  make  a  push 
at"  sounds  distinctly  Shakespearean;  "to  make  a  'pish'  at" 
sounds  distinctly  editorial. 

sufferance,  suffering. 

Page  62 

47.  We  have  some  haste,  Pedro  is  plainly  embarrassed  and 
wishes  to  escape. 

49.  Are  you  so  hasty  now,  "You,  who  proposed  to  stay  here 
at  least  a  month?" 

all  is  one,  it  makes  no  difference. 

55.  beshrew,  a  mild  imprecation — "A  plague  upon  my  hand." 
If  anything  is  needed  to  deepen  our  contempt  of  Claudio  it 
is  his  bearing  towards  the  old  man  whom  he  has  grossly  injured 
and  held  up  to  public  shame. 

58.  fleer,  sneer  contemptuously — "  grin  like  a  dog"  and  show 
the  teeth. 

60.  As  wider  privilege,  as  if  I  were  taking  advantage  of  old 
age  to  boast  of  what  I  have  done  in  youth  and  what  I  should  do 
now  if  it  were  not  for  my  age. 


1 70         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING     [act  v 

62.  62,  to  thy  head,  to  thy  face. 

64.  reverence,  the  reverence  due  to  age,  and  therefore  age 
itself. 

65.  bruise  of  many  days,  batterings  of  time. 

69.  she  lies  buried,  etc.  Pedro  and  Claudio  take  no  notice  here 
or  elsewhere  of  Hero's  supposed  death.  The  Friar's  generous 
anticipation  is  disproved. 

Page  63 

75.  his  nice  fence,  his  command  of  the  niceties  of  swordsman- 
ship. 

78.  daff,  put  me  aside;  see  Glossary. 

80.  He  shall  kill  two  of  us.  Here  the  colourless,  apparently 
negligible,  and  lately  philosophical  old  brother  suddenly  flames 
into  unimagined  ferocity,  and  has  to  be  calmed  by  the  injured 
father.  "  I  did  not  think  Master  Silence  had  been  a  man  of  this 
mettle." 

82.  Win  me  and  wear  me.  A  proverb  having  obvious  reference 
to  the  chase.  You  can't  wear  the  bear's  skin  till  you  have  won 
it. 

answer  me,  technically,  with  his  sword. 

84.  foining,  thrusting — as  readers  of  Malory  will  remember. 

91.  Jacks,  see  note  to  i.  i.  167. 

95.  Scambling,  contending,  squabbling. 
out-facing,  swaggering. 

96.  cog,  cheat. 
deprave,  traduce. 

97.  anticly,  spelt  antiquely  in  Q.  and  F. — get  themselves  up 
in  fantastic  and  would-be  terrifying  guises.  Some  editors  wish 
(unnecessarily)  to  omit  and. 

98.  speak  off,  rattle  out. 

103.  wake  your  patience,  stay  longer  to  put  further  strain 
on  you.  Someone  has  suggested  "passions"  for  "patience." 
The  mettlesome  Anthony,  however,  has  already  shown  his 
"patience"  very  wide  awake.     The  word  is  ironical. 

Page  64 

108.  No,  a  rhetorical  exclamation;  printed  in  Q.:  "No  come 
brother,  away,  I  will  be  heard." 

114.  almost  come,  some  editors  have  spied  superfluity  here, 
and  have  proposed  to  omit  one  almost.  The  repetition  is  surely 
jocularly  intended. 

110.  We  had  lik'd  to  have  had,  we  were  likely  to  have  had. 

124.  high-proof  melancholy ,  melancholy  to  a  very  high  degree. 
Shakespeare  nowhere  else  uses  high  proof  and  does  not  often 


sc.  I]  NOTES  171 

use  proof  to  mean  the  temper  of  armour  or  weapon.  It  is  some- 
thing of  a  paradox  that  "high-proof  melancholy"  is  equivalent 
to  "very  low  spirits." 

64.  130.  draw  to  pleasure  us,  draw  your  wit  out  of  its  cover — 
give  us  pleasure  with  your  instrument  of  wit  as  the  minstrels  do 
with  their  instruments  of  music.  There  may  be  an  allusion  to 
the  drawing  of  a  bow  across  the  strings  of  an  instrument. 

133.  though  care  kill'd  a  cat,  evidently  a  cat  in  an  adage. 

135.  in  the  career,  here  follow  terms  drawn  from  the  tilting- 
yard ;  career  has  already  been  noted  as  the  charge  or  onset  of  a 
horse ;  another  stajf,  in  the  next  speech,  is  another  lance  shaft ; 
broke  cross,  snapped  in  the  middle — a  sign  of  bad  tilting,  for 
the  well-directed  lance  splintered  along  its  length.  Shakespeare 
himself  provides  the  best  illustration  in  As  You  Like  It,  III.  4: 
"O,  that's  a  brave  man!  he  writes  brave  verses,  speaks  brave 
words,  swears  brave  oaths  and  breaks  them  bravely,  quite 
traverse,  athwart  the  heart  of  his  lover :  as  a  puisny  tilter  that 
spurs  his  horse  but  on  one  side  breaks  his  staff  like  a  noble  goose ; 
but  all's  brave  that  youth  mounts  and  folly  guides."  Fumess 
refers  to  an  admirable  modem  illustration  in  chap.  Vlll  of 
Ivanhoe. 

139.  By  this  light,  an  exclamation. 

he  changes,  turns  colour. 

Page  65 

141.  turn  his  girdle.  This  phrase  has  received  many  con- 
tradictor>'  explanations.  Only  one  thing  is  clear,  namely,  that 
it  was  a  proverbial  saying,  the  full  form  apparently  being,  "  If 
you  be  angry,  you  may  turn  the  buckle  of  your  girdle  behind 
you."  What  connection  there  was  between  anger  and  turning 
the  girdle  is  not  clear.  Some  editors  have  explained  it  as  "  get 
ready  to  fight" — as  wrestlers  might  turn  their  belts  to  get  the 
buckles  out  of  the  way.  Others  say  that  it  means  "  do  something 
to  occupy  your  hands  for  a  few  moments  till  the  fury  of  your 
anger  has  abated" — as  Tattycoram  was  recommended  to  count 
five-and-twenty.  Others,  again,  declare  that  it  is  a  metaphorical 
admonition — "if  you  are  angry,  change  your  humour  to  the 
opposite  extreme."  There  are  so  many  varying  examples  of  the 
phrase  that  no  one  explanation  will  fit  them  all.  No  doubt  the 
meaning  has  blurred,  as  proverbial  meanings  do,  in  the  course 
of  years.    Here,  the  action  of  drawing  a  sword  is  meant. 

142.  a  word  in  your  ear,  a  private  message.  Apparently 
Benedick  is  trying  to  make  the  challenge  private  to  Claudio  and 
himself.  The  Prince  overhears  some  of  it,  but  not  all. 

143.  God  bless  me,  God  save  me. 


172         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  v 

65.   I-Kj.  do  me  right,  give  me  proper  satisfaction. 

protest,  proclaim,  publish. 

152.  Ay  faith.  This  is  not  the  exclamation  In  faith,  the 
spelling  of  which  in  Q.  is  invariably  j/flzf/z.  Here  both  Q.  and 
F.  distinctly  have  1  faith.  Now  /  is  their  spelling  of  the  ex- 
clamation that  we  spell  Ay,  and  it  is  undoubtedly  meant  here. 
Ay  certainly  answers  the  preceding  question,  "What,  a  feast,  a 
feast.'"  Capell  took  the  same  view ;  but  most  other  editors  write 
r  faith. 

a  calf's  head  and  a  capon,  etc.  This  no  doubt  meant 
more  to  an  Elizabethan  audience  than  to  us.  Claudio's  feast  is 
one  at  which  he  will  carve  a  calf's  head,  a  capon,  and  a  wood- 
cock. The  last  is  a  proverbial  emblem  of  stupidity,  and  the 
other  two  are  specially  contemptuous  and  insulting  appellations. 

154..  curiously,  neatly,  carefully. 

159.  says  she.  So  in  Q.  and  F.;  F.  has  also  true  sales  she 
where  Q.  has  said.  I  think  it  is  better  to  have  them  all  said 
uniformly.    The  reader  can  make  the  correction. 

1G2.  a  zvise  gentleman,  contemptuously,  "a  very  sapient 
fellow." 

163.  hath  the  tongues,  talks  several  languages. 

173.  the  old  ?nan's  daughter,  etc.  It  is  reserved  for  the  Prince 
to  add  the  worst  touch  of  callousness.  The  Friar's  hope  that 
Hero's  death  would  awaken  pity  in  these  noble  lords  is  clearly 
vain.  In  Bandello's  story  the  sinners  are  at  least  gentlemen. 
One  feels  that  what  Pedro  and  Claudio  needed  was  not  a  sword> 
but  a  horsewhip. 

174.  God  saw  him.  Claudio's  blend  of  Genesis  iii.  8  and 
II.  3  of  the  present  play. 

Page  66 

182.  as  braggarts  do  their  blades,  Falstaff  and  his  merry  men 
at  Gad's  Hill,  for  instance. 

184.  /  ?nust  discontinue  your  company.  There  is  at  least  one 
gentleman  in  Messina. 

your  brother  the  bastard,  etc.  It  is  a  touch  of  weakness  here 
that  the  Prince  takes  so  little  notice  of  this  startling  news, 
which  he,  apparently,  is  the  last  to  hear. 

193.  What  a  pretty  thing,  etc.  To  be  read  in  the  light  of  the 
preceding  speeches,  as  thus:  "What  a  sight  it  is  when  a  witty 
and  sensible  man  becomes  portentous  and  takes  off  his  cloak 
to  fight  at  the  wish  of  a  woman."  At  least  this  is  a  possible 
meaning;  but  it  does  not  imply  (as  Furness  seems  to  think)  that 
Benedick  was  at  that  moment  divested  of  his  cloak. 

li>5.  a  giant,  etc.,  "he  may  be  bigger  than  an  ape  in  body, 
but  the  ape  is  wiser  in  mind." 


sc.  I]  NOTES  173 

66.  197.  But  soft  you.  "  But  hush,  let  me  think,  let  me  rouse 
myself  and  be  serious  too."  Boas  remarks,  very  aptly,  "The 
apostrophe,  occurring  in  the  midst  of  Don  Pedro's  banter, 
sounds  like  a  quotation  from  a  contemporary  play."  There  is 
no  need  to  punctuate  (as  some  editors  do)  "  Pluck  up,  my  heart, 
and  be  sad." 

200.  reasons,  no  doubt  a  pun  on  "raisins."  Shakespeare 
made  it  more  than  once,  and  others  before  and  after  him. 

nay,  etc.  We  may  suppose  at  this  point  that  Conrad 
struggles  to  get  free  of  his  bonds.  Borachio  is  evidently  abject 
and  resigned. 

201.  once,  as  you  were  just  now  at  the  prison. 
204.  Hearken  after,  give  a  hearing  to. 

Page  67 

215.  one  meaning  well  suited,  "one  thing  said  four  times  over 
in  his  very  own  manner." 

217.  bound  to  your  answer,  an  obvious  play  on  words,  occurring 
again  in  Comedy  of  Errors  where  (v.  i.  306)  Dromio  of  Ephesus 
says  to  i^geon,  bound,  and  on  his  way  to  execution,  "Whatso- 
ever a  man  denies,  you  are  now  bound  to  believe  him." 

218.  too  cunning,  too  clever. 

219.  mine  answer,  again  a  play  on  words,  (i)  reply,  (2)  retalia- 
tion. 

224.  incensed  me,  incited  me. 

238.  And  fled  he  is,  etc.  It  has  taken  Pedro  some  time  first 
to  learn  and  then  to  understand  the  news  of  his  brother's 
flight. 

240.  that  I  lov'd  it,  in  which  I  loved  it. 

241.  plaintiffs,  defendants. 

Page  68 

247.  Which  is  the  villain.  Even  now,  as  we  have  pointed  out, 
Leonato  does  not  know  what  man  is  implicated  in  the  charge 
against  his  daughter. 

254.  a  pair  of  honourable  men.  The  Prince  and  Claudio. 

262.  yet  sinn'd  I  not,  etc.  It  is  interesting  to  note  here 
Claudio 's  view  of  his  own  conduct.   He  was  merely  mistaken! 

269.  Possess,  inform. 

271.  Can  labour  aught,  if  your  love  can  work  in  the  direction 
of  sad  poetry. 

272.  Hang  her  an  epitaph,  the  ethical  dative  again. 

278.  she  alone  is  heir,  but  brother  Anthony  has  a  visible, 
though  not  audible,  son  in  this  play.  The  incident  is  a  poor 
copy  of  Bandello's  story. 


174         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  v 

Page  69 

283.  poor  Claudio.  The  first  word  of  genuine  pity  uttered  by 
Claudio  is  for  "poor  Claudio." 

287.  zvas  packt,  was  implicated,  confederate. 

296.  wears  a  key,  at  first  it  was  only  a  lock;  it  is  now  a  key 
as  well,  in  the  expansive  Dogberian  mind. 

297.  borrows  money  in  God's  name,  gets  money  out  of  people 
by  the  use  of  pious  words. 

305.  God  save  the  foundation,  the  beggars'  phrase  of  thanks 
at  the  religious  houses  where  they  had  been  relieved. 

Page  70 

314.   Until  to-morrow,  etc.  Both  Q.  and  F.  print  this  as  prose; 
but  it  clearly  falls  into  lines. 


Scene  II 

No  break  in  Q.  or  F.  The  scene  is  probably  the  Orchard 
again.  Ursula's  speech  shows  that  it  was  out  of  doors.  Notice 
in  this  scene  the  complete  ignorance  or  unconcern  of  Margaret, 
the  villain's  accomplice  or  accessory'. 

7.  come  over  it,  an  obvious  pun  on  stile  and  style — both  spelt 
alike  in  Elizabethan  English. 

comely,  no  doubt  a  quibbling  allusion  to  come. 

10.  keep  below  stairs.  Be  a  servant  still.  There  is  no  sign  of 
a  question-mark  in  Q.    F.  adds  one. 

16.  I  give  thee  the  bucklers.  I  own  myself  beaten — I  drop  my 
shield. 

21.  with  a  vice.  A  vice  is  a  screw,  Cotgrave  defines  vis  as 
"the  vice,  or  spindle  of  a  press." 

Page  71 

26.  The  god  of  love.  According  to  Ritson  this  was  the 
beginning  of  an  old  song  by  William  Elderton.  In  Q.  and  F. 
the  lines  are  printed  as  prose.  The  repetition  of  "and  knows 
me"  is  probably  dramatic — Benedick  is  hesitating  for  the  next 
line. 

30.  Leander,  who  swam  the  Hellespont  to  meet  his  love  Hero. 

31.  Troilus.  The  "go-between"  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  was 
Cressida's  uncle  Pandarus. 

32.  carpet-mongers,  a  worse  form  of  carpet-knights — people 
who  receive  titles  for  political  or  back-stairs  reasons.  "  Monger" 


sc.  II]  NOTES  175 

and  its  cognates  were  words  of  contempt.    Earlier  we  have 
fashion-monging. 

71.  37.  innocent,  silly. 

40.  festival  terms,  elaborated  phrases. 

45.  zmth  that  I  came,  "with  what  I  came  for." 

53.  undergoes,  is  now  lying  under  my  challenge.  We  talk  of 
people  "lying  under"  an  accusation, 

54.  subscribe,  proclaim. 

57.  maintain'd.  We  should  expect  either  " maintain 'd... 
would,"  or  "maintain... will."  But  the  slight  looseness  is  defen- 
sible in  a  conversational  passage. 

58.  politic,  crafty. 

Page  72 

62.  against  my  zmll...In  spite  of  your  heart.  A  subtle  piece 
of  quibbling,  hitherto  left  unexplained.  We  must  take  will  and 
heart  to  represent  reason  and  feeling.  Benedick's  old  antagonism 
to  Beatrice  was  a  particular  case  of  his  pose  as  an  anti-feminist. 
See  I.  I.  154,  where  Benedick  admits  his  pose;  and  especially 
I.  I.  213,  where  Pedro  says:  "Thou  wast  ever  an  obstinate 
heretic  in  the  despite  of  beauty";  and  Claudio  adds,  "And 
never  could  maintain  his  part,  but  in  the  force  of  his  will." 
Observe  the  part  I  have  italicized.  In  the  present  passage 
Benedick  exclaims,  "  I  do  suffer  love  indeed,  for  I  love  thee 
against  my  will,"  i.e.  against  my  old  convictions.  Beatrice 
replies,  "  In  spite  of  your  heart  I  think" — meaning,  not,  "You 
love  me  in  spite  of  your  heart"  (the  surface  meaning),  but, 
"Then  your  will  is  against  your  feelings — your  will  against  love 
is  spiting  your  own  heart.  Poor  heart !  If  you  spite  it  by  setting 
your  will  against  it,  I  must  spite  it  too ;  for  how  could  I  cherish 
what  my  friend  regards  as  his  enemy?" 

67.  It  appears  not,  etc.,  your  wisdom  appears  not,  etc. 

70.  in  the  time  of  good  neighbours,  in  the  days  when  men 
freely  praised  each  other,  rather  than  themselves.  Presumably, 
the  Golden  Age;  at  any  rate,  a  very  long  time  ago. 

72.  the  zvidoiv  weeps.  Fumess  quotes  a  capital  story  from  the 
Memoirs  of  Arthur  Hugh  Clough  to  the  effect  that  a  gentleman, 
leading  a  lady  out  of  church  after  the  funeral  service  of  her 
husband,  asked  her  to  marry  him,  but  was  told  that  he  was  too 
late,  as  she  was  promised  to  the  man  who  had  led  her  in,  but 
that  she  would  remember  him  on  the  next  occasion.  The 
C.  Mery  Talys  and  other  collections  oi facetiae  are  rich  in  stories 
of  widows'  easy  memories.  Hamlet  illustrates  Shakespeare's 
views. 

74,  Question;  usually  explained  as  "That  is  the  question." 
But  this  exclamatory  use  of  the  single  word  is  very  unusual. 


176         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  v 

Actually,  the  word  is  superfluous.   Can  it  be  a  verbal  repetition 
of  the  question-mark  in  the  preceding  line? 
72.  74.  in  clamour,  of  the  funeral  bell. 

75.  in  rheum,  in  tears. 

76.  Don  Worm,  typifying  the  gnawing  of  conscience.    Com- 
pare Richard  III,  1.3.  222 : 

"The  worm  of  conscience  still  begnaw  thy  soul!" 

78.  to  myself  so  much,  etc.  I  have  kept  here  the  exact  reading 
of  Q.  and  F.  Editors  from  Rowe  onwards  have  agreed  that  a 
stop  is  missing  between  self  and  so,  and  that  the  right  reading  is 
"as  I  am  to  myself,  So  much  for  praising  myself,"  etc.  There 
is  no  doubt  whatever  that  the  insertion  of  a  stop  makes  the 
passage  easier  to  read ;  but  I  feel  sure  that  the  passage  is  not 
meant  to  be  easy  and  that  the  insertion  of  a  stop  is  wrong.  Bene- 
dick's whole  speech  is  a  fantasia  on  praise  and  myself.  "  It  is 
necessary  for  a  man  to  blow  his  own  trumpet,  as  I  do  for  myself 
so  much  in  my  own  praise,  I  myself  being,  as  I  myself  will 
testify,  a  person  worthy  of  praise."  This  meaning  seems  to  me 
consistent  with  the  whole  of  Benedick's  elaborately  humorous 
flourishing.  To  read  "  So  much,  etc."  is  to  make  him  dismiss 
the  subject  at  this  point — as  in  fact  he  does  not  do.  He  changes 
the  subject  at  "and  now,  etc."  "  So  much  for  praising  myself" 
sounds  more  like  Colley  Gibber's  "So  much  for  Buckingham!" 
than  like  Shakespeare.  The  reader  with  the  facts  before  him  can 
choose  which  reading  he  prefers. 

87.  old  coil;  "the  devil  to  pay";  old  as  a  slang  intensive  is 
both  ancient  and  modern — as  ancient  as  the  tapster  in  2  Hen.  IV, 
II.  4.  21,  and  as  modem  as  Aunt  Susan  in  Tono-Bungay. 

at  home,  an  indication  that  the  scene  is  out-of-doors. 


Scene  III 

Page  73 

The  scene  is  supposed  to  represent  the  family  "monu- 
ment" or  mausoleum  of  the  Leonati — not  necessarily  an 
interior  scene;  indeed,  the  Prince's  speech  indicates  that  the 
company  are  out  of  doors  and  that  the  time  is  the  dawn  of  day. 
The  "  epitaph  "  would  be  hung  upon  the  gate  of  the  mausoleum, 
which  is  all  that  the  scene  need  show.  It  would  be,  technically, 
a  front-stage  scene.  The  whole  scene  is  feeble,  and,  save  for  a 
touch  at  the  end,  curiously  un-Shakespearean. 

Epitaph.  In  Q.  and  F.  the  heading  Epitaph  is  on  the  same  line 


sc.  Ill]  NOTES  177 

as  the  Lord's  reply,  and  we  may  assume  that  he  recites  the 
lines  solemnly  and  formally  as  precentor  for  the  company.  The 
heading  Claudia,  following  at  once  at  the  end  of  the  Epitaph, 
shows  clearly  that  he  is  not  the  reader.  We  have  therefore  not 
followed  Capell  and  succeeding  editors  who  have  assigned  the 
reading  to  Claudio.  Probability  may  seem  to  justify  the  emenda- 
tion, but  the  only  authorities,  Q.  and  F.,  are  clear  against  it. 
Nor  is  there  any  justification  for  the  editorial  assumption  that 
the  final  couplet  is  not  part  of  the  Epitaph.  It  seems  to  me  a 
distinct  and  proper  conclusion  to  the  votive  verse.  But  specula- 
tion should  be  unnecessary.  It  is  printed  (with  an  indentation) 
as  part  of  the  Epitaph  in  Q.  and  F.  and  no  editor  has  a  right  to 
depart  from  those  authorities  when  they  are  clear  and  precise. 
The  one  emendation  adopted  here  is  the  substitution  of  F.'s 
dombe  as  the  rhyme  to  tombe  for  the  clearly  mistaken  toomb-dead 
of  Q.  The  quality  of  the  verse  suggests  that  Claudio  must  have 
persuaded  the  uneasily  rhyming  Benedick  to  write  both  Epitaph 
and  Song. 

73.  5.  guerdon,  reward,  recompense. 

7.  zoith  shame,  by  shame — shame  being  the  weapon  with 
which  she  was  slain. 

13.  virgin  knight.  The  most  striking  parallel  is  that  first 
quoted  by  Malone  from  Two  Noble  Kimmen,  v.  i.  142 — it  is 
Emilia's  invocation  to  Diana: 

"  O  sacred,  shadowye,  cold  and  constant  Queene, 
Abandoner  of  Revells,  mute,  contemplative, 
Sweet,  solitary,  white,  as  chaste  and  pure 
As  windfande  Snow,  who  to  thy  femall  knights 
Alow'st  no  more  blood  than  will  make  a  blush,  etc." 
20.  Till  death  be  uttered.  The  short  scenes  of  this  play  seem 
to  offer  the  greatest  difficulties.  The  last  lines  of  the  present 
dirge  are  an  example.  They  are  rhyme  without  much  reason, 
and  the  difficulty  is  increased  by  the  fact  that  F.  prints  "  Heavily, 
heavily"  as  the  first  refrain,  and  "Heavenly,  heavenly"  as  the 
last.  We  can  assume  that  this  is  wrong,  and  follow  Q.  in  re- 
peating "Heavily,  heavily."   But  why  are  the  graves  to  "yawne 
and  yeeld"  their  dead?  and  what  is  the  meaning  of  "Till  death 
be  uttered  "  ?  Those  anxious  to  grapple  with  a  really  unimportant 
difficulty  (for,  frankly,  the  song  is  but  doggerel  and  probably 
not  Shakespeare's),  should  consult  Fumess,  who  quotes  the 
remarks  of  many  commentators.   Not  one  is  convincing;  some 
are  so  far-fetched  as  to  be  ridiculous.   But  surely  the  words  set 
to  music  even  at  funerals  are  not  necessarily  to  be  taken  literally. 
Claudio  and  his  friends  did  not  actually  want  the  dead  Leonati 
to  forsake  their  graves.   Such  invocations  are  "common  form" 

SMA  12 


178  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      [act  v 

in  dramatic  and  operatic  burial  scenes.  And  "Till  death  be 
uttered"  does  not  mean  "Till  death  be  ousted,"  or  anything 
like  "  Till  Death  is  swallowed  up  in  victory,"  but  simply  "While 
this  decease  is  being  lamented,"  i.e.  "While  this  dirge  is  sung" 
— the  walking  dead  being  the  fittest  audience  for  a  charnel- 
house  rite  that  is  to  become  a  yearly  ceremony.  I  have  departed 
from  Q.  and  F.  in  one  small  detail.  They  print: 

"  Midnight  assist  our  mone,  help  us  to  sigh  &  grone." 
and: 
"  Now  unto  thy  bones  good  night,  yeerely  will  I  do  this  right." 

I  have  broken  these  into  the  obvious  couplets — the  whole 
page  in  Q.  is  crowded  as  if  space  were  precious.  I  have  also 
followed  the  usual  custom  in  printing  rite  for  right.  The  original 
word  could  be  defended,  however.  Q.  and  F.  both  give  this 
last  couplet  to  the  Lord  who  reads  the  Epitaph.  Most  editors 
give  them  to  Claudio.  As  we  have  noted  above,  such  lines  seem 
appropriate  to  Claudio,  but  they  are  distinctly  not  given  to  him 
in  the  old  texts.  I  keep  the  old  reading,  assuming  that  a  Lord 
acts  as  the  solemn  spokesman  of  the  company.  It  should  be 
noted  that  the  couplet  is  not  necessarily  parallel  to  that  begin- 
ning, "Hang  thou  there,  etc."  The  Song  and  the  Epitaph  are 
quite  unlike  in  form. 

73.  24.  Good  morrow  masteis.  These  words  of  the  Prince  and 
Claudio  are  meant  as  farewell  to  the  company,  the  two  going 
one  way,  the  rest  another. 

25.  The  wolves  have  preyed.   A  not  impossible  pun. 

Page  74 

30.  Come  let  us  hence,  addressed  to  Claudio  alone. 

32.  speeds.  It  has  been  suggested  that  this  should  be  speed's, 
a  contraction  for  speed  us.  I  think  it  extremely  unlikely.  The 
lines  say,  "And  Hymen  is  now  about  to  give  a  happier  ending 
than  the  one  for  which  we  have  been  mourning."  That  is,  for 
speeds  read  is  speeding.  The  objection  to  this  reading  is  that 
Claudio  seems  to  assume  something  that  he  does  not  know. 
Shakespeare's  audience  was  not  likely  to  raise  refined  objections 
of  that  sort.  What  it  wanted  was  a  rhyme  to  end  the  scene.  The 
audience  is  already  in  the  secret  about  the  "happy  ending" — 
such  as  it  is.  Moreover,  to  the  entirely  self-satisfied,  self- 
worshipping  and  self-pitying  Claudio,  the  grand  gesture  of  his 
expiation  is  itself  a  happy  ending.  What  he  says  in  effect  is, 
"I  am  now  really  going  to  marry  Someone;  and  that  will  be 
very  fortunate  for  Someone." 


sc.  IV]  NOTES  179 


Scene  IV 

A  full-stage  scene.  Time:  later  the  same  morning.  The 
place  is  a  room  in  Leonato's  house.  We  keep  the  old  stage- 
direction,  which  mentions  Margaret,  although  she  does  not 
speak.  Did  Shakespeare  make  her  attempt  an  explanation  of 
her  innocence,  and  then  find  it  too  improbable?  The  "old 
man"  is  brother  Anthony  again. 

74.  17.  confirm' d,  firm,  unmoved — so  that  the  deception  shall 
be  successful. 

20.  to  bind  me,  or  undo  me,  an  excellent  pun.  As  the  con- 
firmed bachelor  and  duellist  of  sex.  Benedick  is  now  indeed 
"undone." 

23.  my  daughter  lent  her,  i.e.  Beatrice  saw  as  the  conspirators 
made  her.  The  speech  is  enigmatical  to  Benedick,  as  we  see 
below. 

25.  The  sight  whereof,  etc.,  i.e.  Benedick  saw  as  the  con- 
spirators made  him. 

Page  75 

29.  May  stand,  may  accord  or  harmonize. 

30.  marriage,  pronounced  almost  as  French  mariage. 

33.  Here  comes,  etc.  Line  omitted  in  F.,  doubtless  by  accident. 

39.  here's  the  Friar  ready.  We  have  added  an  exit  for 
Anthony.   There  is  none  in  Q.  and  F. 

41.  a  February  face.  Benedick  has  begun  to  understand  the 
enigma;  hence  his  rather  bitter  retort  to  Claudio.  And  he  has 
not  forgotten  that  Claudio  deserves  a  thrashing. 

43.  the  savage  bull,  of  which  we  have  already  heard  quite 
enough.  Claudio  is  plainly  incorrigible.  There  is  an  allusion  to 
the  story  of  Europa  and  Jove  in  the  form  of  a  bull  as  told  in 
Ovid,  Metamor.  Bk  11,  Fab.  xiv;  but  there  the  horns  of  the 
bull  are  described  as  garlanded,  not  gilded. 

45.  Europa,  in  this  line  the  place,  in  the  next  the  n>Tnph. 

Enter  Brother,  etc.    It  is  clear  that  all  the  ladies  are  veiled. 

52.  other  recknings.  Fumess  takes  an  unduly  sombre  view  of 
this  phrase.  I  agree  with  him  that  Claudio  is  repulsively  flip- 
pant; but  I  think  the  present  line  means  something  like,  "I'll 
pay  you  for  this  later  on ;  here  is  a  deeper  reckoning  that  I  must 
first  pay." 

54.  This  same  is  she.  Clearly  given  to  Leonato  in  Q.  and  F. 
Editors  since  Theobald  give  the  line  to  Anthony.  The  change  is 
quite  unnecessary. 

12 — 2 


i8o    MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  [act  v,  sc.  iv 

Page  76 

60.  other  wife... other  husband:  other  here  means  former.  I 
think  no  subtlety  of  reproach  is  intended.   Hero  is  not  subtle. 

63.  defil'd,  omitted  in  F.,  no  doubt  by  accident.  It  is  difficult 
to  follow  editors  who  defend  the  omission  on  the  ground  that 
otherwise  Hero  is  confessing  her  own  guilt.  Was  she  not 
"defiled"  abominably,  detestably,  by  Claudio's  public  de- 
nunciations? 

75.  Why  then,  etc.  F.  prints  these  two  lines  as  prose.  Fol- 
lowing Q.  and  F.,  we  omit /or  in  I.  76,  although  there  is  for  in 
the  corresponding  1.  79.  F.  omits  that  in  11.  80,  81  and  such  in 
1.  82.    Q.  is  better  throughout. 

Page  77 

97.  Peace  I  mil  stop  your  mouth.  Given  to  Leon,  in  Q.  and  F. 
Theobald  emends  to  Bene.  It  is  difficult  not  to  agree.  Who 
should  "stop  her  mouth"  but  Benedick? 

101 .  if  a  man  icill  be  beaten,  etc.  If  a  man  is  going  to  be  afraid 
of  ridicule  he  will  never  be  comfortable. 

106.  giddy,  changeable. 

110.  denied  Beatrice,  refused  her  at  the  last  moment. 

112.  a  double-dealer,  from  a  single  man  into  a  "double"  man 
— with  a  play  on  the  phrase  "double-dealer,"  meaning  "de- 
ceiver." 

119.  of  my  word,  on  my  word.  An  exclamation,  "  No,  I  vow, 
we'll  have  it  first." 

121.  tipt  with  horn.  The  curious  should  consult  Fumess  who 
quotes  many  commentators— all  at  variance.  It  is  the  old,  old 
joke  and  really  needs  no  explanation.  Wright  (quoting  Stanley), 
says :  "  Becket's  rude  pastoral  staff  of  pearwood  with  its  crook  of 
black  horn  was  one  of  the  relics  shown  to  the  pilgrims  at  Can- 
terbury." 

Page  78 

124.  ////  to-morrow.  As  the  play  is  to  end  with  joy,  the 
spectacle  of  retribution  is  postponed. 

Dance,  marking  a  joyous  close  to  tragedy  turned  comedy. 


GLOSSARY 

This  glossary  owes  most  to  the  New  English  Dictionary. 
Frequent  reference  is  also  made  to  An  Etymological  Dictionary 
of  Modern  English,  by  Ernest  Weekley.  The  quotations  from 
Cotgrave  are  taken  from  the  edition  of  1673,  with  the  added 
Dictionaire  Anglois  &  Franfois,  by  Robert  Sherwood. 

a,  an  old  corruption  of  the  third  personal  pronoun  in  all 
numbers  and  genders;  used  by  the  "low"  characters  in  Shake- 
speare, and  occasionally  (in  familiar  speech)  by  the  loftier. 

abused,  deceived.    Compare  misuse. 

advertisement,  admonition.  Cotgrave  has:  " Advertisse- 
ment:  an  advertisement ;  signification,  information,  intelligence, 
notice;  a  warning,  advise,  motion,  admonishment."  The 
modern  F.  avertissement  has  the  same  sense. 

affect,  love,  incline  to,  aspire  to,  Fr.  ajfecter,  L.  affectare  =  ad 
-\-facere,  hence  affection,  inclination. 

agot,  agate,  a  name  applied  to  the  semi-pellucid  variegated 
chalcedonies.  Also,  a  very  diminutive  person,  in  allusion  to 
small  figures  cut  in  agates  for  seals.  From  sixteenth  century 
Fr.  agathe,  Lat.  achates,  Gr.  axdn-ji.  Spelt  also  agath,  agget, 
achate.  Said  to  have  been  named  from  the  river  Achates  in 
Sicily. 

alms,  charitable  gift.  Appears  in  many  forms,  aelmysse, 
aehnesse,  almesse,  almese,  alnies,  almys,  etc.  A  singular  noun, 
plural  wanting,  but  singular  generally  used  for  plural.  O.E. 
aelmysse;  pop.  Lat.  alimosina,  from  eleemosyna;  Gr.  eXeTjfioa-vvT]. 
The  Scottish  alnioiis  or  aw?noiis  (vide  The  Antiquary)  appears  to 
be  an  independent  adoption  of  Norse  almusa. 

an,  if;  an  is  a  weakened  form  of  and,  the  latter  being  the 
spelling  used  throughout  all  the  original  Shakespeare  texts.  Only 
in  such  forms  as  an  t  please  you  does  Shakespeare  use  an,  the  sole 
exception  being  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  v.  2.  232  (ed.  1623),  where 
we  find  "an  if  you  grow  so  nice."  There  is  no  reason  why  and 
=  and,  and  and  =  ii,  should  both  be  kept  in  modern  English, 
and  an  is  therefore  uniformly  used  in  this  volume  for  and  =  if. 

ancientry,  old-time  dignity.  The  Shakespearean  spelling, 
auncient,  auncie?itry,  represents  the  pronunciation  of  the  French 
original  ancien. 

angel.  An  old  English  gold  coin,  called  at  first  the  angel- 
noble,  being  originally  a  new  issue  of  the  noble,  having  as  its 
device  the  archangel  Michael  standing  upon  and  piercing  the 


i82         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

dragon.  In  Shakespeare's  time  it  was  worth  105.  It  was  last 
coined  by  Charles  I.  N.E.D.  notes  that  this  was  the  coin  always 
presented  to  patients  "touched"  for  the  King's  Evil. 

jintique,  antiquely.  It.  aritico,  fantastic,  grotesque,  from  L. 
ontiqims,  old.  In  all  its  early  spellings,  afitick,  antike,  antyke, 
antique,  the  accent  falls  on  the  first  syllable.  Later,  the  spelling 
antique  approximated  in  pronunciation  to  the  French,  and  the 
word  thus  accented  became  limited  to  its  modem  sense,  antic 
(formerly  both  noun  and  adj.)  being  kept  as  a  noun  with  the 
sense  of  eccentric,  grotesque  behaviour.  In  current  speech  we 
make  something  like  the  same  distinction  between  the  adjectives 
antique  and  antiquated. 

approved,  tried,  tested;  also  proved,  convicted;  from  O.F. 
aprover  =^  Lat.  ad  +probare. 

argument,  subject  (11.  3.  11);  demonstration,  example 
(11.  3.  217);  intellectual  qualities  (in.  i.  96). 

arrant,  notorious,  utter,  thoroughly  bad.  A  variant  of  errant 
— the  forms  arraunt,  arrand,  erraunt,  errand,  errant  all  occurring. 
The  sense  is  derived  from  errant  robber,  a  wandering  outlaw 
subsisting  by  theft.  The  adjective  is  found,  though  rarely,  in 
a  good  sense — downright. 

arras,  tapestry,  curtains;  from  Arras.  There  is  no  noun  like 
this  in  French.  Sherwood  (in  Cotgrave)  gives  "Arras,  Drop 
d'Arras." 

assurance  (11.  2.  44),  certainty. 

attired  (iv.  i.  142),  wrapt  (in  thought).  O.F.  atirer,  atirier, 
put  in  order,  arrange,  array.  The  English  attire  =  dress,  is  pro- 
bably a  confusion  of  this  with  the  different  verb,  atorner  (orner) 
with  its  noun  atour. 

authority  (iv.  i.  34),  guarantee,  assurance. 

baldrick,  belt — either  waist-belt  or  shoulder-belt.  Occurs  in 
such  forms  as  baudrik,  bawdrick,  baudry.  Origin  uncertain. 
Cotgrave  has:  " Baudrier,  a  hide,  skin,  or  piece  of  dressed, 
curried,  and  coloured  cow's  leather;  also,  a  belt,  baudrick,  or 
sword-girdle  of  that  leather."  The  termination  -rick  may  have 
originated  in  the  rich  ornamentation. 

behaviour,  deportment,  "external  appearance  with  respect 
to  grace"  (Johnson).  Behave  was  formed,  apparently  in  the 
fifteenth  century  from  Be  +  have,  to  express  a  reflexive  sense 
"to  have  or  bear  oneself."  Compare  Germ,  sich  behaben  (Fr. 
se  porter).  Behaviour  is  formed  by  analogy  with  havoir,  variant 
of  aver,  from  O.F.  verb  aveir  (mod.  avoir)  in  a  substantive 
sense,  meaning  a  possession  or  "  having." 

bent,  extent  to  which  a  bow  may  be  bent,  or  a  spring  wound 
up;  hence,  degree  of  endurance,  limit  of  capacity.  O.E.  verb, 
bendan.   Still  current  in  the  phrase  "  to  the  top  of  his  bent." 


GLOSSARY  183 

berrord,  bear-keeper,  bear-herd.  "  Beare-heard  "  appears  in 
2  Hen.  IV,  I.  2.  191 .  Shakespeare  apparently  does  not  use  "  bear- 
ward,"  which  occurs,  however,  in  the  proclamation  quoted  in 
Introduction,   and  in  the  passage  cited  in  the  note  to   i.   i. 

35- 

birlady,  also,  berlady,  byrlady,  etc.,  dim.  berlaken  (M.N.D.), 

byrlakin.    Contraction  of  by  our  Lady,  a  mild  expletive  or 

adjuration. 

biting  (iv.  I.  168),  sharp,  grievous. 

blazon,  coat  of  arms,  or  proper  heraldic  description  of  a  coat 
of  arms.  Originally  a  shield,  then,  later,  a  shield  in  heraldry. 
Hence,  figuratively,  a  clear  token  or  sign.  From  O.F.  blason, 
a  shield.  In  Sir  Gawain  and  the  Green  Knight  we  get  "His 
bronde  and  his  blasoun  both  thay  token." 

block,  fashion.  Literally  a  block  or  mould  used  in  hat- 
making.  Apparently  a  M.E.  adaptation  of  Fr.  bloc,  the  origin  of 
which  is  disputed. 

break,  open  or  begin  a  subject.  A  specialized  meaning  of 
break  in  the  sense  of  "to  lay  open  by  breaking."  We  may 
"break  our  minds"  about  a  certain  thing  or  "break  with  a 
person"  about  a  certain  thing. 

bring  (iii.  2.3),  escort,  conduct. 

bucklers,  round  shields  with  a  boss — or  the  boss  on  such 
shields.  Fr.  boucle,  bouclier,  the  former  of  which  gives  us  buckle. 

burden,  properly  bourdon,  the  "drone"  of  a  bagpipe,  or  the 
low  undersong  to  a  melody.  Perhaps  an  imitative  word.  There 
is  an  O.F.  bourdon,  a  pilgrim's  staff,  with  which  some  have 
tried  to  connect  it.  The  word  has  nothing  to  do  with  burden  or 
burthen,  with  which,  however,  it  was  very  early  confused. 

canker,  dog-rose  (Rosa  canina).  N.E.D.  quotes  Hester, 
Phiorav.  Seer.  (1582):  "The  buddes  of  Cankers  or  wild  Eglan- 
tine." The  name  is  also  used  locally  for  the  common  Wild 
Poppy  and  the  Dandelion.  The  word- is  another  form  of  Latin 
cancer  (a  crab),  and  was  applied  to  the  disease  from  a  supposed 
resemblance  of  the  tumour  to  a  crab.  The  word  came  to  be 
applied  to  any  consuming  or  destroying  activity — canker- 
worms,  and  so,  weeds,  such  as  those  named. 

CEireer,  a  short  gallop  at  full  speed — often  in  such  a  phrase 
as  "  to  pass  a  career."  Technically,  it  was  a  charge  or  encounter 
at  a  tournament.  The  term  was  gradually  extended  to  mean  any 
rapid  motion  of  a  horse.  From  Fr.  carrtere,  late  Lat.  carraria, 
cart-road.  It  appears  in  several  forms — carrier e,  careere, 
carrier,  etc. 

carried  (iv.  i.  208),  managed — carried  out. 
censured  (11.  3.  209),  judged,  rather  than  condemned  (as 
commonly  now). 


i84         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

cheapen,  to  bid,  or  offer  a  price;  from  cheap  +en.  The  word 
originally  means  a  bargain,  then  a  market  (Cheapside,  Chipping 
Norton),  then  price  or  value.  It  is  from  this  last  use  that  the 
present  verb  is  derived.  It  is  the  O.E.  ceap,  bargain,  price, 
stock.  In  O.E.  it  also  means  cattle — a  possible  hint  at  a  primitive 
measure  of  value.  The  modern  adjectival  sense  is  an  abbrevia- 
tion of  good  cheap,  a  good  bargain;  coper,  in  horse-coper  (horse- 
dealer)  is  a  related  word. 

cinquepace,  galliard,  an  active  dance;  simply  the  Fr.  cinq, 
five,  pas,  paces.  Other  forms,  cinquepasse,  sinkapace,  etc.  See 
note  ad  loc. 

circumstances  (in.  2.  91),  elaborate  speech,  as  in  Merchant 
of  Venice,  i.  i.  153-4: 

"You  know  me  well:  and  herein  spend  but  time 
To  wind  about  my  love  with  circumstance." 

clap  into.  Johnson  has,  "To  enter  with  alacrity  and  brisk- 
ness upon  anything."  The  use  of  such  a  phrase  easily  follows 
from  the  idea  of  suddenness  in  the  word  clap;  "to  strike  up" 
is  an  exact  modern  parallel.  M.E.  clappen;  the  word  does  not 
seem  to  exist  or  survive  in  O.E.    An  imitative  word. 

claw,  flatter,  fawn  upon.  The  sense  is  derived  from  the 
gratification  experienced  in  being  scratched  where  one  itches — 
especially  in  awkward  places.  Hence,  claivback,  a  sycophant,  or 
flatterer.  Cotgrave  gives  to  clazv  under  flater,  and  defines 
Adulateur  as  "a  flatterer,  cogger,  smoother,  soother,  fawner, 
claw-back." 

close,  in  stand  close  (iii.  3.  loi),  in  concealment. 

cog,  cheat,  flatter,  seduce.    Origin  doubtful. 

coil,  "probably  a  word  of  colloquial  or  even  slang  character 
which  rose  into  literary  use;  many  terms  of  similar  meaning 
have  had  such  an  origin;  cf.  pother,  row,  rmnpus,  shindy,  hubbub, 
hurly-burly,  etc."  {N.E.D.).  It  appears  first  in  the  sixteenth 
century.   N.E.D.  quotes  Drant,  Horace  Epist.: 

"Againe,  thinckes  thou  that  I  at  Rome  my  vearses  can  indyte 
Mongst  so  much  toyle,  and  such  a  coyle,  such  soking  carke 
and  spite." 

Other  forms,  coyle,  quoile,  quoyle,  etc.  A  suggested  derivation  is 
O.F.  acueil  (accueil),  encounter;  coil  would  thus  be  a  shortened 
form  of  accoil. 

complexion,  outward  appearance,  constitution,  disposition, 
"nature."  From  Fr.  complexion,  from  Lat.  complexion-em, 
"combination,"  and  (later)  "physical  constitution"  (com 
together +plectere,  to  plait,  twine).  Other  forms,  complexioun, 
complexcion,  complection,  etc. 


GLOSSARY  185 

conceit,  fancy,  imagination.  Not  originally  used  in  a  dis- 
paraging sense.  The  noun  appears  to  have  been  formed  from 
conceive  on  the  analog^'  of  deceit  from  deceive — there  is  no 
corresponding  word  in  O.F.  (Lat.  conceptus,  a  conceiving). 
Other  forms,  conceyte,  conseyte,  consayte,  consate,  etc. 

confirmed,  well-founded,  unquestionable  (ll.  i .  343) ;  steady, 
"  with  confirm'd  countenance  "  ="  with  a  straight  face  "(v.  4. 17). 

conjecture  (iv.  i.  104),  suspicion. 

convert,  change  (intrans.).  N.E.D.  quotes  Fenton's  Guicci- 
ardini,  "His  revenues  would  convert  to  nothing  in  a  moment," 
and  Dryden's  Translations  {Cinyras  and  Myrrha,  342),  "Her 
solid  Bones  convert  to  solid  Wood"  (Lat.  con,  together  +vertere, 
to  turn). 

convey,  to  transfer,  to  steal;  hence,  conveyance  =  Ught- 
fingered  dexterity.  The  best  illustration  is  Merry  Wives,  i.  3.  31 : 

Nym.  The  good  humour  is  to  steal  at  a  minute's  rest. 

Pist.  Convey,  the  wise  it  call :  Steal?  foh :  a  fico  for  the  phrase. 

conveyance  has  also  a  better  meaning  applicable  here — form 
of  expression,  manner  of  conveying  meaning.  Thus,  Greene's 
Art  of  Conny-Catching  has :  "  I  shewed  no  elegant  phrases  nor 
fine  figurative  conveyance  in  my  first  book";  and  Ralph 
Robynson's  translation  of  Utopia  has :  "  The  witty  invention  and 
fine  conveyance  or  disposition  of  the  matter."  (O.F.  con-veier, 
from  Lat.  con  -i-O.F.  veie,  voie  =  L,at.  via,  way.) 

cousin,  cozen,  cousin  (Med.  Lat.  cosinus)  is  used  by  Shake- 
speare, (i)  in  its  ordinary  modem  sense,  (2)  as  the  name  of 
any  relative,  e.g.  niece,  nephew,  (3)  as  a  name  applied  by  one 
sovereign  to  another,  or  to  a  noble  of  high  rank,  indicating 
fellowship.  Cozen  is  to  cheat  or  defraud.  It  is  found  as  cosen, 
cosin,  coosin,  couzen,  cousen,  cousin,  and  its  likeness  to  the  former 
word  leads  to  frequent  puns.  Some  philologists  claim  an  identity 
of  origin  for  the  two  words.  Coz  is  the  usual  Shakespearean 
abbreviation  for  cousin.  It  is  asserted,  however,  that  cozen  was 
brought  to  England  from  Italy — cozzone  being  a  horse-dealer 
(a  horse-coper,  as  we  should  say  now),  cheating  and  horse-dealing 
frequently  going  together.  Sherwood  (in  Cotgrave)  does  not 
give  the  latter  derivation,  but  defines  To  cousin  as  "Tromper 
sous  pretexte  de  parente,  ou  d'affinite." 

coy,  shy,  bashful,  retiring,  modest — sometimes  in  an  un- 
favourable sense.  From  O.F.  coi,  quei,  quoy,  coit,  quoit, 
meaning  quiet,  still,  gentle.  Cotgrave  uses  both  coy  and  quoy. 
The  Fr.  is  from  Lat.  quietus,  whence  our  modern  quiet,  which  is 
thus  a  doublet  of  coy. 

cue,  indication  of  where  or  when  a  performer  is  to  begin.  In 
old  texts  it  is  written  q  or  qu — the  present  play  has  "  Speake 


i86  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

Counte,  'tis  your  Qu."  It  is  suggested  that  this  is  merely  an 
abbreviation  of  qiiando,  when.  There  seems  to  be  no  connection 
with  quate. 

cunning',  clever,  learned,  skilful,  "knowing" — in  a  good 
sense.  Midland  form  of  pres.  part,  of  M.E.  cunnen,  to  know. 
A.S.  ciinnan.  It  occurs  in  such  spellings  as  cunnyng,  connyng, 
kunnyng,  coning,  etc.  Wyclif's  version  of  Genesis  ii.  9  has,  "A 
tree  of  kunnyng  of  good  and  yvel";  and  in  i  Sam.  xvi.  18,  "The 
sone  of  Ysaye  Bethlemyte,  kunnynge  to  harpe." 

ciiriously  (v.  i.  154),  elaborately,  carefully;  curious  is  from 
Lat.  curiosus;  {cura  =care)  using  care — inquisitive  is  a  secondary 
sense. 

curst  (of  persons),  perverse,  malignant,  cantankerous,  viru- 
lent; (of  animals),  savage,  fierce.  Easily  derived  from  curse. 
Mandeville  applies  it  to  Herod,  who  was  "over  moche  cursed 
and  cruelle."  The  word  curse  appears  in  late  O.K.  and  its  origin 
is  unknown. 

daff.  A  variant  of  doff,  to  do  off,  to  put  off;  hence,  to  put 
aside,  to  thrust  aside.  It  appears  several  times  in  Shakespeare, 
from  a  simple  use,  in  Lover's  Complaint: 

"There  my  white  stole  of  chastity  I  daff'd, 
Shook  off  my  sober  guards,  and  civil  fears," 
to  a  figurative  use  in  i  Hen.  IV,  IV.  i.  96: 

"Where  is  his  son. 
The  nimble-footed  madcap  prince  of  Wales, 
And  his  comrades,  that  daff'd  the  world  aside, 
And  bid  it  pass.?" 
deair,  from  O.E.  deore;  appears  in  such  forms  as  dere,  dyere, 
deyr,  deir,  deare.  The  original  meaning  is  glorious,  noble,  honour- 
able ;  then  it  comes  to  mean  highly  regarded,  loved.  It  is  suggested 
that  the  Shakespearean  dearest  enemy,  dearest  foe  are  formed  on 
the  analogy  of  dearest  friend;  but  probably  a  sense  of  something 
very  notable  attaches  to  such  uses. 

defend,  forbid.  O.F.  defendre.  The  modern  Fr.  word 
is  current  in  this  sense,  as  in  such  familiar  notices  as  Defense 
d'afficher.    Milton  {P.L.  xi.  84)  writes: 

"  O  Sons,  like  one  of  us  Man  is  become 
To  know  both  good  and  evil,  since  his  taste 
Of  that  defended  fruit." 
deprave,  slander,   calumniate,   vilify.    O.F.   depraver,  Lat. 
depruiare.    "You... have  most  ignorantly,  foolishly,  and  (more 
like    your    selves)    maliciously,    gone    about   to    deprave,    and 
calumniate    the    person    and    writings    of    Quintus    Horacius 
Flaccus."   Ben  Jonson,  Poetaster,  v.  3. 


GLOSSARY  187 

discovers  (11.  3.  loi),  shows,  reveals.  O.F.  descouvrir 
(d^couvrir). 

ditties,  words  for  music.  It  appears  in  such  forms  as  dittee, 
dytee,  etc.  From  O.F.  dite,  ditte;  Lat.  dictatum,  a  thing  dic- 
tated {dictare,  to  dictate). 

drovier,  drover.  The  form  in  -ier  or  -yer,  existing  in  collier, 
lawyer,  sazvyer,  has  not  survived  in  drapier  or  loveyer  (Chauc). 
ecstasy,  the  state  of  being  "beside  oneself," — hence,  a  state 
of  passion,  or  rapture,  or  madness.  Compare  Ophelia's  de- 
scription of  Hamlet  as  "blasted  with  ecstasy";  from  O.F. 
exstasie,  med.  Lat.  exstasis,  Gr.  eKcrTaaL^.  Other  forms,  exstasie, 
extasy,  estasie,  etc.  The  modem  spelling  shows  direct  recourse 
to  Gr. 

even  (iv.  i.  261),  plain.  The  original  meaning  is  level,  smooth, 
free  from  irregularity;  the  remoter  senses  are  easily  derived  from 
this.   (A.S.  efen,  level,  equal.) 

fasMon-monging,  monger  is  from  A.S.  mangian  to  trade. 
Apart  from  its  definite  occupational  usage,  as  in  ironmonger, 
fellmonger;  it  has  long  been  a  term  of  contempt  applied  to 
persons  who  deal  with,  or  specialize  in,  any  disUked  wares  or 
activities — sedition-mongers  appears  in  current  criticism  of 
certain  poUtical  persons.  Fashion-monging  thus  means  "having 
a  trivial  mind  given  over  to  little  but  the  fashions  of  clothes." 

favour,  face,  countenance.  N.E.D.  quotes  London  Gazette  of 
1676,  "He  is  of  low  stature  and  thin  favour."  Though /az;oMr 
as  a  noun  is  obsolete  in  this  sense,  it  is  still  used  colloquially  as 
a  verb — "She  favours  her  mother."  M.E.  favor,  from  O.F. 
favor  •,'L2iX.favdre-m,  iiomfavere,  to  regard  with  good-will.  Other 
forms,  favore,  favoure,  favowre. 

fetch  (n.  and  v.)  =trap,  trick.  N.E.D.  quotes  Sternhold  and 
Hopkins,  Ps.  xli.  7,  "  And  cast  their  fetches  how  to  trap  me  with 
some  mortal  harm."  The  verb  signifies,  in  general,  "to  go  for 
something  in  order  to  bring  it  back" ;  thus,  "  to  fetch  me  in "  is 
exactly  equivalent  to  the  modern  "to  take  me  in,"  in  the  sense 
of  "to  deceive" — the  idea  being  that  the  stratagems  of  the 
deceivers  surround  the  deceived  and  gradually  draw  him  in. 
It  is  disputed  whether  fetch  is  derived  from  the  O.E.  fetian, 
which  gives  the  obsolete /e^  by  Shakespeare  in  a  familiar  passage 
of  Henry  V. 

fleer,  to  mock,  jeer,  sneer.  It  resembles  several  Scand.  words 
meaning  to  laugh  or  howl,  but  cannot  be  definitely  traced  to 
them. 

flight,  a  light,  well-feathered  arrow  for  long-distance  shooting. 
N.E.D.  quotes  modem  combined  forms:  "Roving  arrows  are 
much  heavier   and   flight-arrows   much  Hghter   than   others" 


i88  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

(T.  Roberts,  Eng.  Bozoman,  i8oi);  "The  longest  well-authentic 
distance  for  shooting  with  flight-arrows  is  about  600  yards" 
(Greener,  Gun,  1881).  O.E.  flyht;  other  forms,  fleight,  flyghte. 
flout,  to  mock,  insult,  express  contempt  for.  N.E.D.  notes 
that  it  is  first  recorded  in  the  sixteenth  century,  and  is  possibly 
a  special  use  oifloute,  M.E.  form  oi  flute  (verb),  to  play  on  the 
flute. 

foining,  thrusting,  stabbing,  etc.  as  in  fencing.  The  origin 
is  uncertain.  Perhaps  connected  with  Fr.  dial,  form  foindre 
(Jeindre),  to  feint.  Cotgrave  gives  foigner  as  equivalent  to  feindre, 
to  dissemble.  Malory  uses  the  word  frequently,  e.g.:  "they 
avoyded  their  horses,  and  put  their  sheldes  afore  them  and 
drewe  their  swerdes,  and  either  gaf  other  sadde  strokes,  now 
here,  now  there,  rasying,  tracying,  foynynge  and  hurlynge  like 
two  bores  the  space  of  two  houres"  (vii.  x). 

giddy  (v.  4.  106),  changeable.  Alleged  to  be  from  A.S.  gydig, 
insane,  possessed  by  a  god.  So,  uncontrolled,  unbalanced.  The 
spiritual  sense  precedes  the  physical. 

guarded,  trimmed ;  guards  were  ornamental  borders  or  trim- 
mings, on  a  garment,  possibly  (like  other  surviving  ornaments) 
first  designed  for  use — as  binding  or  edging  to  prevent  fraying, 
or  as  fastenings.  This  meaning  itself  developed  a  metaphorical 
sense,  as  in  Sidney's  Defence  of  Poesie,  where  he  says,  "And 
who  reads  Plutarch's  eyther  historie  or  philosophy,  shall  finde, 
hee  trymmeth  both  theyr  garments,  with  gards  of  Poesie." 

guerdon,  recompense.  This  word  is  an  oddity.  In  M.E.  it 
occurs  in  such  forms  as  guerdoun,  gar  done,  gardwyne,  gerdoun. 
Chaucer  uses  both  noun  and  verb,  e.g.  "And,  sire,  right  as  they 
have  answered  wisely  and  discreetly,  right  so  rede  I  that  they 
been  heighly  and  sovereynly  gerdoned  for  her  noble  speche" 
(Melibteus).  O.F.  has  guedredon.  It.  guidardone,  representing 
Med.  Lat.  zviderdonum,  a  combination  of  O.H.G.  zddarlon 
(return-loan)  with  Lat.  dommi  (gift).  The  word  is  thus  a  hybrid 
luider  (mod.  zvieder)  -\-donum. 

gull,  n.  and  V.  "To  gull"  is  to  make  a  "gull"  of  anybody;  it 
is  uncertain  which  came  first,  the  noun  or  the  verb.  The  verb 
is  perhaps  connected  with  "to  gull,"  meaning  to  swallow  or  to 
guzzle;  gtdl  (n.)  is  not  only  the  person  deceived,  but  also  the 
deception ;  and  later  still  it  is  the  deceiver.  So  we  come  from 
Nashe  (1594),  with  his  "slowe,  yce-braind,  beefe-witted  gull" 
to  Westmacott  (1825)  with  his  "excuse  me,  sir,  but  as  you  are 
fresh,  take  care  to  avoid  the  gulls,"  and  his  note,  "gulls,  knowing 
ones... on  the  look  out  for  freshmen."  The  origin  is  uncertain. 
haggerds;  haggard  is  really  an  adjective,  and  is  applied  to  a 
hawk  caught  after  the  adult  plumage  has  been  assumed ;  hence, 


GLOSSARY  189 

wild,  untamed;  as  a  noun  it  means  such  a  hawk,  and  then,  by 
transference,  any  wild  intractable  person,  especially  a  woman; 
as  in  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  iv.  2,  "this  proud  disdainful  hag- 
gerd."   Origin  uncertain;  other  forms,  haggart,  haggred. 

hale,  draw,  drag,  or  pull  along;  now  superseded  in  ordinary 
speech  by  haul,  of  which  it  is  a  variant.  It  occurs  in  such  forms 
as  hayl,  hail,  hall,  hawl. 

halting,  limping.   A.S.  healt,  healtian. 

hobby-horse,  see  note  for  description  of  the  hobby-horse. 
The  word  hobby  occurs  in  such  forms  as  hobyn,  hoby,  hobye.  The 
O.F.  hobin  was  adopted  from  the  English.  The  hobby  was  a 
small  horse  or  pony — usually  of  Irish  breed.  It  is  suggested 
that  Hobbin  is  a  familiar  by- form  of  Robin  (Robert),  parallel  with 
Hodge  and  Hick  from  Roger  and  Richard — Dobbin  and  Dick 
being  other  versions  of  Robert  and  Richard. 

holp,  the  old  past  tense  of  help.  Shakespeare  uses  it  as  past- 
partic.  also,  instead  of  holpen.  (A.S.  healp,  holpen.)  He  also  uses 
holp'st. 

humour,  way  of  mind,  see  note.  Weekley  says :  "  F.  humeur, 
Lat.  (h)umor-em,  moisture.  In  ancient  and  medieval  physiology, 
one  of  the  four  fluids, '  cardinal  humours '  which  determined  the 
individual  temperament.  Later  applied  to  'temper'  or  mood 
caused  by  such  'humours,'  and,  in  E.  only,  from  c.  1700,  to  a 
special  aspect  of  the  ludicrous  or  jocose." 

important  (11.  i.  62),  importunate.  Not  a  regular  use.  Im- 
portant is  from  verb  importare;  importunate  from  adj.  impor- 
tunus,  troublesome. 

incensed,  instigated.  A  mitigated  use  of  to  incense  =  to  en- 
kindle. But  in  Hen.  VIII,  V.  i.  43,  we  have: 

"  Sir  (I  may  tell  it  you)  I  thinke  I  have 
Incenst  the  Lords  o'  th'  Councell  that  he  is 
A  most  Arch-Heretique,  etc." 
which  Onions  glosses  as  insensed  =  provoked  to  believe,  and 
adds,  "  In  literary  use  from  15th  to  17th  cent.,  subsequently 
dial,  and  now  in  gen.  use  from  Northumberland  to  Cornwall." 
It  is  still  possible  to  understand  it,  however,  as  a  mild  form  of 
incensed  =  enkindled. 

intend,  pretend — a  special  sense,  covered  by  the  Lat.  tendere 
=  to  stretch  or  tend,  with  the  intensive  prefbc. 

jade,  a  contemptuous  name  for  a  horse — one  of  bad  breed, 
bad  condition  or  bad  temper;  then  applied  contemptuously  to 
a  woman,  sometimes,  but  very  rarely,  to  a  man.  Origin  un- 
certain. 

jig,  lively  dance.  It  occurs  in  the  forms  jygge,  gigge,  gig. 
Sometimes  assumed  to  be  identical  with  O.F.  gigue,  a  kind  of 


190         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

rude  fiddle.  Fr.  gigue,  the  dance  form,  is  held  to  be  simply  an 
adaptation  of  the  English  word.  Weekley  says:  "Of  Teut. 
origin;  cf.  Ger.  geige,  fiddle,  O.N.  gigja,  prob.  cogn.  with  gig. 
Hence  jigger,  of  many  small  mech.  devices,  in  some  cases,  e.g. 
at  billiards  and  golf." 

kind,  natural,  native.  From  this  the  variations  kind,  related 
by  birth,  and  kind,  pleasant,  benevolent,  are  easily  derived. 

learn  me,  teach  me.  The  use  is  very  interesting.  To  learn  = 
to  teach  ("  I'll  larn  ye  to  be  a  toad !")  is  now  a  vulgarism,  but  was 
good  literary  English  for  many  centuries.  To  learn  =to  teach 
is  from  A.S.  laeran  (Ger.  lehren);  to  learn  -to  learn  is  from  A.S. 
leornian  (Ger.  lernen).  The  first  meaning  survives  in  a  learned 
man,  which  means  a  man  who  has  been  learned  or  taught,  as  well 
as  a  man  who  has  studied.    See  lewd. 

lewd,  base.  Originally  it  meant  lay  as  opposed  to  clerical — 
laewede  (derived  in  some  way  from  laicus)  as  opposed  to  lered 
(learned).   Thus,  Chaucer  has: 


and 


'  For  if  a  preest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  truste. 
No  wonder  is  a  lewed  man  to  ruste."  {Prol.  501-2.) 


"  For  he  be  lewed  man,  or  ellis  lered, 
He  noot  how  soone  that  he  shal  been  afered." 

{Doc's  Tale,  283-4.) 

The  gradual  pejoration  of  the  word  is  easily  understood. 

liberal,  licentious,  too  free  in  conduct.  The  less  favourable 
senses  are  easily  derived  from  the  original  idea  of  freedom — 
Lat.  liber alis,  pertaining  to  a  free  man. 

liege,  sovereign.  O.Y.lige  from  O.H.G.  ledig,  free.  Thus  the 
liege  lord  was  the  supreme /ree  man,  who  gave  chartered  freedom 
to  his  vassals  or  lieges. 

list,  choose.  A.S.  ZysfaM,  to  please.  Originally  impersonal  as 
in  "Whan  hem  lyst,  thei  remewen  to  other  Cytees"  (Mande- 
ville) ;  and  in  Chaucer : 

"  Strong  was  the  wyn  and  wel  to  drynke  us  leste."  {Prol.  750.) 

luxurious,  lustful. 

meet,  quits.  To  be  meet  with  any  one  is  to  be  of  the  same 
measure — to  be  equal,  or  to  be  even  with  him,  as  we  say  now. 

misgovernment,  personal  irregularity  of  conduct,  a  sense 
now  obsolete. 

misprision,  mistake.  O.F.  mesprision=  Lat.  minus  +prehen- 
sionem;  misprising,  contempt,  is  from  the  O.F.  verb  mespriser 
{m^priser)  =  minus  +pretiare. 

misuse  (11.  2.  25),  mislead.   O.F.  mesuser  (mesuser). 

moe,  more,  from  O.K.  ma  (adv.)  -^more:  more  is  from  O.E. 


GLOSSARY  191 

mdra   (adj.)  =  greater.     Strictly,   moe   indicates   number,   more 
extent — that  is,  we  should  say  77iany  moe  and  much  more. 

nice,  precise,  fastidious.  Originally /oo/z's/z,  weak,  simple,  from 
Lat.  nescius,  ignorant,  stupid.  The  meaning  has  developed 
strangely ;  but  the  sense  of  precision  is  perhaps  kept  in  such  a 
phrase  as  "  Come  nice  and  early." 

noble,  a  gold  coin  worth  6s.  M.,  first  minted  by  Edward  III. 
See  angel. 

odd,  eccentric,  peculiar,  strange — either  in  appearance  or 
behaviour.  N.E.D.  says:  "M.E.  odde,  from  Old  Norse  odda  in 
comb,  in  odda-mann  (accus.)  third-man,  odd-man,  who  gives 
the  casting  vote,  odda-tala  odd  number,  in  which  odda-  is 
genitive  or  comb,  form  of  oddi,  '  point,  angle,  triangle,'  whence 
'third  or  odd  number. '...The  sense  seems  to  have  been  ex- 
tended from  the  third  or  unpaired  member  of  a  group  of  three, 
to  any  single  or  unpaired  member  of  a  group,  and  from  3  as 
the  primary  odd  number  to  all  numbers  containing  an  unpaired 
unit.  But  this  development  was  anterior  to  English  use  as 
recorded  in  documents." 

orchard,  garden.  A.S.  ortgeard — apparently  a  double  forma- 
tion from  Lat.  {h)ortus,  garden,  and  A.S.  geard,  yard,  garth. 
Weekley  suggests  a  possible  derivation  from  wort,  herb  +  geard — 
A.S.  wyrtgeard.  The  important  point,  however,  in  the  present 
play  is  that  orchard  means  garden,  and  not  a  place  given  over  to 
the  culture  of  fruit-trees. 

pack'd,  leagued^in  the  same  pack  or  gang. 

pent-house,  a  "lean-to."  "Folk-etymology  for  earlier 
pentice,  pentis,  aphetic  for  Fr.  appentis  from  appendre,  to  hang 
to.  Association  with  Yr.  petite,  slope,  has  introduced  the  idea  of 
sloping,  whence  pent-roof"  (Weekley).  Pent-house,  it  should 
be  noted,  is  very  old — at  least  as  old  as  the  fourteenth  century. 

pleached,  interlaced,  intertwined,  plaited;  thus  something 
formed  by  the  interlacing  of  boughs  and  twigs,  e.g.  an  arbour  or 
garden-alley.  M.E.  pleche,  from  the  conjectural  O.F.  plechier. 
A  cognate  form  is  plash,  derived  through  the  Fr.  from  Lat. 
plectere,  to  plait,  interweave.  Drake's  Voyage  (1595)  has,  "the 
trees  which  they  had  plasshed  to  make  theyr  palizadoe."  But  the 
other  form  has  endured  longer,  thanks  to  the  Shakespearean 
impetus.   See  Ant.  and  Cleo.  iv.  14.  73  : 

"  Would'st  thou  be  window'd  in  great  Rome  and  see 
Thy  master  thus  with  pleach'd  arms,  bending  down 
His  corrigible  neck,  etc." 

politic  (v.  2.  58),  cunning,  crafty.  Derived  ultimately  from 
TToKiTiKo^,  pertaining  to  the  State  (TroAtf,  the  city).  The  de- 
gradation of  the  word  is  easily  vmderstood. 


192  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

possess  (v.  I.  269),  inform — a  frequent  Shakespearean  use. 
The  sense  is  "to  put  one  in  the  possession  of  information." 

practise,  to  play  tricks,  to  delude,  to  plot.  Rare,  if  not 
obsolete,  now  in  this  sense.  One  odd  modern  use  is  Newman's 
"  Photius  considers  his  works  have  been  practised  upon  by 
heretics." 

predestinate,  fore-ordained.  For  a  long  account  of  the  suffix 
-ate,  see  N.E.D.  ad  loc.  A  brief  statement  is  given  earlier  in  the 
notes. 

prolonged  (iv.  i.  252),  put  off,  postponed  (late  Lat.  pro- 
longare).    Not  a  common  use. 

promise  (I  promise  thee),  assure.  Perhaps  a  development  of 
promise  used  as  a  threat. 

proper,  handsome,  used  literally  or  ironically,  like  the  modern 
"he's  a  fine  fellow." 

propose,  conversation.  To  "propose"  is  to  put  something 
forward  for  discussion.  Thus  proposing  (in.  i.  3)  is  discussing, 
or  conferring  or  conversing,  and  propose  (or  purpose)  is  conversa- 
tion.   In  Eng.  this  is  obsolete;  but  the  Fr.  propos  is  current. 

quaint,  ingenious,  elaborate,  beautiful,  fine,  elegant.  The  sense 
of  "  prettily  old-fashioned  "  is  modern.  It  appears  in  numerous 
forms,  cointe,  coynte,  quoynt,  queynte,  queint  (in  Q.  of  present 
play).  From  O.F.  cointe  (quointe,  etc.),  quiente — Lat.  cognitum, 
known.  "The  development  of  the  main  senses  took  place  in 
O.F.  and  is  not  free  from  obscurity.  In  its  older  senses  the 
English  word  seems  to  have  been  in  ordinary  use  down  to  the 
17th  century,  though  in  many  i6th-i7th  cent,  examples  the 
exact  meaning  is  difficult  to  determine"  {N.E.D.).  The  modern 
use  came  in  about  1800. 

queasy,  unsettled,  troubled,  unhealthy  (and  here)  bilious  or 
easily  upset,  applied  to  the  digestive  organs.  It  occurs  in  such 
forms  as  coisy,  coysy,  queysy,  quaisie.   Origin  obscure. 

quips,  jests,  gibes.  Perhaps  a  shortened  form  of  Lat.  quippe, 
indeed,  surely;  but  possibly  a  coinage,  representing  a  blend  of 
quibble  (from  the  abbreviation  of  quibus  in  legal  documents)  and 
such  brisk  words  as  nip,  whip,  etc.  See  i  Hen.  IV,  I.  2.  50 :  "  How 
now,  how  now,  mad  wag !  what,  in  thy  quips  and  thy  quiddities?" 

quirks,  quips,  quibbles,  jokes.  It  appears  in  such  forms  as 
quircke,  queerk,  quirt.   Of  obscure  origin  and  history. 

quondam,  former — here  (v.  2.  32)  in  the  sense  of  ancient, 
belonging  to  "  once-upon-a-time."  It  is  the  Lat.  adverb  quon- 
dam, formerly,  used  adjectivally.  A  notable  use  by  Shakespeare 
is  in  Hen.  V,  11.  i.  82: 

"  I  have,  and  I  will  hold,  the  quondam  Quickly 
For  the  only  she." 


GLOSSARY  193 

rebato,  stiffening  or  support  of  ruff  or  collar,  also  the  ruff  or 
collar  itself.  It  occurs  in  such  forms  as  rebatu,  rabato,  rebata. 
From  O.F.  rabat,  a  collar.  N.E.D.  quotes  Dent's  Pathway  to 
Heaven  (1601):  "These  great  ruffs,  which  are  borne  up  with 
supporters  and  rebatoes,  as  it  were  with  post  and  rail." 

rechate.  A  horn  call  to  bring  the  hounds  together;  also 
recheat.  Probably  from  O.F.  verb  rachater,  racheter,  to  re- 
assemble, to  rally.  N.E.D.  quotes  Cockaine's  Treatise  on 
Hunting  (1590):  "The  rechate,  with  three  winds,  the  first,  one 
long  and  five  short,  the  second  one  long  and  one  short,  the 
third,  one  long  and  sixe  short." 

reclusive,  marked  by  reclusion  or  retirement;  reclusive  life 
=  the  life  of  a  recluse.   The  use  is  rare. 

reechy,  fouled,  begrimed,  smoky,  dark,  dirty.  N.E.D.  quotes 
Blount,  Boscobel  (i66c):  "His  face  and  hands  made  of  a  reechy 
complexion  by  the  help  of  the  Wahiut-tree  leaves."  The  verb 
and  substantive  reek,  meaning  smoke,  occur  in  varying  forms 
in  most  Teut.  languages.  "As  the  word  has  chiefly  survived  in 
northern  use  the  palatalized  form  reech  is  comparatively  rare" 
(,N.E.D.). 

reprove  (11.  3.  215),  rebut,  disprove,  refute.  Lat.  re  + 
probare. 

rhevim,  tears,  "restored  from  M.E.  rewme,  O.F.  reume 
(rhume),  L.,  Gr.  pevfia,  flow"  (Weekley).  Used  several  times 
by  Shakespeare. 

SEilved,  made  smoother.  The  substantive  salve  (O.E.  sealf)  is 
probably  derived  ultimately  from  some  pre-Teutonic  word 
meaning  oil  or  clarified  butter. 

scab,  used  with  double-meaning,  (i)  a  rascal,  (2)  the  crust  on 
a  sore.  From  O.  Norse  skabbr,  corresponding  to  O.E.  sceabb, 
from  which  comes  the  cognate  word  shab,  now  obsolete.  From 
the  original  root  we  get  the  Latin  scabies,  scabere:  shave  is  a 
cognate  word.  The  root  idea  is  scratch.  Sense  (i)  still  surv^ives, 
or  has  been  revived,  in  U.S.  where  it  means  a  "blackleg" — a 
non-unionist,  one  who  works  while  his  comrades  are  on  strike, 
scambling,  disorderly,  struggling,  pushing.  Origin  uncertain ; 
perhaps  the  earlier  form  of  scrambling.  Cotgrave  has:  "  Griff e 
graffe,  By  hook  or  by  crook,  squimble,  squamble,  scramblingly, 
catch  that  catch  may."  Shakespeare  uses  scamble  (in  various 
forms)  two  or  three  times,  but  not  scramble. 

shrewd,  originally,  malignant,  depraved,  malicious,  wicked. 
The  sense  gradually  weakens  to  mischievous,  sharp,  clever,  and 
is  applied  in  the  special  sense  of  sharp  to  the  railing  or  scolding 
tongue  of  women.  Whether  connected  with  shrew  {Sorex 
vulgaris)  is  disputed. 

SMA  13 


194  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

slops,  "  loose  outer  garments.  A.S.  slop  in  oferslop,  probably 
cognate  with  slip.  In  i6th-i7th  cents,  often  in  the  sense  of  baggy 
breeches.  Cf.  Fr.  salopette,  workman's  slop,  of  Teut.  origin. 
'The  business  of  slopps,  wherein  the  seaman  is  so  much  abused 
by  the  pursers.'  Pepys,  Mar.  i6, 1662'"  (Weekley).  Therecent 
war  has  made  us  familiar  with  slacks  for  trousers,  in  contrast  to 
the  tight  puttee. 

smirched,  smeared,  stained.  Doubtless  associated  with 
smear.   Rabelais  uses  esmorche,  which  Cotgrave  exactly  defines. 

sort,  originally  lot — that  which  is  determined  by  fate  or 
destiny ;  thus  it  comes  to  mean  rank  or  high  condition : 

"  God  save  ye! 
For  less  I  cannot  wish  to  men  of  sort 
And  of  your  seeming." 

(Fletcher,  Noble  Gentleman.) 
Fr.  sorte,  from  vulg.  Lat.  sorta  =Lat.  sors. 

squarer,  quarrelsome  fellow.  Noun  formed  from  verb,  to 
square,  in  the  sense  of  to  quarrel.  We  still  use  to  square  up, 
meaning  to  put  the  hands  and  arms  in  the  attitude  of  a  boxer. 
In  Midsummer-Night's  Dream,  11.  i.  27,  we  have: 

"And  now  they  never  meet  in  grove,  or  greene, 
By  fountain  clear,  or  spangled  star-light  sheen. 
But  they  do  square,  that  all  their  Elves  for  fear 
Creep  into  Acorn  cups  and  hide  them  there." 

O.F.  esqueire  (equerre,  carpenter's  square),  vulg.  Lat.  c.v- 
quadra,  from  quadrus,  from  quatuor,  four.  Cotgrave  has,  "  se 
carrer,  to  square  it;  to  look  stately,  surly,  or  big  on't." 

stale,  n.,  an  unclean  woman ;  a  special  substantive  sense  of  the 
adjective.  O.F.  estale,  verbal  adj.  of  estaler  (etaler),  from 
O.H.G.  stal,  a  fixed  place. 

stomach,  Fr.  estomac,  Lat.  stomachus,  Gr.  (rrofiaxoi,  throat, 
gullet,  from  arufxa,  mouth.  The  older  Eng.  forms  are,  stomach, 
stomake,  stomoke,  etc.  The  development  of  the  word  is  easily 
followed — from  gullet,  where  food  is  swallowed,  to  the  organ 
where  food  is  received;  then  fig.  appetite,  desire,  inclination; 
then,  inclination  in  the  wider  sense;  and  so,  courage,  spirit, 
pride,  haughtiness — uses  familiar  in  Tudor  English. 

stood  out,  rebelled.  The  development  of  the  sense  is  easily 
followed;  /o  stand  in  general  becomes  to  stand  fast  in  a  par- 
ticular attitude,  to  stand  firm,  or  resist,  to  stand  on  one  side  of  a 
dispute,  /o  stand  out,  or  resist,  and  so  on.  We  get  it  from  A.S. 
standan.  The  Teut.  forms  are  cognate  with  stare  and  laTiwai. 

strain,  descent.  A.S.  streon,  gestreon,  gain,  pvocreation.  In 
IVl.E.  it  appears  as  streen,  strene,  stren.  The  current  spelling  is 


GLOSSARY  195 

due  to  confusion  with  the  diflFerent  word  to  strain,  which  is 
from  O.F.  estreindre  (Lat.  stringer e). 

subscribe  (v.  2.  54),  write  him  down,  declare  (Lat.  sub  + 
scribere) ;  literally,  to  attest  by  signing  one's  name. 

tabor,  tambourine,  or  small  drum,  but  without  the  "jingles" 
of  the  modem  tambourine.  O.F.  labour  (mod.  form  tambour). 
The  intruded  m  may  be  due  to  tympatium ;  "  of  Oriental  origin ; 
cf.  Persian  tabirah,  taburak,  drum....Prob.  imitative"  (Weekley). 

taxtly,  sourly.  Of  tart  Weekley  writes :  "A.S.  teart,  severe 
(of  punishment,  etc.),  only  found  once  in  M.E.  in  a  passage  of 
doubtful  meaning,  but  common  from  16  cent,  in  lit.  and  fig. 
senses.  (?)  Cogn.  with  tear  (as  bitter  with  bite).  The  gaps  in  its 
history  want  filling  up."  Shakespeare  uses  tart  twice  {King 
Lear,  Ant.  and  Cleo.),  tartly  once  (in  this  play),  tartness  twice 
{All's  Well,  Coriol.). 

tax,  censure;  also,  task — "Tax  not  so  bad  a  voice"  ="Task 
not,  etc."  The  verb  is  earlier  than  the  noun.  F.  taxer,  L.  taxare, 
to  reckon,  censure.  Tax  and  task  are  synomTnous  in  M.E. — 
indeed,  they  are  the  same  word,  for  O.  'Sorm.tasque  (O.F.  tasche) 
is  a  metathesis  of  taxe. 

tire,  a  head-dress;  a  confusion  of  tiar,  ahead-dress  and  tire, 
the  aphetic  form  of  attire.  Tiara  is  of  Persian  origin  and  comes 
through  the  Greek. 

trencherman,  trench  is  from  O.F.  trenche  {tranche),  a  slice; 
trencher  is  trencheoir  {tranchoir),  cutting-board,  or  wooden 
platter;  a  trencher-man  is  an  eater — one  who  "plays  a  good  (or 
bad)  knife  and  fork." 

troth,  a  variant  of  truth.  A.S.  treowth.  See  trow.  In  pro- 
nunciation the  vowel  should  be  long,  as  in  betroth. 

trow,  wonder.  A.S.  treoivian,  to  trust  or  believe,  from  treow, 
faith,  belief;  cognate  with  true. 

"  Then  repentant  they  gave  cry, 
O  my  heart  that  trow'd  mine  eye!" 

(Greene,  Isabel's  Ode.) 

In*  the  form  /  troio  it  is  little  more  than  an  exclamation. 

tmtion,  keeping.  A.F.  tuycioun,  O.Fr.  tuicion,  M.E.  tuicyon, 
tuycyon;  from  Lat.  tuitio  {tueri).  Examples  of  the  present  use 
are  frequent,  e.g. :  "  Humbly  desiring  pardon  of  your  honour  for 
my  tediousness,  I  leave  your  lordship  to  the  tuition  of  the 
Almighty"  (Hakluyt).  "As  I  can  I  shall  commend  you  unto  the 
tuition  of  our  Shepherd  Christ"  (John  Bradford,  Letters). 

unconfirmed  (iii.  3.  no),  inexperienced,  not  yet  hardened. 

untowardly,  neg.  ol  towardly,  which  is  the  opposite  of 
frozvardly.  The  sense  is  clear  from  the  prefixes.  The  -zvard  is 

13 — z 


196  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

from  A.S.  weard,  cognate  with  weorthan,  to  become,  and  with 
Lat.  vertere,  to  turn. 

vatrlet,  a  low,  contemptible  rascal,  a  menial.  The  word  is  a 
remarkable  instance  of  degradation.  The  original  O.F.  is  vaslet. 
Cotgrave  explains  at  length :  "  In  old  time  it  was  a  more  honour- 
able title ;  for  all  young  gentlemen,  untill  they  came  to  be  eighteen 
years  of  age,  were  (as  at  this  day  Batchelers  in  Britain  are) 
termed  so;  besides  those  that  waited  in  the  Kings  Chamber 
(and  who  were,  for  the  most,  gentlemen)  had  no  other  title  than 
that  of  Valets  de  Chambre,  untill  that  Frances  the  first  perceiving 
such  as  attended  him  to  be  no  better  than  Rotiiriers,  brought  in, 
above  them,  another  sort,  and  caused  them  to  be  stiled,  Gentils- 
hommes  de  sa  chambre :  presently  after  which  the  Title  of  Valet 
grew  into  disesteem,  and  is,  at  the  length,  become  opposite  unto 
that  oi  Gentilhom?ne.  Look  Varlet."  And  under  rar/ef  he  writes : 
"A  Groom,  &c.  as  Valet;  also  a  yonker,  stripling,  youth;  as  in 
the  Proverb:  Autant  se prise  beau  varlet  que  belle  fille;  Pro. 
The  smirking  youth  as  much  himself  esteems. 
As  doth  the  Nymph  who  beauty  fairest  seems." 

victual,  "restored  from  vittle,  M.E.  and  O.F.  vitaille 
(victuaille),  Lat.  victualia,  neut.  pi.  taken  as  fem.  sing,  from 
rictus,  food"  (Weekley). 

vouchsafe,  allow,  grant.  Properly  two  words  separately  in- 
flected— "to  guarantee  as  safe." 

"That  the  quen  be  of-sent,  sauf  wol  i  fouche." 

{William  of  Paler ne,  4152.) 

"  So  Philip  is  wild,  on  that  wise  we  it  take. 
As  ye  have  mad  present,  the  king  vouches  it  safe." 

{Robert  of  Brunne.) 

weeds,  garments.  Now  obsolete  except  in  zvidow's  zveeds.  A.S. 
wTIede,  wTied,  a  garment.  Shakespeare  uses  the  singular  in 
"Weed  of  Athens  he  doth  wear"  {Midsummer-Night's  Dream). 


APPENDIX 

BANDELLO'S  STORY 

Translated  for  the  Present  Work  by  Grace  Sampson 
Novelle,  Parte  Prima,  Novella  xxii 

Tells  how  Signor  Timbreo  of  Cardona,  being  zvith  King  Peter  of 
Aragon  in  Messina,  fell  in  love  zvith  Fenicia  Lionata;  and  the 
varied  and  ill-starred  events  which  happened  before  he  took  her 
to  wife. 

In  the  year  of  our  salvation  1283,  the  Sicilians,  finding  them- 
selves no  longer  able  to  endure  the  dominion  of  the  French,  one 
day  at  the  hour  of  vespers  slaughtered  with  unheard-of  cruelty 
all  of  that  nation  who  were  in  the  island ;  which  act  of  treachery 
had  been  agreed  upon  by  the  whole  community.  Not  only  were 
men  and  women  of  French  nationality  killed,  but  all  Sicilian 
women  who  were  found  to  have  been  intimate  with  Frenchmen 
suffered  death  on  the  same  day ;  and  afterwards  any  woman  who 
was  proved  to  be  bearing  the  child  of  a  Frenchman  w  as  killed 
without  mercy.  Whence  came  the  unhappy  fame  of  the  Sicilian 
Vespers.  On  hearing  the  news  King  Peter  of  Aragon  immediately 
went  with  an  army  and  took  possession  of  the  island,  Pope 
Nicholas  III  urging  him  on,  and  saying  that,  as  the  husband  of 
Gostanza,  daughter  of  King  Manfred,  he  was  the  rightful  ruler. 
So  for  many  days  King  Peter  kept  very  royal  and  magnificent 
court  in  Palermo,  and  to  celebrate  his  conquest  of  the  island 
made  a  wonderful  feast.  Then,  hearing  that  King  Charles  II, 
son  of  Charles  I,  ruler  of  Naples,  was  coming  by  sea  with  a 
large  army  to  hunt  him  out  of  Sicily,  he  went  to  meet  him  with 
all  the  armed  vessels  and  galleys  that  he  had.  There  followed  a 
confused  hand-to-hand  fight  with  terrible  slaughter,  but  in  the 
end  King  Peter  defeated  Charles's  forces  and  took  him  prisoner. 
In  order  that  he  might  better  control  his  military  affairs  he  re- 
moved the  Queen,  with  all  the  Court,  to  Messina,  as  that  city 
is  in  touch  with  Italy,  and  by  a  short  passage  one  can  reach 
Calabria.  There,  while  he  kept  a  brilliant  court,  with  balls  and 
tournaments  every  day,  all  being  made  more  joyous  by  the 
splendid  victory,  one  of  his  knights,  a  baron  of  high  repute, 
whom,  for  his  noble  courage  and  because  in  past  wars  he  had 
always  borne  himself  valiantly,  King  Peter  esteemed  in  the 
highest  degree,  fell  passionately  in  love  with  the  young  daughter 
of  Ser  Lionato  of  the  Lionati,  a  gentleman  of  Messina.  Beyond 


198 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 


all  other  ladies  of  the  country  was  she  gentle,  attractive,  and 
beautiful,  and  little  by  little  the  knight's  love  for  her  grew  to 
such  a  burning  passion  that  without  the  sweet  sight  of  her  he 
neither  could,  nor  wished,  to  live.  His  name  was  Signer  Timbreo 
of  Cardona,  and  the  maiden  was  called  Fenicia.  Because  from 
his  youth  up  he  had  always  served  the  King  both  by  land  and 
sea,  he  had  been  richly  rewarded  and,  besides  the  countless 
gifts  he  had  already  received,  the  King  at  this  time  had  given 
him  the  demesne  of  Collisano,  with  other  property,  so  that  his 
fortune,  without  the  grant  he  had  from  the  King,  was  more  than 
twelve  thousand  ducats  a  year.  And  now  Signer  Timbreo  began 
to  walk  every  day  before  the  house  of  his  lady,  and  accounted 
himself  blessed  on  those  days  when  he  had  sight  of  her.  Fenicia, 
who,  although  but  a  girl,  was  discerning  and  wise,  quickly 
understood  the  reason  for  the  constant  passing  to  and  fro  of 
the  cavalier.  It  was  well  known  that  Signor  Timbreo  was  one 
of  the  closest  favourites  of  the  King  and  that  there  were  few  in 
the  court  so  highly  valued  as  he ;  whereby  he  was  honoured  of 
all.  Fenicia,  therefore,  hearing  him  thus  spoken  of,  seeing  him 
nobly  clad  and  attended  by  an  honourable  following,  and  seeing 
besides  that  he  was  young  and  handsome,  and  showed  himself 
well-mannered,  began  to  look  upon  him  favourably  and 
modestly  to  give  him  her  regard.  The  cavalier  became  more 
ardent  every  day,  and  the  more  he  gazed  at  her  the  more  brightly 
burnt  the  flame ;  until  this  new  fire  in  his  heart  so  consumed 
all  other  feelings  but  love  for  the  beautiful  maid,  that  he  sought 
every  possible  means  of  winning  her.  But  all  to  no  purpose! 
Because  however  many  letters,  messages  and  envoys  he  sent 
her,  she  made  no  other  reply  than  that  she  meant  to  keep  herself 
inviolate  for  him  who  should  be  her  husband.  So  the  poor  lover 
found  himself  in  an  evil  case ;  and  all  the  more  so  because  he 
had  never  been  able  to  persuade  her  to  keep  either  letters  or 
gifts.  Determined  to  win  her  by  any  means,  and  seeing  her 
constancy  to  be  such  as  to  make  it  necessary  for  him  to  wed 
her  if  he  would  possess  her,  he  concluded,  after  much  delibera- 
tion with  himself,  to  ask  her  of  her  father  in  marriage.  And 
although  this  seemed  to  him  a  condescension,  yet,  knowing  her 
to  come  of  an  ancient  and  honourable  family,  he  determined 
to  delay  no  longer,  such  was  the  ardour  of  his  passion.  Having 
come  to  this  resolution  he  sought  out  a  gentleman  of  Messina 
whom  he  knew  intimately,  and  to  him  he  unburdened  his  soul, 
laying  upon  him  the  charge  of  approaching  Ser  Lionato.  So 
to  him  went  the  gentleman  of  Messina  and  faithfully  discharged 
his  mission  according  to  the  knight's  commands.  Ser  Lionato, 
knowing  in  what  high  honour  and  authority  Signor  Timbreo 
was  held,  heard  the  proposal  with  great  pleasure;  and  without 


APPENDIX 


199 


asking  counsel  of  either  relatives  or  friends,  showed  by  his 
grateful  assent  how  much  he  appreciated  the  knight's  willing- 
ness to  make  an  alliance  with  his  family.  Being  returned  to  his 
house,  he  made  known  to  his  wife  and  to  Fenicia  the  promise 
given  to  the  knight.  Fenicia  was  greatly  pleased  and,  outwardly 
joyous,  with  devout  heart  thanked  God  who  had  granted  such 
a  glorious  consummation  to  her  chaste  love.  But  fortune,  who 
never  allows  us  to  enjoy  an  undiluted  blessing,  found  a  new  way 
of  placing  an  impediment  between  these  two,  so  desirous  of 
marriage.  Listen  to  the  manner  of  it!  It  had  become  known 
throughout  Messina  that  in  a  few  days  Signor  Timbreo  of 
Cardona  was  to  wed  Fenicia,  daughter  of  Ser  Lionato.  The  news 
pleased  the  Messinese  generally,  for  Ser  Lionato  was  a  gentle- 
man beloved  by  everybody  as  one  who  never  sought  to  injure 
any,  and  gave  what  help  he  could  to  all ;  so  that  everj'one  showed 
great  delight.  There  was  in  Messina  another  cavalier,  young  and 
of  noble  family,  named  Signor  Girondo  Olerio  Valenziano,  who 
had  proved  himself  valiant  in  the  late  war  and  was  one  of  the 
most  splendid  and  liberal  of  the  courtiers.  Hearing  the  news 
he  was  filled  with  jealousy,  because  a  little  while  before  he  had 
himself  become  enamoured  of  Fenicia's  beauty,  and  so  fiercely 
burnt  the  flame  of  love  in  his  breast  that  he  felt  he  would  die 
if  he  could  not  wed  Fenicia.  As  he  had  resolved  to  ask  her  of 
her  father  in  marriage,  one  may  believe  with  what  an  agony  of 
affliction  he  heard  of  the  promise  made  to  Signor  Timbreo ;  and 
in  his  grief,  becoming  frantic  with  the  passion  of  stifled  love, 
and  not  having  been  able  to  find  any  other  means  of  relief,  he 
allowed  himself  to  be  so  carried  away  as  to  commit  an  act  which 
anyone,  let  alone  a  knight  and  a  gentleman,  would  condemn.  In 
the  military  operations  he  had  been  almost  always  the  companion 
of  Signor  Timbreo  and  there  existed  between  them  a  brotherly 
affection.  But,  whatever  may  have  been  the  reason,  they  had 
hidden  from  each  other  their  passion  for  Fenicia.  Signor 
Girondo,  then,  set  himself  to  think  how  he  could  sow  such 
dissension  between  Signor  Timbreo  and  his  lady  that  the 
marriage  compact  would  be  broken ;  and,  in  that  event,  he  could 
ask  her  father  for  her  hand  in  marriage  with  hope  of  his  consent. 
He  was  not  long  in  changing  his  frenzied  thought  into  deed. 
Having  found  a  man  willing  to  minister  to  his  blind  and  un- 
bridled appetites,  he  carefully  unfolded  to  him  his  desire.  This 
confidant  and  servant  of  his  wickedness  was  a  young  courtier, 
a  man  of  little  worth,  and  one  who  was  better  pleased  with  evil 
than  with  good.  So,  being  thoroughly  instructed  in  the  plot 
he  was  to  weave,  he  went  the  next  morning  to  find  Signor 
Timbreo,  who  had  not  yet  gone  forth,  but  was  walking  in  the 
grounds  of  his  inn.  The  young  man  entered  the  garden,  and 


20O         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

Signer  Timbreo,  seeing  him  approach,  received  him  courteously. 
Whereupon  after  the  usual  salutations  the  youth  began  to  speak 
to  Signor  Timbreo  in  this  fashion,  My  lord,  I  am  come  at  this 
hour  to  tell  you  something  of  great  importance,  something 
which  concerns  not  only  your  interest,  but  your  honour.  And 
since  I  may,  perhaps,  say  something  which  will  offend  you,  I 
beg  you  to  forgive  me,  to  pardon  my  presumption  and  believe 
that  I  am  moved  by  a  good  intent.  This  I  know  well,  that,  if 
you  would  remain  the  honoured  knight  you  have  always  been, 
what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  will  be  of  great  service  to  you.  Now 
to  come  to  the  fact ;  yesterday  I  heard  that  you  have  agreed  with 
Ser  Lionato  of  the  Lionati  to  take  to  wife  his  daughter  Fenicia. 
Beware,  my  lord,  what  you  do  and  have  a  care  of  your  honour. 
I  speak  thus  because  a  gentleman,  a  friend  of  mine,  goes  some- 
times two  and  three  times  in  the  week  to  visit  her  and  enjoy 
her  love.  This  evening,  in  the  same  way,  he  is  going  there  and 
I,  as  at  other  times,  shall  accompany  him  thither.  If  you  will 
give  me  your  word,  and  swear  not  to  vent  your  anger  on  me  or 
on  my  friend,  I  will  arrange  that  you  yourself  shall  see  the  place 
and  the  whole  affair.  And  you  must  know  that  for  many  months 
my  friend  has  thus  enjoyed  her.  My  service  with  you,  and  the 
many  benefits  you  have  graciously  conferred  upon  me,  have 
induced  me  to  make  this  known  to  you.  You  can  now  profit 
by  it  as  seems  best  to  you ;  for  me  it  is  enough  to  have  performed 
the  office  that  my  duty  to  you  demanded.  At  these  words 
Signor  Timbreo  was  so  stunned  and  beside  himself  that  he 
almost  lost  his  senses.  After  remaining  some  time  distracted 
by  a  thousand  conflicting  thoughts,  and  being  more  moved 
by  bitterness  and  what  seemed  to  him  a  righteous  indignation 
than  by  fervent  and  loyal  love  for  the  fair  Fenicia,  he,  sighing, 
thus  replied  to  the  young  man.  My  friend,  I  ought  not,  and 
cannot  but  remain  eternally  obliged  to  you,  seeing  with  what 
goodwill  you  have  cared  for  me  and  for  my  honour,  and  some 
day  I  will  show  you  to  more  purpose  how  much  I  am  bound  to 
you.  However,  for  the  present,  I  render  you  all  the  thanks  in 
my  power.  And  since  you  have  frankly  offered  to  bring  me  to 
see  that  which  I  could  never  even  have  imagined,  I  beg  you, 
by  the  charity  which  made  you  divulge  this  thing  to  me,  freely 
to  accompany  your  friend;  and  I  swear  by  my  faith  as  an 
honourable  knight  not  to  harm  either  you  or  your  friend,  and 
to  keep  this  thing  always  under  the  seal  of  secrecy  so  that  your 
friend  may  enjoy  his  love  undisturbed.  For  I  ought  to  have 
been  more  cautious  before  in  carefully  scrutinising  the  whole 
matter.  Then  said  the  young  man,  at  last,  to  Signor  Timbreo, 
My  lord,  to-night  at  three  o'clock  you  must  go  towards  Ser 
Lionato's  house,  and  in  the  ruins  of  a  building  opposite  the 


APPENDIX  201 

garden  of  the  said  Ser  Lionato,  place  yourself  in  ambush.  Over- 
looking that  side  was  one  face  of  Lionato 's  palace  where  there 
was  an  old  room,  at  the  windows  of  which,  open  day  and  night, 
Fenicia  was  wont  to  appear,  because  the  beauty  of  the  garden 
could  be  better  enjoyed  from  that  side ;  but  Ser  Lionato  and  the 
family  Hved  in  the  other  wing,  for  the  palace  was  old  and  very 
big,  capable  of  holding  not  merely  the  retinue  of  a  gentleman, 
but  the  court  of  a  prince.  Now  having  made  the  aforesaid 
arrangement  the  deceitful  youth  departed  and  went  to  find  the 
perfidious  Girondo,  to  whom  he  related  how  he  had  made  the 
appointment  with  Signer  Timbreo.  Whereupon  Signor  Girondo 
greatly  rejoiced,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  design  would 
succeed  to  perfection.  When  the  appointed  hour  arrived,  the 
treacherous  Girondo  caused  one  of  his  servants,  whom  he  had 
already  instructed  as  to  what  he  had  to  do,  to  be  richly  dressed 
and  sweetly  perfumed  with  delicate  odours.  Away  went  the 
scented  lackey,  accompanied  by  the  young  man  who  had  spoken 
to  Signor  Timbreo,  and  closely  followed  by  another  who  bore 
a  ladder  on  his  shoulder.  What  was  the  state  of  Signor  Timbreo 's 
soul  and  what  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind  during  the  day, 
who  can  tell?  I  know  that,  for  my  part,  I  should  tire  myself 
in  vain.  Blinded  by  the  veil  of  jealousy,  the  unhappy  and  too 
credulous  lord  had  eaten  little  or  nothing  all  day.  And  whoever 
looked  in  his  face  thought  him  more  dead  than  alive.  Half-an- 
hour  before  the  appointed  time,  he  went  and  hid  himself  among 
the  ruins  in  such  a  way  that  he  could  clearly  see  anyone  who 
passed,  although  it  seemed  to  him  impossible  that  Fenicia 
should  yield  her  treasure  to  others.  Then  he  told  himself  that 
maidens  are  changeable,  frivolous,  unstable,  contemptible  and 
greedy  for  anything  new ;  and  now  condemning,  now  excusing 
her,  he  remained  attentive  to  every  movement.  The  night  was 
tranquil  and  not  very  dark.  By  and  by  he  began  to  hear  the 
scraping  sound  of  the  footsteps  of  people  coming,  and  to  hear 
also,  but  imperfectly,  some  muttered  words.  As  he  saw  the 
three  pass  by  he  knew  again  the  youth  he  had  seen  in  the 
morning,  but  the  other  two  he  could  not  recognise.  While  the 
three  made  their  way  past  him,  he  heard  the  one  who  was 
perfumed  and  clothed  like  a  lover  say  to  the  one  who  carried 
the  ladder,  See  that  you  place  the  ladder  so  carefully  at  the 
window  that  you  do  not  make  a  sound,  because  on  the  last 
occasion  my  lady  Fenicia  told  me  that  you  had  placed  it  too 
noisily.  Do  it  deftly  and  quietly.  These  words  were  clearly 
heard  by  Signor  Timbreo,  to  whose  heart  they  struck  like  so 
many  sharp  and  stinging  darts.  And  although  he  was  alone  and 
unarmed  except  for  a  sword,  and  those  who  passed  had,  besides 
swords,  two  lances  and  perhaps  wore  armour,  nevertheless  so 


202         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

fierce  and  biting  was  the  jealousy  that  gnawed  his  heart,  and 
so  great  the  anger  that  inflamed  him,  that  he  was  near  leaving 
his  hiding  place  to  assail  them  furiously  and  to  kill  the  one 
whom  he  judged  to  be  Fenicia's  lover;  or,  himself  being  killed, 
to  end  in  a  moment  all  the  distress  and  exceeding  pain  that  he 
was  so  grievously  enduring.  But  remembering  his  sworn 
promise  and  the  great  vileness  and  wickedness  of  attacking 
those  who  had  confided  in  his  word,  full  of  anger,  indignation, 
wrath  and  fury,  and  eating  his  heart  out,  he  awaited  the  end  of 
the  affair.  The  three,  arrived  before  the  window  of  Ser  Lionato's 
house  on  the  side  already  mentioned,  very  gently  leaned  the 
ladder  against  the  balcony,  and  the  one  who  represented  the 
lover  mounted  it  and  entered  the  chamber  as  if  confident  of 
his  reception.  Which,  when  the  disconsolate  Signor  Timbreo 
had  witnessed,  firmly  beheving  that  the  man  who  had  mounted 
had  gone  to  be  with  Fenicia,  he  was  struck  with  such  great 
affliction  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  swooning.  But  so  powerful 
in  him  was  his  just  anger,  as  he  believed  it,  that,  overcome  by 
jealousy,  the  fervent  and  sincere  love  he  had  borne  Fenicia  not 
only  cooled,  but  was  changed  to  bitter  hatred.  Then,  not  wishing 
besides  to  wait  until  his  rival  should  again  pass  outside  the  place 
where  he  was  hidden,  he  quitted  it  and  returned  to  his  inn.  The 
young  man,  who  had  seen  him  go  away  and  clearly  recognised 
him,  rightly  construed  what  had  happened.  He  therefore 
after  a  little  while  gave  the  signal,  and  the  servant  who  had 
climbed  up  descended,  and  away  they  went  together  to  the 
house  of  Signor  Girondo  to  whom  they  narrated  the  whole 
story.  Whereupon  he  rejoiced  greatly  and  seemed  to  himself  to 
be  already  the  possessor  of  the  beautiful  Fenicia.  Signor 
Timbreo,  who  had  slept  but  little  during  what  remained  of  the 
night,  arose  at  an  early  hour,  sent  for  the  Messinese  citizen 
by  whose  agency  he  had  asked  Fenicia  of  her  father  in  marriage, 
and  instructed  him  in  what  he  desired  him  to  do.  The  Alessinese, 
fully  informed  of  the  mind  and  heart  of  Signor  Timbreo  and 
urged  to  it  by  him,  at  the  hour  of  dinner  went  to  find  Ser 
Lionato,  who,  waiting  for  dinner  to  be  announced,  was  pacing 
the  chamber  where,  similarly,  was  the  innocent  Fenicia  who, 
in  company  with  her  two  younger  sisters  and  her  mother,  was 
embroidering  certain  pieces  of  silk.  The  citizen,  having  come 
thither  and  having  been  graciously  received  by  Ser  Lionato, 
spoke  thus:  Ser  Lionato,  I  come  as  a  messenger  from  Signor 
Timbreo  to  you,  to  your  lady,  and  to  Fenicia.  You  are  welcome, 
replied  he.  And  what  is  it?  Wife,  and  you,  Fenicia,  come  and 
listen  with  me  to  the  message  that  Signor  Timbreo  sends  us. 
Then  the  messenger  spoke  in  this  fashion.  It  is  commonly  said 
that  he  who  acts  as  an  ambassador,  reporting  only  what  he  has 


APPENDIX  203 

been  commanded,  ought  not  to  suffer  injury.    I  come  to  you, 
sent  hither  by  another,  and  it  grieves  me  much  that  I  bring  you 
painful  news.   Signor  Timbreo  of  Cardona  to  you,  Ser  Lionato, 
and  to  your  Lady,  sends  saying  that  you  must  provide  yourselves 
with  another  son-in-law,  because  he  does  not  intend  to  have  you 
as  his  parents  by  marriage ;  not  for  anything  lacking  in  you,  whom 
he  believes  and  holds  to  be  honourable  and  good ;  but  because 
with  his  own  eyes  he  has  seen  in  Fenicia  a  quality  he  would 
never  have  beheved  her  to  possess.   And  therefore  he  leaves 
you  to  provide  for  yourselves  elsewhere.  To  you,  Fenicia,  he 
says  that  the  love  he  bore  you  did  not  deserve  the  recompense 
you  have  given  it,  and  that,  as  you  have  provided  yourself  with 
another  lover,  you  must  provide  yourself  with  another  husband, 
or,  take  that  one  to  whom  you  have  yielded  your  virginity ;  for 
himself  he  does  not  mean  to  have  any  further  dealings  with  you, 
since  you  would  have  been  false  to  him  even  before  he  became 
your  husband.   On  hearing  this  bitter  and  outrageous  message 
Fenicia  became  as  one  dead.   It  was  the  same  with  Ser  Lionato 
and  his  Lady.    However,  recalling  with  an  effort  his  almost 
swooning  senses,  Ser  Lionato  said  to  the  messenger,  Brother, 
I  always  doubted  from  the  first  moment  when  you  spoke  to  me 
of  this  marriage  that  Signor  Timbreo  would  remain  firm  in  his 
request,  because  I  understood,  and  know  well  enough,  that  I 
am  a  poor  gentleman  and  not  his  equal.  Nevertheless,  it  seems 
to  me  that  if  he  had  repented  of  his  offer  to  wed  my  daughter, 
it  would  have  been  sufficient  for  him  to  say  that  he  no  longer 
desired  her;  and  he  ought  not  to  have  laid  upon  her  this  vile 
stain  of  wanton,  as  he  has  done.    It  is  very  true  that  anything 
is  possible,  but  I  know  how  my  daughter  has  been  brought  up 
and  how  she  conducts  herself.    God,  the  just  judge,  will  one 
day,  I  hope,  enable  us  to  know  the  truth.  With  this  reply  the 
citizen  set  out,  and  Ser  Lionato  remained  convinced  that  Signor 
Timbreo  had  repented  of  making  the  alliance,  considering  that 
perhaps  it  would  be  too  great  an  abasement  and  betrayal  of  his 
nobility.   Ser  Lionato  came  of  a  family  ancient  and  noble  and 
honourably  known  in  Messina,  but  his  means  were  only  those 
of  a  private  gentleman;  yet  old  men  remembered  that  his 
forbears  had  had  much  land  and  castles  with  wide  jurisdiction. 
But  owing  to  the  changes  in  the  island  wrought  by  the  civil 
war  they  were  fallen  from  their  high  estate,  as  was  to  be  seen 
in  many  other  families.   Now  the  worthy  father,  never  having 
seen  anything  dishonourable  in  his  daughter,  thought  that  the 
knight  disdained  to  take  her  because  of  their  poverty  and  present 
lowly  fortune.  On  the  other  hand,  Fenicia,  who  through  extreme 
grief  and  agony  of  heart  had  swooned,  feeling  herself  the  victim 
of  some  great  wrong,  and  being  too  delicately  nurtured  to 


204         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

endure  the  blows  of  a  malign  fate,  abandoning  herself,  thought 
death  more  desirable  than  life.  Thus,  wounded  by  deep  and 
penetrating  sorrow,  she  remained  as  if  dead;  and  quickly  losing 
her  natural  hue  resembled  a  marble  statue  rather  than  a  living 
creature.  Thereupon  she  was  lifted  bodily  and  laid  upon  a  bed, 
where  with  warm  cloths   and   other  remedies   her  wandering 
senses  were  after  a  while  recovered.  The  doctors  being  sum- 
moned, the  news  spread  through  Messina  that  Fenicia,  daughter 
of  Ser  Lionato,  was  grievously  ill  and  like  to  die.    Upon  this 
came  many  gentlewomen,  relatives  and  friends,  to  visit  the  un- 
happy Fenicia ;  and  learning  the  causeof  her  illness  endeavoured, 
as  well  as  they  could,  to  console  her.  And,  as  it  usually  happens 
among  a  crowd  of  women,  many  remarks  were  made  upon  this 
pitiful  case,  but  all  agreed  in  blaming  Signor  Timbreo  with 
bitter  reproof.   Most  of  them  were  round  the  stricken  girl's  bed, 
when   Fenicia,  having  quite  well  understood  what  was  said, 
and  seeing  that  nearly  all  were  weeping  out  of  pity  for  her, 
made  an  effort,  and  in  a  weak   voice   begged   them   to  quiet 
themselves,  and  then  feebly  spoke  thus,  Honoured  mother  and 
sisters,  dry  these  tears,  since  to  you  they  can  give  no  aid,  and 
to  me  they  are  fresh  cause  of  pain,  and  in  this  sad  case  profit 
no  one.    It  is  proper  and  pleasing  to  God  that  we  should  have 
patience.  The  grief  which  I  feel  so  acutely,  and  which  is,  little  by 
little,  severing  the  thread  of  my  life,  is,  not  that  I  should  be  re- 
pudiated, though  that  grieves  me  infinitely,  but  that  I  should  be 
repudiated  in  this  way.  Thatiswhathas  wounded  me  to  the  point 
of  death  and  utterly  broken  my  heart.  Could  Signor  Timbreo  but 
have  said  that  I  did  not  please  him  for  a  wife,  all  would  have 
been  well ;  but,  owing  to  the  manner  of  his  refusal,  I  know  well 
that  among  the  Messinese  I  shall  be  for  ever  blamed  for  a  sin 
that  I  not  only  did  not  commit,  but  did  not  even  dream  of. 
I  shall  be  pointed  at  as  a  wanton.   I  have  always  admitted,  and 
I  confess  anew,  that  my  rank  was  not  equal  to  that  of  such  a 
knight  and  baron  as  Signor  Timbreo,  and  that  one  of  my  poor 
having  could  not  aspire  to  so  great  a  marriage.  But  for  nobility 
and  antiquity  of  blood,  one  knows  that  the  Lionati  are  the  most 
noble  and  ancient  of  any  in  the  island,  we  being  descended 
from  a  noble  Roman  family  since  before  the  coming  of  Christ, 
as  is  proved  by  ancient  writings.  Now,  while  I  say  that  through 
my  poverty  I  was  unworthy  of  such  a  knight,  so  I  also  say  that 
unworthily  was  I  cast  off,  seeing  that  it  is  very  clear  that  I 
have  never  thought  of  giving  to  another  what,  by  right,  should 
be  reserved  for  my  husband.  That  I  speak  truth  God  is  my 
witness,  to  whose  holy  name  be  always  honour  and  reverence. 
And  who  knows  if  by  this  means  His  divine  majesty  wishes 
to  save  me?  Perhaps  in  making  so  high  an  alliance  I  might 


APPENDIX  205 

have  risen  in  pride  too,  and  become  contemptuous  of  this 
and  that,  and  should  have  become  less  conscious  of  God's 
goodness  towards  me.  Now  may  God  do  to  me  what  is  most 
pleasing  to  Him  and  grant  that  this  affliction  may  save  my  soul. 
I  pray  reverently,  and  with  all  my  heart,  that  He  will  open 
Signor  Timbreo's  eyes ;  not  that  he  may  take  me  again  for  wife, 
because  I  feel  life  slowly  sinking  in  me,  but  in  order  that  he  to 
whom  my  faith  has  been  worthless,  together  with  all  the  world, 
should  know  that  1  have  never  committed  that  folly  and  wicked 
sin  of  which,  against  all  reason,  I  am  accused;  so  that  if  I  die 
under  this  disgrace,  at  some  time  I  may  be  found  guiltless.  May 
he  enjoy  that  other  lady  whom  God  has  destined  for  him,  and 
with  her  live  long  and  peacefully.  For  me,  in  a  few  hours  a 
few  feet  of  earth  will  be  enough.  And  you  my  father  and  my 
mother  and  all  my  friends  and  relatives,  amid  so  much  pain, 
take  at  least  this  small  consolation,  that  I  am  innocent  of  the 
sin  ascribed  to  me,  and,  for  I  can  at  this  moment  give  no  greater 
pledge  or  testimony  in  the  world,  take  for  witness  my  faith 
which  I  give  you  as  a  dutiful  daughter  should.  It  is  enough  for 
me  that  before  the  just  tribunal  of  the  All-Knowing  Saviour 
I  shall  be  held  innocent  of  such  sin.  And  so  to  Him  who  gave 
it  me  I  commend  my  soul,  which,  desirous  of  quitting  this 
earthly  prison,  wings  its  way  towards  Him.  This  said,  so  heavy 
was  the  grief  which  pressed  upon  her  heart  and  fiercely  con- 
strained it,  that  she,  wishing  to  say  I  know  not  what  besides, 
began  to  lose  the  power  of  speech  and  to  murmur  indistinguish- 
able words  that  no  one  understood.  At  the  same  time  a  cold 
sweat  spread  over  all  her  members,  whereupon,  crossing  her 
hands,  she  yielded  herself  to  death.  The  doctors,  who  were  still 
there,  not  having  been  able  to  relieve  in  any  way  such  terrible 
sorrow,  abandoned  her  as  one  dead,  and,  saying  that  the  bitter- 
ness of  grief  had  been  so  great  that  it  had  broken  her  heart, 
they  quitted  the  house.  Soon  after,  Fenicia,  remaining  cold  and 
pulseless  in  the  arms  of  her  parents  and  friends,  was  by  all 
judged  to  be  dead.  One  of  the  doctors  was  again  sent  for,  and 
he,  finding  no  pulse,  pronounced  her  dead.  What  piercing 
lamentations,  what  tears,  what  mournful  sighs  were  given  forth, 
I  leave  you,  pitying  women,  to  imagine.  The  tearful  and  un- 
happy father,  the  frantic  and  distracted  mother  would  have 
made  stones  weep.  All  the  other  women,  and  everybody  else 
who  was  there,  made  mournful  lamentations.  Five  or  six  hours 
passed,  and  the  burial  was  arranged  for  the  following  day.  When 
the  other  women  had  departed,  the  mother,  more  dead  than  alive, 
and  with  her  one  of  her  relatives,  wife  of  Ser  Lionato's  brother, 
these  two  together,  not  wishing  any  other  person  to  be  present, 
placed  water  on  the  fire,  and,  shutting  themselves  in  the  room, 


2o6  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

undressed  Fenicia  and  began  to  bathe  her  body  with  warm 
water.  While  they  were  laving  the  cold  limbs,  Fenicia's  wandering 
senses  which  had  been  absent  for  about  seven  hours,  returned 
to  their  office,  and  the  maiden,  giving  manifest  signs  that  she 
was  still  living,  began  at  last  to  open  her  eyes.  The  mother  and 
the  relative  were  on  the  point  of  shrieking.  However,  taking 
courage,  they  placed  their  hands  on  her  heart  and  felt  that  it 
made  some  movement.  Upon  which  they  were  convinced  that 
the  girl  was  alive,  and  with  hot  cloths  and  other  remedies, 
without  proclaiming  it  to  anyone,  they  almost  entirely  restored 
Fenicia,  who,  opening  her  eyes  wide,  said  with  a  deep  sigh.  Ah ! 
where  am  I?  Do  you  not  see — said  her  mother — that  you  are 
with  me  and  with  your  aunt?  You  have  been  in  such  a  deep 
swoon  that  we  believed  you  dead ;  but  praise  be  to  God  you  are 
yet  living.  Alas!  replied  Fenicia,  how  much  better  it  would  be 
were  I  dead  and  out  of  all  this  misery.  Dear  child — said  her 
mother  and  her  aunt — since  it  is  God's  will,  you  must  wish  to 
live,  and  a  remedy  will  be  found  for  everything.  The  mother, 
concealing  her  joy,  opened  the  door  of  the  room  a  ver\-  little, 
and  sent  for  Ser  Lionato  who  came  in  haste.  There  is  no  need 
to  ask  if  he  were  joyful  at  seeing  his  daughter  returned  to  life. 
Turning  over  many  things  in  his  mind,  he  first  desired  that  no 
one  should  be  allowed  to  know  aught  of  what  had  happened, 
as  he  had  determined  to  send  his  daughter  away  from  Messina 
to  the  country  house  of  his  brother  whose  wife  was  then  present. 
When  they  had  revived  the  maiden  with  delicate  food  and 
rare  wine,  so  that  her  beauty  and  strength  were  fully  restored, 
he  sent  for  his  brother  and  carefully  explained  what  he  wished 
him  to  do.  They  then  arranged  for  the  carrying  out  of  their 
plan.  Ser  Girolamo,  for  so  Ser  Lionato's  brother  was  called, 
was  to  take  Fenicia  to  his  house  on  the  following  night  and  there 
keep  her  secretly  in  his  wife's  care.  So  having  made  all  the 
necessary  arrangements  at  the  villa,  early  next  morning  he  sent 
his  wife  away,  and  with  her  Fenicia  then  sixteen,  Fenicia's  sister 
who  was  about  fourteen  and  his  own  daughter.  They  did  this 
thinking  that  in  two  or  three  years  Fenicia,  growing  and  changing 
in  appearance  as  one  does  with  time,  could  be  married  under 
another  name.  The  day  after  the  unhappy  affair,  the  news  that 
Fenicia  was  dead  being  spread  throughout  Messina,  Ser  Lionato 
appointed  the  obsequies  according  to  his  rank.  He  had  a  coffin 
made  and  into  this,  not  being  observed  by  any,  and  not  wishing 
others  to  be  concerned  in  the  affair,  Fenicia's  mother  put  I  know 
not  what,  and,  closing  the  coffin,  nailed  it  down  and  caulked 
it  with  pitch.  Whereupon  everyone  thought  unquestioningly  that 
within  it  was  the  body  of  Fenicia.  The  evening  being  come,  Ser 
Lionato  and  his  relatives,  clothed  in  black,  accompanied  the 


APPENDIX  207 

coffin  to  the  church,  the  father  and  mother  exhibiting  poignant 
grief,  as  if  the  body  of  their  child  had  truly  lain  within  the 
neighbouring  coffin.  Everyone  was  moved  to  pity,  because, 
the  reason  of  the  death  becoming  known,  all  the  Messinese 
held  that  the  knight  had  invented  the  story.  The  coffin  was 
lowered  into  the  ground,  with  general  mourning  of  the  whole 
city,  and  a  stone  was  placed  above  it  on  which  were  depicted 
the  arms  of  the  Lionati.  Ser  Lionato  caused  this  epitaph,  also, 
to  be  inscribed  thereon : 

Fenicia  was  my  name :  a  cruel  fate 

Affianced  me  unto  a  faithless  knight, 

Who,  soon  repenting,  sought  to  break  his  plight, 

And  charged  me  with  a  sin  that  lovers  hate. 

I,  who  was  virgin  still  and  innocent. 

Seeing  my  fame  unjustly  spotted  o'er. 
And  fingers  pointing  me  one  wanton  more. 

Rather  did  die  than  suffer  such  descent. 

Since  grief  much  sharper  is  than  any  steel, 
There  needed  not  a  weapon  for  my  death. 

Such  pain  of  scorn  my  wounded  heart  did  feel, 
Dying,  I  prayed  God  with  my  latest  breath, 

That  He  the  truth  to  all  men  would  reveal. 
As  my  false  love  cared  nothing  for  my  faith. 

The  moumftd  obsequies  done,  the  reason  of  Fenicia's  death 
was  much  spoken  of  everywhere,  and  many  people  discussing 
it,  and  all  showing  compassion  for  such  a  pitiful  affair,  and 
speaking  of  it  as  a  plot,  Signor  Timbreo  began  to  feel  great  grief, 
with  a  certain  tightening  of  the  heart  which  he  could  not  have 
imagined.  It  seemed  to  him,  still,  that  he  ought  not  to  have 
been  blamed,  he  having  seen  a  man  mount  the  ladder  and  enter 
the  house.  Then  carefully  thinking  over  all  that  he  had  seen, 
and  his  previous  anger  being  in  great  measure  cooled,  reason 
opened  his  eyes,  and  he  said  to  himself  that  perhaps  he  who  had 
entered  the  house  might  have  been  visiting  another  woman,  or 
had  climbed  up  to  rob.  He  remembered,  too,  that  Ser  Lionato 's 
house  was  large  and  that  no  one  lived  in  the  wing  where  the 
man  had  cHmbed  up;  and  that  it  was  hardly  possible  that 
Fenicia,  sleeping  with  her  sister  in  a  room  behind  that  of  her 
father  and  mother,  could  have  managed  to  pass  by  her  parents' 
room  to  come  to  that  side.  Assailed  and  distressed  by  these 
thoughts  he  could  find  no  rest.  Similarly,  Signor  Girondo, 
hearing  of  the  manner  of  Fenicia's  death,  and  well  knowing 
himself  to  have  been  the  executioner  and  murderer  of  her  whom 
he  so  ardently  loved ;  and  likewise  knowing  himself  to  have  been 


2o8         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

the  real  cause  of  so  great  a  scandal,  felt  that  his  heart  would 
burst  with  excess  of  grief;  and  two  or  three  times,  almost  in 
despair,  was  about  to  thrust  a  dagger  into  his  breast.  And, 
unable  either  to  eat  or  to  sleep,  from  being  gay  and  lively,  he 
became  like  one  possessed ;  and  with  every  hour  that  he  could 
get  neither  peace  nor  rest  became  more  frenzied.  At  last,  it 
being  the  seventh  day  after  Fenicia's  funeral,  he  felt  that,  if  he 
did  not  confess  to  Signer  Timbreo  the  crime  which  he  had 
committed,  he  could  no  longer  endure  to  live.  So  at  the  hour 
when  everyone  went  home  to  dine,  he  went  towards  the  King's 
palace  and  met  Signer  Timbreo  who  was  going  from  the  court 
to  his  lodging.  To  him  Signor  Girondo  spoke  thus,  Signor 
Timbreo,  would  it  trouble  you  to  come  with  me  to  a  place  near 
by  to  render  me  a  service?  He,  who  had  always  been  the 
affectionate  companion  of  Signor  Girondo,  went  with  him, 
talking  by  the  way  of  various  things.  In  a  few  steps  they  came 
to  the  church  where  was  Fenicia's  tomb.  Arrived  there  Signor 
Girondo  commanded  his  servants  that  none  of  them  should 
enter  the  church,  and  requested  Signor  Timbreo  to  issue  the 
same  orders  to  his  men,  which  he  at  once  did.  Both  then 
entered  the  church,  in  which  there  was  no  other  person,  and 
Signor  Girondo,  leading  Signor  Timbreo,  directed  his  steps  to 
the  chapel  in  which  was  the  pretended  tomb.  Entering,  Signor 
Girondo  knelt  before  the  tomb  and,  unsheathing  the  sword  he 
wore  at  his  side,  placed  it  thus  bare  in  the  hand  of  Signor 
Timbreo,  who  waiting,  full  of  wonder,  to  know  what  this  meant, 
had  not  yet  seen  before  whose  tomb  Signor  Girondo  was  kneeling. 
Then,  full  of  sighs  and  tears,  Signor  Girondo  spoke.  Mag- 
nanimous and  noble  knight,  having  in  my  own  judgment  given 
you  infinite  offence,  I  am  not  come  here  to  ask  forgiveness, 
because  my  sin  is  so  great  that  it  cannot  be  pardoned.  Therefore, 
if  ever  you  have  thought  to  do  a  thing  worthy  of  your  valour, 
if  you  think  to  behave  as  a  true  knight,  if  you  desire  to  do  a 
deed  acceptable  to  God  and  man,  plunge  the  steel  that  you  hold 
in  your  hand  into  this  sinful  and  treacherous  breast,  and  with 
my  unworthy  and  vicious  blood  make  a  fitting  sacrifice  to  the 
holy  remains  of  the  innocent  and  unhappy  Fenicia,  who  in  this 
tomb  was  lately  laid ;  for  I  am  the  sole  malicious  cause  of  her 
undeserv-ed  and  untimely  death.  And  if  you,  pitying  me  more 
than  I  pity  myself,  deny  me  this,  I,  with  these  hands,  will  take 
that  revenge  upon  myself  that  I  ought  ultimately  to  suffer.  But 
if  you  would  be  that  true  and  noble  knight  that  until  now 
you  have  ever  been,  never  permitting  the  least  stain  of 
dishonour,"  you  will  now  take  the  due  revenge  for  yourself  and 
for  the  unfortunate  Fenicia.  Signor  Timbreo,  seeing  that  this 
was  the  tomb  of  Fenicia,  and  hearing  the  words  spoken  by  Signor 


APPENDIX  209 

Girondo,  was  stupefied,  not  being  able  to  conceive  what  this 
could  mean;  and  then,  moved  by  I  know  not  what  emotion, 
began  to  weep  bitterly,  begging  Signor  Girondo  that  in  pity 
he  should  rise  and  tell  this  story  more  clearly;  and  with  that 
he  flung  the  sword  far  from  him.  Then,  so  earnestly  did  he 
entreat,  that  Signor  Girondo,  in  pity,  rose  still  weeping  and 
thus  replied.  You  must  know,  my  lord,  that  Fenicia  was  ardently 
beloved  by  me ;  so  dearly  did  I  love  her  that,  if  I  live  for  countless 
years,  never  more  shall  I  hope  to  find  peace  or  solace,  for  that 
my  love  towards  the  unfortunate  girl  was  the  cause  of  her  most 
bitter  grievous  death.  Then,  seeing  that  I  could  never  gain  from 
her  a  kind  glance,  not  even  the  least  sign  to  encourage  my 
desires,  when  I  heard  that  she  was  promised  to  you  in  marriage, 
blinded  by  my  unbridled  desire,  I  imagined  that  if  I  could  find 
some  way  to  prevent  your  marriage,  I  could  then  easily  get  her 
father's  consent  to  wed  her  myself.  Not  being  able  to  devise 
any  other  relief  for  my  burning  passion,  and  without  considering 
the  matter,  I  arranged  a  plot,  the  darkest  in  the  world,  and  by 
a  deception  caused  you  to  see  the  house  entered  at  night  by  a 
man  who  was  one  of  my  servants.  And  he  who  came  to  tell 
you  that  Fenicia  had  given  her  love  to  another  was  employed 
by  me  in  the  whole  affair,  and  instructed  to  show  you  where  to 
watch.  Then,  the  following  day,  Fenicia,  cast  off  by  you,  died 
of  grief  and  was  entombed  here.  So,  therefore,  seeing  that  I, 
the  slayer,  the  executioner  and  the  cruel  assassin,  have  so  un- 
pardonably  injured  both  you  and  her,  with  arms  thus  crossed 
— and  he  once  more  kneeled  down — I  implore  you  to  take  a 
just  revenge  for  the  crime  I  have  committed;  all  the  more  that, 
remembering  of  what  a  great  injustice  I  have  been  the  cause, 
I  no  longer  desire  to  Uve.  On  hearing  these  things  Signor 
Timbreo  begun  weeping  very  bitterly,  and,  believing  that  the 
wrong  done  was  irreparable,  and  that  Fenicia  being  dead  he 
could  not  restore  her  to  life,  had  no  desire  to  revenge  himself  on 
Signor  Girondo,  but,  pardoning  him  his  fault,  fell  to  thinking 
how  Fenicia's  good  name  could  be  cleared  and  how  her  honour, 
which  had  so  causelessly  and  cruelly  been  reft  from  her,  could 
be  restored.  He  thereupon  desired  Signor  Girondo  to  rise, 
and  after  many  deep  sighs  and  bitter  tears  spoke  in  this  fashion. 
How  much  better  had  it  been,  my  brother,  if  I  had  never  been 
born,  or,  if  I  had  to  come  into  this  world,  that  I  had  been  born 
deaf,  so  that  I  could  never  have  heard  so  heavy  and  afflicting 
a  thing,  for  the  which  I  shall  never  more  be  able  to  live  at  ease, 
remembering  that  through  too  much  credulity  I  have  caused 
the  death  of  one  whose  love  and  whose  qualities,  those 
rare  and  excellent  virtues  and  gifts  that  the  king  of  heaven 
had  gathered  together  in  her,  deserved  some  better  reward  than 

SMA  14 


210         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

an  infamous  accusation  and  an  untimely  death.    But  since  it 
has  been  permitted  by  God,  against  whose  will  not  a  leaf  moves 
on  the  tree,  and  since  things  done  are  more  easily  reprehended 
than  amended,  I  have  no  desire  for  revenge;  for  losing  friend 
upon  friend  I  should  but  suffer  grief  upon  grief;  nor,  for  all 
this,  will  the  blessed  soul  of  Fenicia  return  to  the  pure  body 
from  which  it  has  fled.    For  one  thing  only  I  will  rebuke  you, 
so  that  never  more  may  j'ou  fall  into  a  similar  error.    It  is  this, 
that  you  ought  to  have  told  me  of  your  love,  knowing  that  I, 
too,  was  enamoured  of  her,  and  was  ignorant  of  your  passion. 
Before  asking  her  father  for  her  I  would  have  given  place  to 
you,  and,  suppressing  my  own  wishes,  as  magnanimity  and 
generosity  are  wont  to  do,  would  have  placed  our  friendship 
before  my  desire,  and  then  perhaps  you,  hearing  my  reasons, 
would    have   withdrawn    from   this    enterprise ;    and    thus   the 
ensuing  evil  would  not  have  come  to  pass.    But  the  thing  is 
done  now  and  there  is  no  remedy.    So  in  this  matter  I  ask  you 
to  comply  with  my  request  and  do  what  I  tell  you.    Whatever 
you  command,  my  lord,  said  Signor  Girondo,  I  will  fully  per- 
form. I  wish,  added  Signor  Timbreo,  that,  since  it  is  through  us 
that  Fenicia  was  wrongfully  defamed  as  a  wanton,  we  should 
both  do  our  utmost  to  restore  her  good  name  and  pay  our  debt 
of  honour,  first  to  her  sorrowing  parents,  and  next  to  all  the 
people  of  Messina,  because  the  story  I  told  was  so  widely  spread 
abroad,  that  all  Messina  may  well  believe  her  to  be  a  wanton. 
Else  I  shall  have  continually  before  my  eyes  the  vision  of  her 
angered  spirit,  always  crying  bitterly  to  God  for  vengeance  upon 
me.  To  this  Signor  Girondo,  weeping,  immediately  replied. 
My  lord,  it  is  yours  to   command  and  mine  to  obey.    Once 
I  was  bound  to  you  by  friendship,  now,  through  the  wrong 
I  have  done,  which  as  a  noble  and  too  merciful  knight  you 
have   so   graciously   pardoned   a   perfidious   villain,    I    remain 
eternally  your  servant  and  slave.  This  said,  both  of  them  bitterly 
weeping,  again  knelt  before  the  tomb  and  with  crossed  arms 
besought  pardon  of  Fenicia  and  of  God ;  the  one  for  the  crime 
he  had  committed  and  the  other  for  his  too  easy  credulity.  When 
they  had   dried   their  eyes,   Signor  Timbreo   desired   Signor 
Girondo  to  accompany  him  to  Ser  Lionato's  house.  They  went 
together  to  the  house  and  found  that  Ser  Lionato  had  dined 
with  some  of  his  relatives,  and  had  risen  from  the  table.    On 
hearing  that  these  two  lords  wished  to  speak  with  him,  full  of 
wonder,  he  went  to  meet  them  and  bade  them  welcome.  The 
two  knights,  seeing  Ser  Lionato  and  his  wife  clothed  in  black, 
began  to  weep  at  this  agonising  reminder  of  Fenicia's  death, 
and  were  scarcely  able  to  speak.    However,  two  guest-chairs 
being  brought  and  everyone  being  seated,  after  some  sighs  and 


APPENDIX  211 

groans,  Signer  Timbreo,  in  the  presence  of  all  there,  narrated 
the  sad  tale  of  the  cause  of  the  pitiful  and  untimely  death  (as  he 
believed)  of  Fenicia ;  and,  with  Signer  Girondo,  threw  himself 
at  her  parents'  feet  imploring  pardon  for  the  crime.  Ser  Lionato, 
weeping  with  tenderness  and  joy,  lovingly  embraced  them  both, 
and  granted  them  full  pardon,  thanking  God  that  his  daughter 
was  known  to  be  innocent.  Signor  Timbreo,  after  much 
deliberation,  turned  again  to  Ser  Lionato  and  said,  Signor 
Father,  since  evil  fate  has  not  willed  me  to  become  your  son- 
in-law,  as  was  my  dearest  hope,  I  beg  of  you  with  all  earnestness 
that  you  should  make  the  same  use  of  me  and  my  belongings 
as  if  the  relationship  had  been  accomplished ;  because  I  shall 
always  hold  you  in  that  reverence  and  respect  that  an  affectionate 
and  obedient  son  should  have  for  his  father.  And,  if  you  deign 
to  command  me,  you  will  find  my  deed  as  good  as  my  word, 
for  I  know  of  nothing  in  the  world  so  difficult  that  I  would  not 
do  it  for  you.  At  this  the  good  old  man  thanked  Signor  Timbreo 
with  loving  words,  and  finally  said,  Since  so  generously  and 
courteously  you  make  the  offer,  and  an  unkind  fate  has  con- 
sidered me  unworthy  of  an  alliance  with  you,  I  will  venture  to 
ask  you  something  that  will  be  easy  for  you  to  do ;  it  is  this,  that, 
by  the  nobility  that  holds  sway  in  you,  and  for  whatever  love 
you  bore  the  unhappy  Fenicia,  when  you  wish  to  take  a  wife 
you  will  make  it  known,  and  that,  upon  my  giving  you  a  lady 
who  will  please  you,  you  will  accept  her.  It  seemed  to  Signor 
Timbreo  that  the  bereaved  old  man  had  asked  small  compensa- 
tion for  such  a  great  loss,  and,  reaching  forth  his  hand  and 
kissing  him  on  the  lips,  he  replied,  Signor  Father,  seeing  that 
you  require  of  me  such  a  light  matter,  feeling  that  my  obligation 
to  you  is  much  greater  and  desiring  to  show  you  how  anxious 
I  am  to  please  you,  I  will  not  only  not  take  any  lady  without 
your  knowledge,  but  I  will  take  as  wife  only  her  whom  you  give 
me,  or  counsel  me  to  take.  And  this,  by  my  faith,  and  in  the 
presence  of  all  these  honourable  gentlemen,  I  promise.  Signor 
Girondo  also  spoke  in  the  same  generous  manner,  declaring 
himself  ready  at  all  times  to  serve  Ser  Lionato.  This  done, 
the  two  knights  went  to  dinner,  and  the  news  was  so  widely 
spread  throughout  Messina  that  it  was  known  to  all  that  Fenicia 
had  been  unjustly  accused.  At  the  same  time  Fenicia  was  in- 
formed by  a  message  from  her  father  of  what  had  taken  place, 
upon  which  she  rejoiced  greatly  and  devoutly  thanked  God  for 
the  restoration  of  her  honour.  Now  about  a  year  had  passed 
during  which  Fenicia  had  remained  at  the  villa ;  and  so  well  went 
the  business  that  no  one  knew  she  was  alive.  During  this  time 
Signor  Timbreo  had  kept  in  close  relation  with  Ser  Lionato, 
who,  warning  Fenicia  of  what  he  intended  to  do,  gave  orders 

14—2 


212  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

for  the  carrying  out  of  his  plan ;  meanwhile  Fenicia  had  com- 
pleted her  seventeenth  year  and  had  become  beautiful  beyond 
belief.    She  had  grown  so  that  no  one  who  saw  her  would  have 
known  her  to  be  Fenicia,  as  all  firmly  believed  her  to  be  already 
dead.   Her  sister  who  was  with  her  and  was  about  fifteen  years 
of  age,  Belfiore  by  name,  seemed  in  truth  a  beautiful  flower,  and 
scarcely  less  lovely  than  her  elder  sister.    Ser  Lionato,  who 
often  went  to  see  them,  observing  this,  determined  to  delay  no 
longer  in  carrying  out  his  plan.   So,  being  one  day  in  the  com- 
pany of  the  two  knights,  he  smilingly  said  to  Signor  Timbreo, 
The  time  has  come,  my  lord,  for  you  to  release  yourself  from 
your  obligation  to  me.   I  think  I  have  found  you  a  wife,  a  gentle 
and  beautiful  maiden  with  whom,  as  it  seems  to  me,  when  you 
see  her  you  will  be  well  content.  And  if,  perhaps,  you  take  her 
with  less  fervour  than  you  would  have  wedded  Fenicia,  I  assure 
you  that  you  will  not  take  less  beauty,  less  nobility  or  less  sweet- 
ness. With  other  maidenly  gifts,  and  gentle  qualities  she  is,  God 
be  thanked,  generously  dowered  and  ornamented.  You  shall  see 
her  and  then  you  can  do  whatever  you  think  best.   On  Sunday 
morning  I  shall  be  at  your  inn  accompanied  by  relatives  and 
friends  of  my  choice,  and  you,  together  with  Signor  Girondo, 
will  be  ready;  because  we  must  go  out  of  Messina  about  three 
miles  to  a  villa  where  we  shall  hear  mass ;  you  shall  see  the  maiden 
of  whom  I  have  spoken,  and  then  as  a  party  of  friends  we  will 
dine.   Signor  Timbreo  accepted  the  invitation  and  the  appoint- 
ment, and  on  Sunday  at  an  early  hour  placed  himself,  with 
Signor  Girondo,  in  readiness  to  ride.    Ser  Lionato,  who  at  the 
villa  had  already  made  all  the  fitting  preparations,  arrived  with 
a  company  of  gentlemen.    As  soon  as  Signor  Timbreo  was 
advised  of  Ser  Lionato's  coming,  he,  with  Signor  Girondo  and 
his  servants,  mounted  their  horses,  and,  greetings  given  and 
received,  the  whole  party  set  out  from  Messina.    And,  dis- 
coursing of  divers  things,  as  is  usual  in  such  cavalcades,  without 
the  way  seeming  long  they  arrived  at  the  villa,  where  everything 
was  in  readiness  and  where  they  were  courteously  received.  Then, 
having  heard  mass  in  a  neighbouring  church,  they  all  returned 
to  the  house  which  was  beautifully  decked  with  Alexandrine 
tapestry  and  carpets.  When  they  were  all  gathered  in  the  house, 
there  issued  forth  from  one  of  the  rooms  a  number  of  ladies, 
among  whom  were  the  two  sisters,  Fenicia  resplendent  as  the 
moon  shining  in  a  serene  heaven,  more  luminous  than  the  stars. 
The  two  lords  and  the  other  noblemen  received  them  with 
respectful  greetings  as  gentlemen  always  should  do  with  ladies. 
Ser  Lionato  then  took  Signor  Timbreo  by  the  hand  and  led  him 
to  Fenicia  who  had  been  called  Lucilla  ever  since  she  had  been 
taken  to  the  villa.  Behold,  Sir  Knight,  he  said,  the  Lady  Lucilla 


APPENDIX  213 

whom  I  have  chosen  to  give  you  in  marriage  when  it  shall  please 
you.   And  if  you  are  of  my  mind  she  shall  be  your  wife ;  never- 
theless you  are  free  to  take  or  to  leave  her.    Signor  Timbreo 
looked  at  the  giri  who  was  in  truth  very  beautiful,  and  being 
marvellously  pleased  at  the  first  glance,  and  having  already 
determined  to  satisfy  Ser  Lionato,  after  remaining  silent  a  while 
said,  Signor  Father,  not  only  do  I  accept  her  who  is  now  presented 
to  me  and  who  seems  a  royal  maiden,  but  any  other  you  might 
have  designed  for  me  I  would  have  taken.    And  in  order  that 
you  may  see  how  truly  I  desire  to  please  you,  and  that  you  may 
know  that  the  vow  I  made  was  not  a  vain  one,  this  lady,  and  no 
other,  I  take  for  my  lawful  bride,  if  her  wishes  conform  to  mine. 
To  these  words  the  maiden  replied,  saying,  Sir  Knight,  I  am 
here  ready  to  do  whatever  Ser  Lionato  commands.   And  I,  fair 
maiden — added  Ser  Lionato — exhort  you  to  take  Signor  Timbreo 
for  your  husband.  Whereupon  that  there  should  be  no  doubt 
in  the  matter,  he  made  a  signal  to  a  churchman  who  was  there, 
that  he  should  say  the  customary  words  according  to  the  usage 
of  Holy  Church.  The  which  he  having  duly  performed,  Signor 
Timbreo  by  those  actual  words  wedded  his  Fenicia  believing 
himself  to  have  espoused  one  Lucilla.  When  he  first  saw  the 
young  girl  come  forth  from  the  chamber  he  felt  his  heart  thrill 
with  I  know  not  what  emotion,  and  seeming  to  discern  in  her 
some  likeness  to  his  Fenicia,  he  gazed  at  her  insatiably  until  he 
felt  that  all  the  love  he  had  had  for  Fenicia  was  returning  in  full 
force  for  this  new  mistress.  The  ceremony  done,  water  was 
quickly  brought  for  the  laving  of  hands,  and  the  bride  was  placed 
at  the  head  of  the  table.   On  the  right  side  near  her  sat  Signor 
Timbreo,  opposite  whom  was  Belfiore,  and  next  to  her  came 
the  knight  Girondo.    And  thus,  one  by  one,  alternately  were 
seated  a  lady  and  a  gentleman.  The  viands  were  brought  in  an 
elegant  and  orderly  manner,  and  all  the  guests  were  liberally, 
silently,  and  attentively  served.    Merry  chatter,  witty  sayings 
and  a  thousand  other  diversions  were  not  wanting.  By  and  by, 
having  partaken  of  the  fruits  of  the  season  provided,  Fenicia 's 
aunt  who,  for  the  greater  part  of  the  year,  had  lived  with  her 
in  the  villa,  and  who  was  seated  near  Signor  Timbreo  at  table, 
seeing  that  dinner  was  over,  as  if  she  knew  nothing  of  the 
circumstances,  said  laughingly  to  Signor  Timbreo,  Sir  Husband, 
have  you  ever  been  wedded  before?     Questioned  in  such  a 
motherly  way,  he  felt  his  eyes  fill  with  tears,  which  fell  before  he 
could  reply.  Then,  conquering  a  natural  weakness,  he  answered 
in  this  fashion.    Signora  Aunt,  your  kindly  meant  question 
brings  back  to  my  mind  a  thing  which  so  continually  grieves 
my  heart  that  it  will  soon  end  my  days.  And  although  I  am  well 
content  with  Lucilla,  nevertheless  for  another  whom  I  loved, 


214  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

and  whom,  indeed,  I  love  more  than  myself,  I  feel  a  canker  of 
grief  always  gnawing  at  my  heart  and  cruelly  tormenting  me, 
because  without  any  doubt  I  was  the  sole  cause  of  her  most 
grievous  death.  At  these  words  Signor  Girondo,  wishing  to 
respond,  and  prevented  by  a  thousand  si^s  and  welling  tears 
which  fell  drop  by  drop,  at  last  brokenly  sam,  My  lord,  I,  traitor, 
was  the  real  minister  and  instrument  of  the  death  of  this  un- 
happy lady,  who  by  reason  of  her  rare  gifts  deserved  a  longer 
life;  you  did  no  wrong,  the  guilt  was  mine  alone.  On  hearing 
this  the  bride  likewise  felt  her  eyes  fill  with  a  rain  of  tears  at 
the  poignant  remembrance  of  the  bitter  affliction  she  had 
suffered  in  the  past.  The  aunt  of  the  bride  continued  and 
questioned  her  nephews  in  these  words.  Ah,  Sir  Knight,  of 
your  courtesy,  now  that  there  is  nothing  else  to  talk  of,  tell  me 
how  came  to  pass  a  thing  for  which  you  and  the  other  gentleman 
weep  so  tenderly.  Alas !  replied  Signor  Timbreo,  do  you  wish 
me,  Signora  Aunt,  to  tell  of  the  most  painful  and  excruciating 
grief  that  I  have  ever  borne,  of  which  only  to  think  tortures  and 
racks  me  ?  But  to  please  you  I  will  tell  you  how,  to  my  eternal 
sorrow  and  shame,  I  was  too  credulous.  He  then  began  to  tell, 
not  without  scalding  tears  and  great  pain  and  to  the  wonder  of 
the  listeners,  the  whole  miserable  story.  Whereupon  the  mother 
exclaimed.  What  a  strange  and  terrible  story  you  narrate.  Sir 
Knight,  the  like  of  which  will  perhaps,  never  happen  in  the 
world  again.  But  tell  me,  so  God  help  you,  if,  before  this  lady 
here  had  been  given  you  for  wife,  you  had  been  able  to  bring 
back  to  life  your  loved  mistress,  what  would  you  have  done  to 
be  able  to  have  her  alive  again?  Signor  Timbreo,  still  weeping, 
replied,  I  swear  to  God,  my  lady,  that  I  am  very  well  pleased 
with  my  betrothed  and  I  hope  as  time  goes  on  to  be  still  more 
content.  But  if,  before  this,  I  had  been  able  to  recover  the  dead, 
I  would  have  given  half  my  life,  beside  the  treasure  I  would 
have  spent,  to  have  her  again ;  because  truly  I  loved  her  as  much 
as  man  has  ever  loved  woman;  and  if  I  were  to  live  thousands 
of  years,  her  death  would  always  be  a  bitter  grief,  and  for  love 
of  her  always  would  I  honour  her  parents.  At  this  the  delighted 
father  of  Fenicia,  not  being  able  any  longer  to  hide  his  pleasure, 
turning  to  his  son-in-law  and  weeping  tears  of  joy  and  tenderness 
said,  What  you  say  with  your  lips  shows  not  well  in  your  deed. 
Sir  Son  and  son-in-law,  for  so  I  must  call  you,  since  having 
espoused  your  beloved  Fenicia  and  having  had  her  near  you 
all  the  morning  yet  you  have  not  recognised  her.  What  has 
become  of  your  fervent  love?  Has  she  changed  so  much  in 
form  and  feature  that,  though  she  has  been  here  with  you,  yet 
you  have  not  known  her?  Immediately  on  hearing  these  words 
the  eyes  of  the  amorous  knight  were  opened;  and,  throwing 


APPENDIX  215 

himself  on  Fenicia's  breast,  breathing  a  thousand  kisses  and 
transported  with  joy,  endlessly  gazing  with  fixed  looks  and  all 
the  time  weeping  sweet  tears  of  joy,  he  could  not  utter  a  word 
aloud,  but  could  only  inwardly  accuse  himself  of  his  blindness. 
Ser  Lionato  then  narrated  how  the  affair  had  gone,  all  present 
being  struck  with  wonder  and  greatly  rejoicing  together.  Signor 
Girondo  then,  rising  from  the  table,  bitterly  weeping,  threw 
himself  at  the  feet  of  Fenicia,  humbly  imploring  her  pardon. 
She  at  once  greeted  him  kindly,  and  with  loving  words  dismissed 
the  past  injur>\  She  then  turned  to  her  husband,  who  had  begun 
to  accuse  himself  of  his  fault,  begging  him  with  gentle  words 
not  to  talk  in  that  way  any  more,  because,  as  he  had  committed 
no  sin,  there  was  no  need  to  ask  for  pardon.  And  there,  kissing 
each  other  and  weeping  for  joy,  they  mingled  their  hot  tears, 
filled  with  a  great  content.  Now,  while  they  were  all  preparing 
to  dance  and  merrily  celebrate  their  great  delight,  the  knight 
Girondo  approached  Fenicia's  father,  who  was  so  full  of  joy 
that  he  felt  that  he  could  have  leapt  up  to  reach  the  sky,  and 
begged  that  Ser  Lionato  would  grant  him  a  great  favour,  some- 
thing that  would  give  Signor  Girondo  a  very  great  happiness. 
To  which  Ser  Lionato  replied  that  if  it  were  anything  within 
his  power  he  would  very  willingly  and  gladly  do  it.  I  desire, 
then — continued  Signor  Girondo — that  I  may  have  you  as  my 
father  in  marriage,  the  Lady  Fenicia  and  Lord  Timbreo  for 
sister  and  brother-in-law  and  the  Lady  Belfiore,  who  is  here, 
for  my  lawful  and  beloved  wife.  The  worthy  father,  hearing  this 
new  cause  of  joy  and  almost  beside  himself  with  so  much  un- 
expected solace  for  his  trouble,  scarcely  knew  if  he  were  dreaming 
or  if  what  he  heard  and  saw  were  really  true.  And  assuring 
himself  that  he  was  really  awake,  he  ferv-ently  thanked  God  who 
had  rewarded  him  so  far  above  his  merit;  and,  turning  to  Signor 
Girondo,  replied  kindly  that  he  was  contented  to  do  his  pleasure. 
He  then  called  Belfiore  herself.  You  see,  daughter,  he  said,  how 
it  goes.  This  knight  seeks  you  in  marriage;  if  you  would  like 
him  for  a  husband,  and  for  every  reason  you  ought,  I  shall  be 
verv  pleased;  but  you  are  quite  free  to  choose.  The  beautiful 
girl,  with  a  voice  trembling  with  shyness,  told  her  father  that 
she  was  ready  to  do  whatever  he  wished.  Thereupon  the  parents 
giving  their  consent,  Signor  Girondo,  not  to  leave  the  matter 
in  any  doubt,  with  the  proper  ceremony  and  the  customary 
words,  gave  the  ring  to  the  beautiful  Belfiore,  much  to  the  delight 
of  Ser  Lionato  and  all  present.  And  because  Signor  Timbreo 
had  espoused  his  dear  Fenicia  under  the  name  of  Lucilla,  he  then 
solemnly  wedded  her  anew  under  the  name  of  Fenicia.  The  whole 
day  was  then  passed  in  dancing  and  other  diversions .  The  sweet 
and  lovely  Fenicia  was  clothed  in  fine  white  damask,  as  pure  as 


2i6  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

snow,  with  a  wonderful  headdress  marvellously  becoming.   She 
was  agreeably  tall  for  her  age,  and  her  form,  though  not  fully 
developed  owing  to  her  youth,  was  finely  moulded.  Her  breasts, 
under  the  thin  drapery  of  fine  silk,  showed  like  t\vo  rounded 
apples  becomingly  placed.    Whoever  saw  the  charming  colour 
of  her  face,  saw  a  pure  and  pleasing  whiteness  with  virgin  red 
pleasingly  laid  on,  not  by  art  but  by  mistress  nature,  which 
paled   and  flushed  according  to  her  varying  emotions.    The 
heaving  bosom  seemed  a  lovely  and  living  piece  of  alabaster, 
white  and  pure,  from  which  rose  the  rounded  throat  of  snow. 
But  whoever  saw  the  sweet  mouth,  opening  and  closing  to  form 
the  gentle  words,  could  certainly  say  he  had  seen  an  inestimable 
treasure  house  girdled  with  rubies  and  filled  v.-ith  pearls  of 
orient  more  rich  and  beautiful  than  ever  came  from  the  odorous 
East.    If  then  you  met  those  lovely  eyes,  like  two  shining  stars, 
or  rather  t^vo  flashing  suns,  when  she  proudly  glanced  this  way 
and  that,  you  would  well  have  judged  that  in  their  glowing  light 
dwelt  love,  and  in  that  clear  splendour  trimmed  his  pointed 
arrows;  and  how  the  waving,  curling  hair,  playing  above  the 
broad  and  noble  brow,  seemed  threads  of  fine  gold,  which  at  the 
sweet  whisper  of  every  little  breeze  turned  themselves  wantonly 
about.  Her  arms  were  so  perfectly  formed,  with  beautiful  hands 
in  just  proportion,  that  even  env>'  could  find  no  fault  in  them. 
And,  in  fine,  her  whole  person  was  so  charming  and  slender, 
and  so  perfectly  formed  by  nature,  that  nothing  was  wanting. 
And  when  from  time  to  time  she  lightly  moved  either  part  or 
all  of  her  body,  according  to  the  moment,  her  every  act,  every 
gesture  and  motion,  was  so  full  of  infinite  grace  that  the  hearts 
of  those  who  saw  her  were  ravished.    She  was  truly  named 
Fenicia,  because  she  was  in  truth  a  Phcenix,  outshining  by  far 
all  other  beautiful   maids.    Nor  yet  a    less   lovely  figure  did 
Belfiore  present  except  that,  being  younger,  she  had  not  so  much 
majesty  and  grace  of  carriage.    Now  all  that  day  was  spent  in 
merry-making  and  feasting,  and  the  two  husbands  were  insatiable 
in    admiring   and    conversing   with   their   ladies.     But    Signor 
Timbreo,  above  all,  rejoiced,  and  was  hardly  able  to  believe  that 
he  was  really  there,  thinking  that  he  must  be  dreaming  or  that 
perhaps  this  was  some  spell  of  enchantment  woven  by  magic 
art.  That  day  ended  and  the  next  come,  they  prepared  to  return 
to  Messina  and  there  solemnize  the  marriages  as  befitted  the 
rank  of  the  two  lords.  The  espoused  gentlemen,  before  setting 
out,  had  acquainted  a  friend,  a  close  attendant  of  the  King,  with 
all  that  had  happened  and  had  requested  him  to  carry  out  their 
wishes.    On  the  same  day  this  friend  went  to  do  homage  to 
King  Peter  in  the  name  of  the  two  knights,  and  to  him  related 
their  love  story,  telling  all  that  had  happened  from  beginning 


APPENDIX  217 

.  to  end,  at  which  the  King  was  greatly  pleased.  He  sent  for  the 
Queen,  desiring  that  the  whole  story  should  be  told  over  again 
in  her  presence,  which  was  faithfully  done  to  the  great  pleasure 
and  no  small  wonder  of  the  Queen ;  who  on  hearing  the  piteous 
tale  of  Fenicia's  sufferings  was  moved  to  tears  of  pity  for  the 
poor  girl.  Now  King  Peter,  more  than  any  other  prince  of  his 
time,  was  ruled  by  a  liberal  magnanimity  and  well  knew  how 
to  reward  those  who  were  worthy.  The  Queen,  Ukewise,  being 
kind  and  generous,  the  King  opened  his  heart  and  told  her  what 
he  meant  to  do.  The  Queen,  hearing  his  generous  determina- 
tion, gladly  commended  the  intention  of  her  husband  and  lord. 
He,  therefore,  diligently  caused  the  whole  court  to  be  put  in 
order  and  all  the  gentlemen  and  ladies  of  Messina  to  be  invited. 
He  then  ordained  that  all  the  most  noble  barons  of  the  court, 
with  a  large  company  of  other  knights  and  gentlemen,  under  the 
care  and  governance  of  the  Infante,  Don  Giacomo  Dongiavo, 
his  first-bom,  should  go  beyond  Messina  to  meet  the  two  sister 
brides.  The  whole  company,  then,  splendidly  equipped  and 
arranged,  rode  out  of  the  city,  and  had  not  proceeded  more  than 
a  mile  when  they  met  the  two  brides,  who,  with  their  husbands 
and  many  other  persons,  were  gaily  coming  towards  Messina. 
When  they  had  met,  the  Infante  Don  Giacomo  requested  the 
knights,  who  had  dismounted  to  pay  him  homage,  to  remount 
their  steeds,  and  in  his  father's  name  courteously  felicitated  them 
and  the  two  beautiful  sisters  on  their  marriages;  he  himself 
being  received  by  all  with  the  greatest  respect.  The  greetings 
of  all  the  courtiers  and  others  of  the  company  from  Messina 
to  the  two  husbands  and  their  brides  were  not  less  kind  than 
gracious.  The  two  knights  and  their  wives,  while  giving  all  their 
hearty  thanks,  reserved  for  the  Infante  Don  Giacomo  their  most 
fervent  and  grateful  acknowledgments.  Like  a  party  of  friends 
they  then  took  their  way  to  the  city,  telling  tales  and  jests  as 
joyous  people  do.  Don  Giacomo  entertained  with  gracious 
words,  now  the  Lady  Fenicia,  and  now  the  Lady  Belfiore.  When 
they  drew  near,  the  King,  who  had  been  advised  of  their  progress, 
mounted  his  horse,  and  with  the  Queen  and  an  honourable 
company  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  went  to  meet  the  gay  cavalcade 
at  their  entry  into  the  city.  After  having  dismounted  to  do 
reverence  to  the  King  and  Queen  all  were  graciously  received. 
The  King,  desiring  that  they  should  remount,  then  placed 
himself  between  Ser  Lionato  and  Signer  Timbreo.  Madam  the 
Queen  had  Fenicia  on  her  right  hand  and  Belfiore  on  her  left, 
and  the  Infante  Don  Giacomo  rode  with  Signor  Girondo.  All 
the  other  lords  and  ladies,  having;;arranged" themselves  likewise, 
they  came,  side  by  side,  in  a  noble  procession  towards  the  royal 
palace,  that  being  the  King's  wish.  There  they  dined  sumptuously 


2i8  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 

and  after  having  eaten,  by  the  commandment  of  the  King  and  in 
the  presence  of  all  the  guests,  Signer  Timbreo  narrated  the 
story  of  his  love.  This  done,  dancing  began,  and  for  a  week  the 
King  kept  up  the  celebrations,  desiring  that  all  should  remain 
at  the  palace  as  his  guests.  The  merry-making  ended,  the  King 
sent  for  Ser  Lionato  and  asked  him  what  dowry  he  had  promised 
with  his  daughters,  and  what  means  he  had  of  paying  it.  Ser 
Lionato  replied  to  the  King  that  he  had  never  boasted  of  the 
dowries  and  that  he  was  ready  to  give  whatever  his  resource 
permitted.  Then  said  the  King,  We  wish  to  give  your  daughters 
such  a  marriage  portion  as  seems  to  us  suitable  to  them  and  to 
our  knights,  and  we  do  not  wish  that  they  should  be  any  further 
charge  to  you  on  account  of  what  has  happened.  So  this  mag- 
nanimous sovereign,  to  the  admiration  not  only  of  the  Sicilians, 
but  of  all  who  heard  of  it,  called  before  him  the  two  husbands 
and  their  brides  and  solemnly  desired  them  to  renounce  any 
claim  they  thought  to  have  had  on  Ser  Lionato,  which  act  of 
renunciation  he  confirmed  by  royal  decree.  Then  without  delay 
he  lavishly  bestowed  on  the  two  brides,  not  such  portions  as  he 
would  have  given  to  children  of  one  of  his  citizens,  but  such  as 
he  would  have  presented  to  his  own  daughters;  and  also  in- 
creased the  yearly  grant  that  the  two  knights  received  from  him. 
The  Queen,  not  less  generous,  liberal  and  magnanimous  than 
the  King,  invited  the  two  brides  to  become  ladies  of  her  court, 
granted  them  a  rich  yearly  allowance  from  her  revenue  and 
always  held  them  in  affection.  They,  who  were  truly  noble, 
carried  themselves  in  such  wise  that,  in  brief,  they  were  looked 
upon  favourably  by  all  the  court.  Ser  Lionato  was  then  given 
by  the  King  a  very  honourable  post  in  Messina,  from  which  he 
drew  no  small  profit;  and  as  he  was  getting  on  in  years  it  was 
granted  in  such  a  manner  as  to  pass  to  his  son.  Thus  then,  was 
Signor  Timbreo  rewarded  for  his  faithful  love;  and  the  evil 
that  Signor  Girondo  had  attempted  was  converted  into  good. 
Both  long  enjoyed  their  ladies,  and  living  in  great  contentment 
often  sighed  with  pleasure  at  the  memory  of  Fenicia's  mis- 
fortune. 


INDEX  TO  NOTES 


(Other  references  will  be  found  in  Glossary.) 


accordant,  103 
action,  83 
Adam,  97 
advertisement,  169 
affect,  100 
agot,  138 
alliance,  124 
alms,  134 
an,  88 

ancientry,  no 
angel,  131 
answered,  114 
Anthony,  10 1 
antic,  anticly,  138,  170 
Antipodes,  121 
apes  into  hell,  108 
apparel,  147 
appear,  103 
apprehension,  152 
approved,  126 
argument,  131 
arras,  106 
assurance,  129 
-ate,  90 
Ate,  121 

attire,  attired,  139,  158 
authority,  155 
Ay  faith,  172 

badge,  84 

baldrick,  invisible,  96 

ballad-maker's  pen,  97 

banquet,  117 

base  (though  bitter),  119 

bastard,  89 

bear  in  hand,  164 

beat  away,  160 

Beatrice,  82 

behaviours,  131 

behind  the  back,  140 


Bel's  priests,  147 

Benedick,  82 

Benedict,  89 

bent,  155,  160 

berrord,  108 

beshrew,  169 

better  bettred,  83 

bills,  85,  145,  148 

birlady,  145 

black,  138 

blazon,  123 

blind  man,  the,  188 

block,  88 

blood,  105,  117,  134,  157 

boarded,  115 

book,  130 

book  of  words,  100 

books,  in  your,  88 

Borachio,  82 

bottle,  97 

bound, 173 

boy,  130 

braggarts... blades,  172 

break  a  comparison,  116 

break  with,  100 

breath,  120 

breathing,  126 

broke  cross,  171 

brother  (Leonato's),  loi 

bucklers,  174 

bull,  the  savage,  97,  179 

burbolt,  85 

burden,  151 

buried... face  upwards,  143 

calf's  head... capon,  172 
candle-wasters,  168 
canker,  104 

carduus  benedictus,  152 
care  kill'd  a  cat,  171 


220 


INDEX  TO  NOTES 


career,  135,  171 

carpet-mongers,  174 

carriage,  105 

Cham,  the  Great,  122 

charge,  89,  144 

cheapen,  131 

choke  a  daw,  135 

church,  see  a,  in 

cinquepace,  no 

civet,  142 

civil,  123 

clap  into,  151 

clapt  on  the  shoulder,  97 

Claudio,  term  me,  125 

claw,  104 

cloth  a  gold,  150 

cog,  170 

coil,  146,  176 

Comfect,  164 

commendable,  138 

commendation,  115 

commit,  98 

commodity,  148 

complexion,  100 

conceit,  123 

confirmed,  126,  159,  179 

conjecture,  157 

Conrad,  82 

conscience,  99 

constrain,  93 

consummate,  140 

contemptible,  134 

continuer,  90 

controlment,  104 

convert,  90 

converted,  131 

conveyance,  120 

counsel,  135,  168 

county,  118 

cousin,  102 

cover,  102 

coxcomb,  166 

cross  it,  127 

cue,  123 

cunning,  173 

Cupid,  85,  93,  98,  140 

curiously,  172 

curst,  107,  108 

curtsy,  109,  164 

cuts,  150 


daflf,  dafft,  134,  170 
dear,  90 
defend,  112 
defiled,  180 
deformed,  147 
deprave,  170 
Dian,  156 
difference,  87 
dinner,  135 
discover,  134,  143 
Disdain,  Lady,  90 
disdainful,  114 
disguises,  141 
disloyalty,  129 
ditties,  133 
Dogbery,  82 
dotage,  134 
double-dealer,  180 
doublet,  131,  142,  146 
draw  to  pleasure  us,  171 
drovier,  171 
dry  hand,  114 
ducats,  130 
dumb  John,  in,  146 
dumb-shew,  135 
dumps,  133 

earnest,  108 

eat  a  sword,  162 

eats  his  meat,  153 

ecstasy,  134 

eftest,  166 

elbow  itcht,  146 

eldest  son,  my  lady's,  107 

encounter,  101 

entertained  for,  106 

Epitaph,  173,  176 

ethical  dative,   106,  127,   134, 

148,  173 
Euphuism,  83,  84,  88,  89 
Europa,  179 
events,  102 

every  day  to-morrow,  139 
exceeds,  150 
experimental,  160 

fairest  grant,  the,  loi 
faith,  117 
false  gallop,  153 
Fame,  Lady,  120 


INDEX  TO  NOTES 


221 


fancy,  141,  142 

fashion,  105,  118,  129,  146 

fathers  herself,  89 

favour,  112 

February  face,  179 

festival  terms,  175 

fetch,  95 

fine,  finer,  96 

five  wits,  86 

fleer,  169 

fleet,  the,  115 

flight,  8s 

flout,  flouting,  92,  99 

flow,  162 

foining,  170 

fool,  123 

fool,  what  is  he  for  a,  105 

force  of  his  will,  96 

forehand  sin,  156 

friend,  112 

frugal  nature's  frame,  157 

full  as  fortunate,  137 

galliard,  no 

giddy,  giddily,  147,  180 

girdle,  turn  his,  171 

go  about,  104,  166 

God    save     the     foundation, 

174 
God's  a  good  man,  154 
good-den,  143 
good-year,  the,  104 
governed,  143 
guarded,  99 
guerdon,  177 
gull,  134 

H,  152 

haggerds,  137 

hair  (colour  of),  131 

hale,  133 

halfpence,  134 

happiness,  135 

haps,  139 

hare-finder,  93 

heart,  in  spite  of,  175 

heavens,  for  the,  108 

Heigh-ho  for  a  husband,  125 

herald,  123 

Hercules,  121,  147 


heretic,  96 
hid-fox,  132 
high-proof,  170 
hobby-horses,  143 
hold  friends,  89 
honesty,  126 
humour,  90,  126,  141 
Hundred  Merry  Tales,  114 


Idaea,  161 

imperative  forms,  117,  129 
impoison,  139 
important,  no 
impossible,  120 
incensed,  173 
infinite,  134 
innocent,  175 
instances,  128 
interjections,  155 
inwardness,  162 
its,  89 

Jack,  92,  170 

Jack  Wilson,  in,  132 

jade's  trick,  91 

jealous,  jealousy,  123,  129 

just,  108 

kind,    kindly,    kindness,    84, 

109,  156 
kindred,  109 

lapwing,  137 

Leander,  174 

learn,  155 

lest,  137 

liberal,  157 

libertines,  115 

Light  o'  love,  151 

limed,  139 

liver,  161 

lock,  wears  a,  148,  174 

lodge  in  a  warren,  120 

losses,  167 

low,  92 

lute-string,  142 

luxurious,  155 

man  at  a  mark,  120 
March-chick,  105 


222 


INDEX  TO  NOTES 


marry,  133 
maskers,  112 
matter,  98,  125,  135 
measure,  104,  109,  no 
medcinable,  127 
medicine,  104,  168 
meet,  85 

melancholy,  126,  170 
Millaine,  149 
misgovernment,  157 
misprising,  137 
mistrusted,  118 
misuse,  misused,  120,  127 
modest  enough,  84 
moe,  133 
mongers,  175 
moral  medicine,  104 
Mountanto,  84 
move,  156 
music,  132 
musician,  103 
muzzle,  105 

need,  needs,  100 

neighbours,  good,  175 

neither,  99 

nice,  170 

night-gown,  150 

night-raven,  133 

noble,  131 

non-come,  154 

note,  noted,  noting,  92,  132 

odd, 138 
odorous,  153 
of  (=on),  154,  i8o 
old,  176 

omitted  relative,  83,  93 
only,  114,  137,  140,  159 
opinioned,  166 
orchard,  102,  174 
orthography,  131 
ostentation,  161 
out-facing,  171 
Ovid,  112 

packt,  174 
paint  out,  143 
palabras,  153 
parlour,  136 


parrot  teacher,  90 

participle,  129,  143 

patience,  170 

Pedro  of  Aragon,  82,  83 

penthouse,  144 

perfumer,  io6 

St  Peter,  108 

Philemon's  roof,  113 

philosopher,  169 

pitch,  to  touch,  145 

pleached,  102,  137 

politic,  175 

possessed,  148 

practice,  practise,  126,  160 

preceptial  medicine,  i68 

predestinate,  90 

presently,  89,  loi,  137 

press  to  death,  138 

Prester  John,  122 

preyed, 178 

print,  wear  the,  93 

prolonged,  162 

proof,  156 

propose,  proposing,  136,  137 

prospect,  161 

prove,  106 

purchaseth,  138 

push,  to  make  a,  169 

put  him  down,  123 

Pygmies,  122 

I 

quaint,  151 

queasy  stomach,  126 

question,  148,  175 

quibble,  96,  98,  130,  131,  132 

quirks,  135 

rack,  161 
ranges,  127 
rarely,  138 
ravisht,  132 
rearward,  157 
reason,  173 

reasonable  creature,  87 
rebato,  149 
rechate,  96 
recknings,  179 
reclusive,  162 
reechy,  147 
religious,  162 


INDEX  TO  NOTES 


223 


reprove,  135 
respect,  150 
revelling,  loi 
rheum,  176 
rich,  146 
rite,  178 
rooms,  100 
run  mad,  89 

sad,  sadly,  92,  135 

sailing  by  the  star,  152 

salved,  loo 

Saturn,  under,  104 

scab,  146 

scambling,  170 

scholar  (=  exorcist),  I2i 

sentences,  135 

seven-night,  126 

shall,  96,  127,  161 

sheeps'  guts,  132 

sheet,  134 

shrewd,  107 

Sicilian  Vespers,  83 

simple,  92 

simpleness,  138 

sirrah,  166 

slanders,  139,  164 

sleeves,  150 

slops,  142 

smirched,  157 

smock,  134 

smoking  a  musty  room,  106 

son  (Leonato's),  99 

sorrow,  168 

sort,  83 

speeds,  178 

spell  backward,  138 

squarer,  89 

squire,  105 

stage  directions,  83 

stale,  127 

stalk,  134 

star  danced,  125 

statutes,  145 

steal,  145 

still,  90 

stomach,  85,  135 

stood  out,  104 

stops,  142 

strain,  126,  162,  167 


strange  dishes,  131 

study,  88 

stuffing,  stufft,  86,  152 

style  of  gods,  169 

subscribe,  subscribed,  85,  175 

success,  162 

sufferance,  104 

suffigance,  154 

suit,  126 

sum  of  all,  91 

sunburnt,  124 

Sundays,  sigh  away,  93 

suspicion,  93 

sword  (swearing  by),  162 

sworn  brother,  88 

tabor,  131 

tale,  the  old,  94 

tartly,  107 

tax,  85,  133 

teach,  99 

tedious,  154 

temper,  127 

temporize,  98 

tennis-balls,  142 

terminations,  120 

thaw, 120 

time  (music),  109 

time  shall  try,  97 

tipt  with  horn,  180 

tire,  149 

'tis  once,  loi 

Tongue,  Lady,  123 

tongues,  the,  172 

to-night,  marry  her,  117 

toothache,  140,  141,  169 

top,  by  the,  103 

trace,  137 

trim,  164 

Troilus,  174 

trow,  152 

truant,  140 

tuition,  99 

turned  Turk,  152 

twist,  100 

unclasp,  loi 
uncle,  83 
unconfirmed,  146 
uncovered,  164 


224 


INDEX  TO  NOTES 


underbome,  151 
undergoes,  175 
undo,  127,  179 
untovvardly,  144 
up  and  down,  114 
Ursley,  136 
use,  105 

usurer's  chain,  118 
uttered,  94,  177 

vagrom,  145 
Venice,  98 
vex,  127 
vice,  174 
victual,  85 
vigitant,  146 
virgin  knight,  177 
visor,  112 
Vulcan,  93 

wag,  168 


warm,  to  keep,  87 
wash  his  face,  142 
wayward  marl,  109 
widow  weeps,  175 
will,  161 

will,  force  of  his,  96 
willow,  118 

win  me  and  wear  me,  170 
windy  side,  125 
wisdom,  134 
wise  gentleman,  172 
wit,  wits,  86,  13s 
withal,  135,  15s 
witness,  132 
wood-bine,  137 
woollen,  to  lie  in  the,  108 
world,  to  go  to  the,  124 
world  to  see,  154 
Worm,  Don,  176 
would,  134 
wring,  168 


Cambridge:  printed  uy  w.  lewis  at  the  university  presS 


-  I