DON PEDRO. And so will he do; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek Benedick and tell him of her love? CLAUDIO. Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it out with good counsel. LEONATO. Nay, that’s impossible: she may wear her heart out first. DON 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. LEONATO. My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready. CLAUDIO. [Aside] If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation. DON PEDRO. [Aside] Let there be the same net spread for her; and that must your daughter and her gentlewoman carry. 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 show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner. [Exeunt Don Pedro, Claudio and Leonato.] BENEDICK. [Advancing from the arbour.] This can be no trick: the conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady: it seems her affections have their full bent. Love me? why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured: they say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her; they say too that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. I 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; 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 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 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. BEATRICE. Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner. BENEDICK. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. BEATRICE. I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would not have come. BENEDICK. You take pleasure then in the message? BEATRICE. 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. [Exit.]