MARGARET. Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is not marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord honourable without marriage? I think you would have me say, saving your reverence, ‘a husband:’ an bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I’ll offend nobody. Is there any harm in ‘the heavier for a husband’? None, I think, and it be the right husband and the right wife; otherwise ’tis light, and not heavy: ask my Lady Beatrice else; here she comes. Enter Beatrice. HERO. Good morrow, coz. BEATRICE. Good morrow, sweet Hero. HERO. Why, how now? do you speak in the sick tune? BEATRICE. I am out of all other tune, methinks. MARGARET. Clap’s into ‘Light o’ love’; that goes without a burden: do you sing it, and I’ll dance it. BEATRICE. Ye, light o’ love with your heels! then, if your husband have stables enough, you’ll see he shall lack no barnes. MARGARET. O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels. BEATRICE. ’Tis almost five o’clock, cousin; ’tis time you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill. Heigh-ho! MARGARET. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband? BEATRICE. For the letter that begins them all, H. MARGARET. Well, and you be not turned Turk, there’s no more sailing by the star. BEATRICE. What means the fool, trow? MARGARET. Nothing I; but God send everyone their heart’s desire! HERO. These gloves the Count sent me; they are an excellent perfume. BEATRICE. I am stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell. MARGARET. A maid, and stuffed! there’s goodly catching of cold. BEATRICE. O, God help me! God help me! how long have you professed apprehension? MARGARET. Ever since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely! BEATRICE. It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick. MARGARET. Get you some of this distilled Carduus benedictus, and lay it to your heart: it is the only thing for a qualm. HERO. There thou prick’st her with a thistle. BEATRICE. Benedictus! why benedictus? you have some moral in this benedictus. MARGARET. Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I meant, plain holy thistle. You may think, perchance, that I think you are in love: nay, by’r Lady, 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 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 Benedick 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 you may be converted, I know not; but methinks you look with your eyes as other women do. BEATRICE. What pace is this that thy tongue keeps? MARGARET. Not a false gallop. Re-enter Ursula. URSULA. Madam, withdraw: the Prince, the Count, Signior 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. [Exeunt.]