CLAUDIO. Leonato, stand I here? Is this the Prince? Is this the Prince’s brother? Is this face Hero’s? Are our eyes our own? LEONATO. All this is so; but what of this, my lord? CLAUDIO. 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. LEONATO. I charge thee do so, as thou art my child. HERO. O, God defend me! how am I beset! What kind of catechizing call you this? CLAUDIO. To make you answer truly to your name. HERO. Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name With any just reproach? CLAUDIO. Marry, that can Hero: Hero itself can blot out Hero’s virtue. What man was he talk’d with you yesternight Out at your window, betwixt twelve and one? Now, if you are a maid, answer to this. HERO. I talk’d with no man at that hour, my lord. DON PEDRO. Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato, I am sorry you must hear: upon my 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, Confess’d the vile encounters they have had A thousand times in secret. DON JOHN. Fie, fie! they are not to be nam’d, my lord, Not to be spoke of; There is not chastity enough in language Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady, I am sorry for thy much misgovernment. CLAUDIO. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been, If half thy outward graces had been plac’d About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart! 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 eyelids shall conjecture hang, To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm, And never shall it more be gracious. LEONATO. Hath no man’s dagger here a point for me? [Hero swoons.] BEATRICE. Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you down? DON JOHN. Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light, Smother her spirits up. [Exeunt Don Pedro, Don John and Claudio.] BENEDICK. How doth the lady? BEATRICE. Dead, I think! Help, uncle! Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar! LEONATO. O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand: Death is the fairest cover for her shame That may be wish’d for. BEATRICE. How now, cousin Hero? FRIAR. Have comfort, lady. LEONATO. Dost thou look up? FRIAR. Yea; wherefore should she not?