D. 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. D. 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. Claud. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been, If half thy outward graces had been placed 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. Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me? [Hero swoons.] Beat. Why, how now, cousin? wherefore sink you down? D. John. Come, let us go: these things, come thus to light, Smother her spirits up. [Exeunt Don Pedro, Don Juan, and Claudio.] Bene. How doth the lady? Beat. Dead, I think;--help, uncle;-- Hero! why, Hero!--Uncle!--Signior Benedick!--friar! Leon. O Fate, take not away thy heavy hand! Death is the fairest cover for her shame That may be wish'd for. Beat. How now, cousin Hero? Friar. Have comfort, lady. Leon. Dost thou look up? Friar. Yea; Wherefore should she not? Leon. Wherefore? Why, doth not every earthly thing Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny 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 Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but one? Child I for that at frugal nature's frame? O, one too much by thee! Why had I one? Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes? Why had I not, with charitable hand, Took up a beggar's issue at my gates; Who, smirched thus, and mired with infamy, I might have said, 'No part of it is mine, This shame derives itself from unknown loins?' But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I prais'd, And mine that I was proud on; mine so much, That I myself was to myself not mine, Valuing of her; why, she--O, she is fallen Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again; And salt too little, which may season give To her foul tainted flesh! Bene. Sir, sir, be patient: For my part, I am so attir'd in wonder, I know not what to say. Beat. O, on my soul, my cousin is belied! Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night? Beat. No, truly not; although until last night, I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow