Scene I.--Before Leonato's House. [Enter Leonato and Antonio.] Ant. If you go on thus, you will kill yourself; And 't is not wisdom thus to second grief Against yourself. Leon. I pray thee, cease thy counsel, Which falls into mine ears as profitless 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'd like mine, And bid him speak to me of patience; Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine, And let it answer every strain for strain; As thus for thus, and such a grief for such, In every lineament, branch, shape, and form: If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard; 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 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, Charm ach with air, and agony with words: No, no; 't is 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: therefore give me no counsel: My griefs cry 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 That could endure the tooth-ach 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; Make those that do offend you suffer too. Leon. There thou speak'st 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. [Enter Don Pedro and Claudio.] Ant. Here comes the prince, and Claudio, hastily. D. Pedro. Good den, good den. Claud. Good day to both of you. Leon. Hear you, my lords,-- D. Pedro. We have some haste, Leonato. Leon. Some haste, my lord!--well, fare you well, my lord: Are you so hasty now?--well, all is one. D. 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, I fear thee not. Claud. Mary, beshrew my hand If it should give your age such cause of fear: In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.