Dogb. Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverent youth; and I praise God for you. Leon. There's for thy pains. Dogb. God save the foundation! Leon. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee. Dogb. I leave an arrant knave with your worship; which, I beseech your worship, to correct yourself, for the example of others. God keep your worship; I wish your worship well; God restore you to health: I humbly give you leave to depart; and if a merry meeting may be wished, God prohibit it.--Come, neighbour. [Exeunt Dogberry, Verges, and Watch.] Leon. Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell. Ant. Farewell, my lords; we look for you to-morrow. D. Pedro. We will not fall. Claud. To night I'll mourn with Hero. [Exeunt Don Pedro and Claudio.] Leon. Bring you these fellows on; we'll talk with Margaret, How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow. [Exeunt.] Scene II.--Leonato's Garden. [Enter Benedick and Margaret, meeting.] Bene. Pray thee, sweet mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands, by helping me to the speech of Beatrice. Marg. Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty? Bene. In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it; for in most comely truth, thou deservest it. Marg. To have no man come over me? why, shall I always keep below stairs? Bene. Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's mouth, it catches. Marg. And yours as blunt as the fencer's foils, which hit, but hurt not. Bene. A most manly wit, Margaret, it will not hurt a woman; and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice: I give thee the bucklers. Marg. Give us the swords, we have bucklers of our own. Bene. If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons for maids. Marg. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who, I think, hath legs. [Exit Margaret.] Bene. And therefore will come. The god of love, [Singing.] That sits above, And knows me, and knows me, How pitiful I deserve,-- I mean, in singing; but in loving.--Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and a whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned over and over as my poor self in love: Marry, I cannot show it in rhyme; I have tried; I can find out no rhyme to 'lady' but 'baby,' an innocent rhyme; for 'scorn,' 'horn,' a hard rhyme: for 'school', 'fool,' a babbling rhyme; very ominous endings: No, I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor cannot woo in festival terms. [Enter Beatrice.] Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee? Beat. Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me. Bene. O, stay but till then! Beat. Then, is spoken: fare you well now:--and yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for, which is, with knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio. Bene. Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee.