Claud. I think he thinks upon the savage bull:-- Tush, fear not, man, we'll tip thy horns with gold, And all Europa shall rejoice at thee; As once Europa did at lusty Jove, When he would play the noble beast in love. Bene. Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low; And some such strange bull leap'd your father's cow, And got a calf in that same noble feat, Much like to you, for you have just his bleat. [Re-enter Antonio, with the Ladies masked.] Claud. For this I owe you: Here comes other reckonings. Which is the lady I must seize upon? Ant. This same is she, and I do give you her. Claud. Why, then she's mine: Sweet, let me see your face. Leon. No, that you shall not, till you take her hand Before this friar, and swear to marry her. Claud. Give me your hand before this holy friar; I am your husband, if you like of me. Hero. And when I liv'd I was your other wife: [Unmasking.] And when you lov'd, you were my other husband. Claud. Another Hero? Hero. Nothing certainer; One Hero died (defil'd;) but I do live, And surely as I live, I am a maid. D. Pedro. The former Hero! Hero that is dead! Leon. She died, my lord, but whiles her slander liv'd. Friar. All this amazement can I qualify; When, after that the holy rites are ended, I'll tell you largely of fair Hero's death: Meantime, let wonder seem familiar, And to the chapel let us presently. Bene. Soft and fair, friar.--Which is Beatrice? Beat. I answer to that name; [Unmasking] what is your will? Bene. Do not you love me? Beat. Why no, no more than reason. Bene. Why then your uncle, and the prince, and Claudio, Have been deceived; for they swore you did. Beat. Do not you love me? Bene. Troth no, no more than reason. Beat. Why then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula, Are much deceiv'd; for they did swear you did. Bene. They swore that you were almost sick for me. Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me. Bene. 'T is no such matter:--Then you do not love me? Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman. Claud. And I'll be sworn upon't, that he loves her; For here's a paper, written in his hand, A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, Fashion'd to Beatrice. Hero. And here's another, Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocket, Containing her affection unto Benedick. Bene. A miracle; here's our own hands against our hearts!--Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity. Beat. I would not deny you;--but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion; and partly, to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption. Bene. Peace, I will stop your mouth. [Kissing her.] D. Pedro. How dost thou, Benedick the married man?