Claud. Sweet Prince, you learn me noble thankfulness. There, Leonato, take her back again. Give not this rotten orange to your friend. She's but the sign and semblance of her honour. Behold how like a maid she blushes here! O, what authority and show of truth Can cunning sin cover itself withal! Comes not that blood as modest evidence To witness simple virtue, Would you not swear, All you that see her, that she were a maid By these exterior shows? But she is none: She knows the heat of a luxurious bed; Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty. Leon. What do you mean, my lord? Claud. Not to be married, Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton. Leon. Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof, Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth And made defeat of her virginity-- Claud. I know what you would say. If I have known her, You will say she did embrace me as a husband, And so extenuate the forehand sin. No, Leonato, I never tempted her with word too large, But, as a brother to his sister, show'd Bashful sincerity and comely love. Hero. And seem'd I ever otherwise to you? Claud. Out on the seeming! I will write against it. You seem to me as Dian in her orb, As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown; But you are more intemperate in your blood Than Venus, or those pamp'red animals That rage in savage sensuality. Hero. Is my lord well that he doth speak so wide? Leon. Sweet Prince, why speak not you? Pedro. What should I speak? I stand dishonour'd that have gone about To link my dear friend to a common stale. Leon. Are these things spoken, or do I but dream? John. Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true. Bene. This looks not like a nuptial. Hero. 'True!' O God! Claud. Leonato, stand I here? Is this the Prince, Is this the Prince's brother? Is this face Hero's? Are our eyes our own? Leon. All this is so; but what of this, my lord? Claud. 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. Leon. I charge thee do so, as thou art my child. Hero. O, God defend me! How am I beset! What kind of catechising call you this? Claud. To make you answer truly to your name. Hero. Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name With any just reproach? Claud. 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. 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.