_Bene._ Sir, sir, be patient. For my part, I am so attired in wonder, I know not what to say. 145 _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. _Leon._ Confirm’d, confirm’d! O, that is stronger made 150 Which was before barr’d up with ribs of iron! Would the two princes lie, and Claudio lie, Who loved her so, that, speaking of her foulness, Wash’d it with tears? Hence from her! let her die. _Friar._ Hear me a little; 155 For I have only been silent so long, And given way unto this course of fortune, By noting of the lady: I have mark’d A thousand blushing apparitions To start into her face; a thousand innocent shames 160 In angel whiteness beat away those blushes; And in her eye there hath appear’d a fire, To burn the errors that these princes hold Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool; Trust not my reading nor my observations, 165 Which with experimental seal doth warrant The tenour of my book; trust not my age, My reverence, calling, nor divinity, If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here Under some biting error. _Leon._ Friar, it cannot be. 170 Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left Is that she will not add to her damnation A sin of perjury; she not denies it: Why seek’st thou, then, to cover with excuse That which appears in proper nakedness? 175 _Friar._ Lady, what man is he you are accused of? _Hero._ They know that do accuse me; I know none: If I know more of any man alive Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant, Let all my sins lack mercy! O my father, 180 Prove you that any man with me conversed At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight Maintain’d the change of words with any creature, Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death! _Friar._ There is some strange misprision in the princes. 185 _Bene._ Two of them have the very bent of honour; And if their wisdoms be misled in this, The practice of it lives in John the bastard, Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies. _Leon._ I know not. If they speak but truth of her, 190 These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour, The proudest of them shall well hear of it. Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, Nor age so eat up my invention, Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, 195 Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends, But they shall find, awaked in such a kind, Both strength of limb and policy of mind, Ability in means and choice of friends, To quit me of them throughly.