No More Learning

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, stol'n 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. [Kisses her. ]
Beat. I'll tell thee what, Prince: a college of wit-crackers cannot
flout me out of my humour.
Dost thou think I care for a satire or
an epigram? No. If a man will be beaten with brains, 'a shall
wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to
marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say
against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said
against it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.
For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee; but in
that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruis'd, and love my
cousin.
Claud. I had well hop'd thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I
might have cudgell'd thee out of thy single life, to make thee a
double-dealer, which out of question thou wilt be if my cousin do
not look exceeding narrowly to thee.
Bene. Come, come, we are friends. Let's have a dance ere we are
married, that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives' heels.
Leon. We'll have dancing afterward.
Bene. First, of my word! Therefore play, music. Prince, thou art
sad.