no boast of it, and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore bear you the lanthorn. This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the Prince’s name.
2. Watch. How if ’a will not stand?
Dog. Why then take no note of him, but let him go, and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid of a knave.
Verg. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the Prince’s subjects.
Dog. True, and they are to meddle with none but the Prince’s subjects. You shall also make no noise in the streets; for, for the watch to babble and to talk, is most tolerable, and not to be endur’d.
[2. Watch.] We will rather sleep than talk, we know what belongs to a watch.
Dog. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman, for I cannot see how sleeping should offend; only have a care that your bills be not stol’n. Well, you are to call at all the alehouses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed.
[2. Watch.] How if they will not?
Dog. Why then let them alone till they are sober. If they make you not then the better answer, you may say they are not the men you took them for.
[2. Watch.] Well, sir.
Dog. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man; and for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty.
[2. Watch.] If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him?
Dog. Truly by your office you may, but I think they that touch pitch will be defil’d. The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself what he is, and steal out of your company.
Verg. You have been always call’d a merciful man, partner.
Dog. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him.
Verg. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse and bid her still it.
[2. Watch.] How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us?
Dog. Why then depart in peace, and let the child wake her with crying, for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes will never answer a calf when he bleats.
Verg. ’Tis very true.
Dog. This is the end of the charge: you, constable, are to present the Prince’s own person. If you meet the Prince in the night, you may stay him.
Verg. Nay, by’r lady, that I think ’a cannot.
Dog. Five shillings to one on’t, with any man that knows the [statues], he may stay him; marry, not without the Prince be willing, for indeed the watch ought to offend no man, and it is an offense to stay a man against his will.
Verg. By’r lady, I think it be so.
Dog. Ha, ah ha! Well, masters, good night. And there be any matter of weight chances, call up me. Keep your fellows’ counsels and your own, and good night. Come, neighbor.
[2. Watch.] Well, masters, we hear our charge. Let us go sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed.
Dog. One word more, honest neighbors. I pray you watch about Signior Leonato’s door, for the wedding being there to-morrow, there is a great coil to- night. Adieu! Be vigitant, I beseech you.
Exeunt [Dogberry and Verges].
Enter Borachio and Conrade.
Bora. What, Conrade!
[2.] Watch [Aside.] Peace, stir not.
Bora. Conrade, I say!
Con. Here, man, I am at thy elbow.
Bora. Mass, and my elbow itch’d; I thought there would a scab follow.
Con. I will owe thee an answer for that, and now forward with thy tale.
Bora. Stand thee close then under this penthouse, for it drizzles rain, and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee.
[2.] Watch [Aside.] Some treason, masters, yet stand close.
Bora. Therefore know I have earn’d of Don John a thousand ducats.
Con. Is it possible that any villainy should be so dear?
Bora. Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any villainy should be so rich; for when rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will.
Con. I wonder at it.
Bora. That shows thou art unconfirm’d. Thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is nothing to a man.
Con. Yes, it is apparel.
Bora. I mean the fashion.
Con. Yes, the fashion is the fashion.
Bora. Tush, I may as well say the fool’s the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is?
[2.] Watch [Aside.] I know that Deformed; ’a has been a vile thief this seven year; ’a goes up and down like a gentleman. I remember his name.
Bora. Didst thou not hear somebody?
Con. No, ’twas the vane on the house.
Bora. Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is, how giddily ’a turns about all the hot-bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty, sometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh’s soldiers in the reechy painting, sometime like god Bel’s priests in the old church-window, sometime like the shaven Hercules in the smirch’d worm-eaten tapestry, where his codpiece seems as massy as his club?
Con. All this I see, and I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man. But art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion?
Bora. Not so neither, but know that I have to-night woo’d Margaret, the Lady Hero’s gentlewoman, by the name of Hero. She leans me out at her mistress’ chamber-window, bids me a thousand times good night—I tell this tale vildly, I should first tell thee how the Prince, Claudio, and my master, planted and plac’d and possess’d by my master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable encounter.
Con. And thought they Margaret was Hero?
Bora. Two of them
