they themselves not feel, but tasting it,
Their counsel turns to passion, which before
Would give preceptial med’cine to rage,
Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,
Charm ache with air, and agony with words.
No, no, ’tis all men’s office to speak patience
To those that wring under the load of sorrow,
But no man’s virtue nor sufficiency
To be so moral when he shall endure
The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel,
My griefs cry louder than advertisement.
Ant.
Therein do men from children nothing differ.
Leon.
I pray thee peace. I will be flesh and blood,
For there was never yet philosopher
That could endure the toothache patiently,
However they have writ the style of gods,
And made a push at chance and sufferance.
Ant.
Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself;
Make those that do offend you suffer too.
Leon.
There thou speak’st reason; nay, I will do so.
My soul doth tell me Hero is belied,
And that shall Claudio know; so shall the Prince,
And all of them that thus dishonor her.
Enter Prince [Don Pedro] and Claudio.
Ant.
Here comes the Prince and Claudio hastily.
D. Pedro.
Good den, good den.
Claud.
Good day to both of you.
Leon.
Hear you, my lords—
D. Pedro.
We have some haste, Leonato.
Leon.
Some haste, my lord! Well, fare you well, my lord.
Are you so hasty now? well, all is one.
D. Pedro.
Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man.
Ant.
If he could right himself with quarrelling,
Some of us would lie low.
Claud.
Who wrongs him?
Leon.
Marry, thou dost wrong me, thou dissembler, thou—
Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword,
I fear thee not.
Claud.
Marry, beshrew my hand,
If it should give your age such cause of fear.
In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.
Leon.
Tush, tush, man, never fleer and jest at me;
I speak not like a dotard nor a fool,
As under privilege of age to brag
What I have done being young, or what would do
Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head,
Thou hast so wrong’d mine innocent child and me
That I am forc’d to lay my reverence by,
And with grey hairs and bruise of many days,
Do challenge thee to trial of a man.
I say thou hast belied mine innocent child!
Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart,
And she lies buried with her ancestors—
O, in a tomb where never scandal slept,
Save this of hers, fram’d by thy villainy!
Claud.
My villainy?
Leon.
Thine, Claudio, thine, I say.
D. Pedro.
You say not right, old man.
Leon.
My lord, my lord,
I’ll prove it on his body, if he dare,
Despite his nice fence and his active practice,
His May of youth and bloom of lustihood.
Claud.
Away, I will not have to do with you.
Leon.
Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill’d my child.
If thou kill’st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.
Ant.
He shall kill two of us, and men indeed;
But that’s no matter, let him kill one first.
Win
