1599 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING
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excellent
fashion, yours is worth ten on't.
Hero. God give me joy to wear it! for my heart is exceeding
heavy.
Marg. 'Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man.
Hero. Fie upon thee! art not ashamed?
Marg. Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is not marriage
honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord honourable without
marriage? I think you would have me say, 'saving your
reverence,
a husband.' An bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I'll
offend nobody. Is there any harm in 'the heavier for a
husband'?
None, I think, an it be the right husband and the right wife.
Otherwise 'tis light, and not heavy. Ask my Lady Beatrice
else.
Here she comes.

Enter Beatrice.

Hero. Good morrow, coz.
Beat. Good morrow, sweet Hero.
Hero. Why, how now? Do you speak in the sick tune?
Beat. I am out of all other tune, methinks.
Marg. Clap's into 'Light o' love.' That goes without a burden.
Do
you sing it, and I'll dance it.
Beat. Yea, 'Light o' love' with your heels! then, if your
husband
have stables enough, you'll see he shall lack no barnes.
Marg. O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.
Beat. 'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; 'tis time you were
ready.
By my troth, I am exceeding ill. Hey-ho!
Marg. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?
Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H.
Marg. Well, an you be not turn'd Turk, there's no more sailing
by
the star.
Beat. What means the fool, trow?
Marg. Nothing I; but God send every one their heart's desire!
Hero. These gloves the Count sent me, they are an excellent
perfume.
Beat. I am stuff'd, cousin; I cannot smell.
Marg. A maid, and stuff'd! There's goodly catching of cold.
Beat. O, God help me! God help me! How long have you profess'd
apprehension?
Marg. Ever since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely?

Beat. It is not seen enough. You should wear it in your cap. By
my
troth, I am sick.
Marg. Get you some of this distill'd carduus benedictus and lay
it
to your heart. It is the only thing for a qualm.