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coxcomb!

      Dog. God’s my life, where’s the sexton? Let him write down the Prince’s officer coxcomb. Come, bind them. Thou naughty varlet!

      [Con.] Away, you are an ass, you are an ass.

      Dog. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down as ass! But, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be prov’d upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow, and which is more, an officer, and which is more, a householder, and which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Messina, and one that knows the law, go to, and a rich fellow enough, go to, and a fellow that hath had losses, and one that hath two gowns, and every thing handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass!

       Exeunt.

       ¶

       Robert Smirke, p. — John Ogborne, e.

      ACT V

      [Scene I]

       Enter Leonato and his brother [Antonio].

       Ant.

      If you go on thus, you will kill yourself,

      And ’tis not wisdom thus to second grief

      Against yourself.

       Leon.

      I pray thee cease thy counsel,

      Which falls into mine ears as profitless

      As water in a sieve. Give not me counsel,

      Nor let no comforter delight mine ear

      But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine.

      Bring me a father that so lov’d his child,

      Whose joy of her is overwhelm’d like mine,

      And bid him speak of patience;

      Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine,

      And let it answer every strain for strain,

      As thus for thus, and such a grief for such,

      In every lineament, branch, shape, and form;

      If such a one will smile and stroke his beard,

      And, sorrow wag, cry “hem!” when he should groan,

      Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk

      With candle-wasters, bring him yet to me,

      And I of him will gather patience.

      But there is no such man, for, brother, men

      Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief

      Which 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

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