Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Hero. But who dare tell her so? if I should speake,
Hero. She would mocke me into ayre, O she would laugh me
Hero. Out of my selfe, presse me to death with wit,
Hero. Therefore let Benedicke like couered fire,
Hero. Consume away in sighes, waste inwardly:
Hero. It were a better death, to die with mockes,
Hero. Which is as bad as die with tickling.
Vrsu. Vrsu.
Vrsu. Yet tell her of it, heare what shee will say.
Hero. Hero.
Hero. No, rather I will goe to Benedicke,
Hero. And counsaile him to fight against his passion,
Hero. And truly Ile deuise some honest slanders,
Hero. To staine my cosin with, one doth not know,
Hero. How much an ill word may impoison liking.
Vrsu. O doe not doe your cosin such a wrong,
Vrsu. She cannot be so much without true iudgement,
Vrsu. Hauing so swift and excellent a wit
Vrsu. As she is prisde to haue, as to refuse