How many lines does claudio have

Though she means to slight Benedick, calling him a disease reveals that she finds him difficult to shake, and has yet to be cured of this contagion. As she does many times throughout the play, Beatrice declares loud and clear that she has no interest in love.

Her tendency to decry love to anyone who will listen suggests that she is trying to convince herself most of all. Though her denial is humorous, we can see why the ruse is so important to her. Beatrice defines herself by her independence, so the idea of giving oneself over to another would feel like a defeat to her.

When the maid Margaret teases Beatrice that only the herb carduus benedictus will cure what ails her, Beatrice becomes defensive, asking what Margaret means by the joke though she likely knows very well. Here, Hero describes Beatrice as armored by her caustic wit, so much so that nothing can get out or in.

Though Beatrice views this impenetrability as a strength, and sees herself as a cut above most, Hero all but pities her. She is intelligent enough to smell deception, righteous enough to speak up, and caring enough to go out on a limb for her fellow woman. You might also like. Dates and sources. Find out more. Read More.

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Please either update your browser to the newest version, or choose an alternative browser — visit here or here for help. Art thou sick, or angry? What, courage, man! What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, and you charge it against me. I pray you choose another subject. Nay, then, give him another staff: this last was broke cross.

By this light, he changes more and more: I think he be angry indeed. Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me hear from you. I' faith, I thank him; he hath bid me to a calf's head and a capon; the which if I do not carve most curiously, say my knife's naught. Shall I not find a woodcock too? I'll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the other day. I said, thou hadst a fine wit: 'True,' said she, 'a fine little one.

For the which she wept heartily and said she cared not. Yea, that she did: but yet, for all that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly: the old man's daughter told us all. All, all; and, moreover, God saw him when he was hid in the garden. But when shall we set the savage bull's horns on the sensible Benedick's head? Yea, and text underneath, 'Here dwells Benedick the married man'? In most profound earnest; and, I'll warrant you, for the love of Beatrice.

What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit! He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an ape a doctor to such a man. How now? Borachio one! First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I ask thee what's their offence; sixth and lastly, why they are committed; and, to conclude, what you lay to their charge. Rightly reasoned, and in his own division: and, by my troth, there's one meaning well suited.

Runs not this speech like iron through your blood? He is composed and framed of treachery: And fled he is upon this villany. Sweet Hero! No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself: Here stand a pair of honourable men; A third is fled, that had a hand in it. I thank you, princes, for my daughter's death: Record it with your high and worthy deeds: 'Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.

I know not how to pray your patience; Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself; Impose me to what penance your invention Can lay upon my sin: yet sinn'd I not But in mistaking. I cannot bid you bid my daughter live; That were impossible: but, I pray you both, Possess the people in Messina here How innocent she died; and if your love Can labour ought in sad invention, Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb And sing it to her bones, sing it to-night: To-morrow morning come you to my house, And since you could not be my son-in-law, Be yet my nephew: my brother hath a daughter, Almost the copy of my child that's dead, And she alone is heir to both of us: Give her the right you should have given her cousin, And so dies my revenge.

O noble sir, Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me! I do embrace your offer; and dispose For henceforth of poor Claudio. So the life that died with shame Lives in death with glorious fame.

Hang thou there upon the tomb, Praising her when I am dumb. Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn. Pardon, goddess of the night, Those that slew thy virgin knight; For the which, with songs of woe, Round about her tomb they go.

Midnight, assist our moan; Help us to sigh and groan, Heavily, heavily: Graves, yawn and yield your dead, Till death be uttered, Heavily, heavily. Now, unto thy bones good night! Yearly will I do this rite. Good morrow, masters; put your torches out: The wolves have prey'd; and look, the gentle day, Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey.

Thanks to you all, and leave us: fare you well. Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds; And then to Leonato's we will go. And Hymen now with luckier issue speed's Than this for whom we render'd up this woe.

Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Claudio: We here attend you. Are you yet determined To-day to marry with my brother's daughter? Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness? I think he thinks upon the savage bull. Tush, fear not, man; we'll tip thy horns with gold And all Europa shall rejoice at thee, As once Europa did at lusty Jove, When he would play the noble beast in love.

Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low; And some such strange bull leap'd your father's cow, And got a calf in that same noble feat Much like to you, for you have just his bleat. For this I owe you: here comes other reckonings. No, that you shall not, till you take her hand Before this friar and swear to marry her. Give me your hand: before this holy friar, I am your husband, if you like of me. And when I lived, I was your other wife: [Unmasking] And when you loved, you were my other husband.

Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman. And I'll be sworn upon't that he loves her; For here's a paper written in his hand, A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, Fashion'd to Beatrice. I'll tell thee what, prince; a college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No: if a man will be beaten with brains, a' shall wear nothing handsome about him.

In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.

For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee, but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruised and love my cousin. I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double-dealer; which, out of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look exceedingly narrowly to thee.

Return to the "Much Ado about Nothing" menu. All texts are in the public domain and be used freely for any purpose. Privacy policy. Act, Scene, Line Click to see in context. Speech text. I noted her not; but I looked on her.

Is she not a modest young lady? No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment. Can the world buy such a jewel? If this were so, so were it uttered. You speak this to fetch me in, my lord. By my troth, I speak my thought. And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine. That I love her, I feel. I have almost matter enough in me for such an embassage; and so I commit you— Claudio. My liege, your highness now may do me good.

Hath Leonato any son, my lord? Are not you Signior Benedick? You know me well; I am he. How know you he loves her? Count Claudio? Yea, the same. Come, will you go with me? I wish him joy of her. I pray you, leave me. If it will not be, I'll leave you. Not sad, my lord. How then? Neither, my lord. Speak, count, 'tis your cue. And so she doth, cousin. And I, my lord. Come, shall we hear this music? May be she doth but counterfeit.

Faith, like enough. Why, what effects of passion shows she? Bait the hook well; this fish will bite. She did, indeed. He hath ta'en the infection: hold it up. And she is exceeding wise. Were it good, think you? He is a very proper man.