If halfe thy outward graces had beene placed
About thy thoughts and counsailes of thy heart?
But fare thee well, most foule, most faire, farewell
Thou pure impiety, and impious puritie,
For thee Ile locke vp all the gates of Loue,
And on my eie-lids shall Coniecture hang,
To turne all beauty into thoughts of harme,
And neuer shall it more be gracious

Leon. Hath no mans dagger here a point for me?
Beat. Why how now cosin, wherfore sink you down?
Bast. Come, let vs go: these things come thus to light,
Smother her spirits vp

Bene. How doth the Lady?
Beat. Dead I thinke, helpe vncle,
Hero, why Hero, Vncle, Signor Benedicke, Frier

Leonato. O Fate! take not away thy heauy hand,
Death is the fairest couer for her shame
That may be wisht for

Beatr. How now cosin Hero?
Fri. Haue comfort Ladie

Leon. Dost thou looke vp?
Frier. Yea, wherefore should she not?
Leon. Wherfore? Why doth not euery earthly thing
Cry shame vpon her? Could she heere denie
The storie that is printed in her blood?