BEATRICE.
Good morrow, sweet Hero.
HERO.
Why, how now? do you speak in the sick tune?
BEATRICE.
I am out of all other tune, methinks.
MARGARET.
Clap’s into ‘Light o’ love’; that goes without a burden: do you sing it, and I’ll dance it.
BEATRICE.
Ye, light o’ love with your heels! then, if your husband have stables enough, you’ll see he shall lack no barnes.
MARGARET.
O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.
BEATRICE.
’Tis almost five o’clock, cousin; ’tis time you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill. Heigh-ho!
MARGARET.
For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?
BEATRICE.
For the letter that begins them all, H.
MARGARET.
Well, and you be not turned Turk, there’s no more sailing by the star.