BEATRICE.
Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you down?
DON JOHN.
Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light,
Smother her spirits up.
[Exeunt Don Pedro, Don John and Claudio.]
BENEDICK.
How doth the lady?
BEATRICE.
Dead, I think! Help, uncle! Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar!
LEONATO.
O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand:
Death is the fairest cover for her shame
That may be wish’d for.
BEATRICE.
How now, cousin Hero?
FRIAR.
Have comfort, lady.
LEONATO.
Dost thou look up?
FRIAR.
Yea; wherefore should she not?