MARGARET.
To have no man come over me! why, shall I always keep below stairs?
BENEDICK.
Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound’s mouth; it catches.
MARGARET.
And yours as blunt as the fencer’s foils, which hit, but hurt not.
BENEDICK.
A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt a woman: and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice. I give thee the bucklers.
MARGARET.
Give us the swords, we have bucklers of our own.
BENEDICK.
If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons for maids.
MARGARET.
Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs.
BENEDICK.
And therefore will come.
[Exit Margaret.]
The god of love,
That sits above,
And knows me, and knows me,
How pitiful I deserve,—