BENEDICK.
Troth, no; no more than reason.
BEATRICE.
Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula,
Are much deceiv’d; for they did swear you did.
BENEDICK.
They swore that you were almost sick for me.
BEATRICE.
They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.
BENEDICK.
’Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?
BEATRICE.
No, truly, but in friendly recompense.
LEONATO.
Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.
CLAUDIO.
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.
HERO.
And here’s another,
Writ in my cousin’s hand, stolen from her pocket,
Containing her affection unto Benedick.
BENEDICK.
A miracle! here’s our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity.