D. John. Come, let us go. These things, come thus to 110 light,
[111] Smother her spirits up. [Exeunt Don Pedro, Don John, and Claudio.
[112] Bene. How doth the lady?
Beat.
Dead, I think. Help, uncle!
Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar!
Leon. O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand.
115 Death is the fairest cover for her shame
That may be wish’d for.
Beat.