[080] Bene. They swore that you were almost sick for me.
[081] Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.
[082] Bene. ’Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?
Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense.
Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.
085 Claud. 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.