Our talk must only be of Benedick.
When I do name him, let it be thy part
To praise him more than ever man did merit:
020 My talk to thee must be, how Benedick
Is sick in love with Beatrice. Of this matter
Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made,
That only wounds by hearsay.
[023] Enter Beatrice, behind.
Now begin;
For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs