HERO: Good morrow, coz.
BEATRICE: Good morrow, sweet Hero.
HERO: Why how now? do you speak in the sick tune?
BEATRICE: I am out of all other tune, methinks.
MARGARET: Clap's into 'Light o' love;' that goes without a 
burden: do you sing it, and I'll dance it.
BEATRICE: Ye light o' love, with your heels! then, if your
husband have stables enough, you'll see he shall
lack no barns.
MARGARET: O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels. 
BEATRICE: 'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; tis time you were
ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill: heigh-ho!
MARGARET: For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?
BEATRICE: For the letter that begins them all, H.
MARGARET: Well, and you be not turned Turk, there's no more 
sailing by the star.
BEATRICE: What means the fool, trow?
MARGARET: Nothing I; but God send every one their heart's desire!
HERO: These gloves the count sent me; they are an
excellent perfume. 
BEATRICE: I am stuffed, cousin; I cannot smell.
MARGARET: A maid, and stuffed! there's goodly catching of cold.
BEATRICE: O, God help me! God help me! how long have you
MARGARET: Even since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely? 
BEATRICE: It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your
cap. By my troth, I am sick.
MARGARET: Get you some of this distilled Carduus Benedictus,
and lay it to your heart: it is the only thing for a qualm.
HERO: There thou prickest her with a thistle. 
BEATRICE: Benedictus! why Benedictus? you have some moral in
MARGARET: Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I
meant, plain holy-thistle. You may think perchance
that I think you are in love: nay, by'r lady, I am 
not such a fool to think what I list, nor I list
not to think what I can, nor indeed I cannot think,
if I would think my heart out of thinking, that you
are in love or that you will be in love or that you
can be in love. Yet Benedick was such another, and 
now is he become a man: he swore he would never
marry, and yet now, in despite of his heart, he eats
his meat without grudging: and how you may be
converted I know not, but methinks you look with
your eyes as other women do. 
BEATRICE: What pace is this that thy tongue keeps?
MARGARET: Not a false gallop.
URSULA: Madam, withdraw: the prince, the count, Signior
Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the
town, are come to fetch you to church. 
HERO: Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula.