Beatrice is sick and Margaret suggests the plant “carduus benedictus” to remedy her illness before Hero’s wedding.
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Hero: Good morrow, coz.
Beatrice: Good morrow, sweet Hero.
Hero: Why, how now? Do you speak in the sick tune?
Beatrice: 'Tis almost 5 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.
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.
Beatrice: Benedictus?
Why benedictus? You have some moral in this benedictus?
Margaret: Moral! No, by my troth, I have no moral meaning.
You may think perchance that I think that 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.
