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Printed for J.Bell British Library, Strand ,London ;Nov! 164784.


Printed for J.Deli, British Library, Strand, London;Nov! 169764.

Claud. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been If half thy outward graces had been plac'd About the thoughts and counsels of thy heart! But, fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewel, “ Thou pure impiety, and impious purity!" For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love,

110 And on my eye-lids shall conjecture hang, To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm, And never shall it more be gracious.

Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me? Beat. Why, how now, cousin, wherefore sink you down ?

[Hero swoons. John. Come, let us go : these things, come thus to

light, Smother her spirits up.

[Exeunt Don Pedro, Don JOHN, and CLAUDIQ. 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 !
Death is the fairest cover for her shame,
That may be wish'd for.

Beat. How now, cousin Hero ?
Friar. Have comfort, lady.
Leon. Dost thou look up?
Friar. Yea; Wherefore should she not?
Leon. Wherefore? Why, doth not every earthly

Cry shanie upon her ? Could she here deny


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