ver.

The character of Hero is well contrasted with that of Beatrice, and
their mutual attachment is very beautiful and natural. When they are
both on the scene together, Hero has but little to say for herself:
Beatrice asserts the rule of a master spirit, eclipses her by her mental
superiority, abashes her by her raillery, dictates to her, answers for
her, and would fain inspire her gentle-hearted cousin with some of her
own assurance.

Yes, faith; it is my cousin's duty to make a curtsey, and
say, "Father, as it please you;" but yet, for all that,
cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another
curtsey, and, "Father, as it please me."

But Shakspeare knew well how to make one character subordinate to
another, without sacrificing the slightest portion of its effect; and
Hero, added to her grace and softness, and all the interest which
attaches to her as the sentimental heroine of the play, possesses an
intellectual beauty of her own. When she has Beatrice at an advantage,
she repays her with interest, in the severe, but most animated and
elegant picture she draws of her cousin's imperious character and
unbridled levity of tongue. The portrait is a little overcharged,
because administered as a corrective, and intended to be overheard.

But nature never fram'd a woman's heart
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice:
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising what they look on; and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak; she cannot love,
Nor take no shape nor project of affection,
She is so self-endeared.

URSULA.

Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.

HERO.

No: not to be so odd, and from all fashions,
As Beatrice is cannot be commendable:
But who dare tell her so? If I should speak,
She'd mock me into air: O she would laugh me
Out of myself, press me to death with wit.
Therefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire,
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly:
It were a better death than die with mocks,
Which is as bad as die with tickling.

Beatrice never appears to greater advantage than in her soliloquy after
leaving her concealment "in the pleached bower where honeysuckles,
ripened by the sun, forbid the sun to enter;" she exclaims, after
listening to this tirade against herself,--

What fire is in mine