Urs.
You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were the very
man. Here's his dry hand up and down; you are he, you are he.

Ant.
At a word, I am not.

Urs.
Come, come; do you think I do not know you by your excellent
wit? Can virtue hide itself? Go to, mum, you are he: graces
will appear, and there's an end.

Beat.
Will you not tell me who told you so?

Bene.
No, you shall pardon me.

Beat.
Nor will you not tell me who you are?

Bene.
Not now.

Beat.
That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit out of the
'Hundred merry Tales;'--Well, this was signior Benedick that said
so.