Claud.
Not sad, my lord.

D. Pedro.
How then? sick?

Claud.
Neither, my lord.

Beat.
The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well: but
civil, count; civil as an orange, and something of that jealous
complexion.

D. Pedro.
I' faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true; though I'll
be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I
have wooed in thy name, and fair Hero is won; I have broke with
her father, and his good will obtained: name the day of marriage,
and God give thee joy!

Leon.
Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes; his
grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen to it!

Beat.
Speak, Count, 'tis your cue.

Claud.