As that the sin hath brought you to this shame,-In Which sorrow is always toward ourselves, not heaven;

Showing, we'd not spare heaven as we love it,
But as we stand in fear,-

Juliet. I do repent me, as it is an evil;
And take the shame with joy.
Duke.

Could fetch your brother from the manacles
Of the all-binding law; and that there were
No earthly mean to save him, but that either
You must lay down the treasures of your body
To this supposed, or else to let him suffer;
What would you do?

leah. As much for my poor brother, as myself;
That is, Were I under the terms of death,
The impression of keen whips I'd wear as rubies,
And strip myself to death, as to a bed
That longing I have been sick for, ere I'd yield
My body up to shame.

Ang.

Then must your brother die.
Isab. And 'twere the cheaper way:
Better it were, a brother died at once,
Than that a sister, by redeeming him,
Should die for ever.

Ang. Were not you then as cruel as the sentence
That you have slander'd so?

Iaab. Ignomy in ransom, and free pardon,
Are of two houses: lawful mercy is
Nothing akin to foul redemption.

Ang. You seem'd of late to make the law a
tyrant;

And rather prov'd the sliding of your brother
A merriment than a vice.

Isab. O pardon me, my lord; it oft falls out,
To have what we'd have, we speak not what we

mean:

I something do excuse the thing I hate,
For his advantage that I dearly love.
Ang. We are all frail.
Isab.

By yielding up thy body to my will;
Or else he must not only die the death,
But thy unkindness shall his death draw out
To lingering sufferance: answer me to-morrow,
Or, by the affection that now guides me most,
I'll prove a tyrant to him: As for you,
Say what you can, my false o'erweighs your true.
[Exit.
Isab. To whom shall I complain? Did I tell this,
Who would believe me? O perilous mouths,
That bear in them one and the selfsame tongue,
Either of condemnation or approof!
Bidding the law make court'sy to their will;
Hooking both right and wrong to the appetite,
To follow as it draws! I'll to my brother:
Though he hath fallen by prompture of the blood,
Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour,
That had he twenty heads to tender down
On twenty bloody blocks, he'd yield them up,
Before his sister should her body stoop
To such abhorr'd pollution.
Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die:
More than our brother is our chastity.
I'll tell him yet of Angelo's request,

And fit his mind to death, for his soul's rest.

ACT III.

[Exit.

SCENE 1. A Room in the Prison.
Enter Duke, Claudio, and Provost.

Else let my brother die, Duke. So, then you hope of pardon from lord
Angelo ?

If not a feodary, but only he,
Owe, and succeed by weakness.
Ang.

Nay, women are frail too. Isab. Ay, as the glasses where they view them-I selves;

Which are as easy broke as they make forms.
Women!-Help, heaven! men their creation mar
In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail;
For we are soft as our complexions are,
And credulous to false prints.

Ang.

I think it well:
And from this testimony of your own sex,
(Since, I suppose, we are made to be no stronger
Than faults may shake our frames) let me be
bold;-

I do arrest your words: Be that you are,
That is, a woman; if you be more, you're none;
If you be one (as you are well express'd
By all external warrants,) show it now,
By putting on the destin'd livery.

Isab. I have no tongue, but one: gentle my lord,
Let me entreat you speak the former language.
Ang. Plainly conceive, I love you.
Isab. My brother did love Juliet; and you tell

me,

That he shall die for it.

Ang. He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love.
Isab. I know, your virtue hath a license in't,
Which seems a little fouler than it is,
To pluck on others.
Ang.

Believe me, on mine honour,
My words express my purpose.
Isab. Ha! little honour to be much believed,
And most pernicious purpose!-seeming, seem-
ing!-

I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for't:
Sign me a present pardon for my brother,
Or, with an outstretch'd throat, I'll tell the world
Aloud, what man thou art.

Arg.
Who will believe thee, Isabel?
My unsoil'd name, the austereness of my life,
My vouch against you, and my place i' the state,
Will so your accusation overweigh,
That you shall stifle in your own report,
And smell of calumny. I have begun;
And now I give my sensual race the rein:
Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite;
Lay by all nicety, and prolixious blushes,
That banish what they sue for; redeem thy brother

Claud. The miserable have no other medicine, But only hope:

have hope to live, and am prepar'd to die. Duke. Be absolute for death: either death or life,

Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with
life,-

If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would keep: a breath thou
art,

(Servile to all the skiey influences,)
That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st,
Hourly afflict: merely, thou art death's fool:
For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun,
And yet runn'st toward him still: Thou art not
noble;

For all the accommodations that thou bear'st,
Are nurs'd by baseness: Thou art by no means
valiant;

For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
Of a poor worm: Thy best of rest is sleep,
And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thy-

self;

For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains
That issue out of dust: Happy thou art not;
For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get;
And what thou hast, forget'st: Thou art not

certain;

For thy complexion shifts to strange affects,
After the moon: If thou art rich, thou art poor;
For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death unloads thee: Friend hast thou none:
For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire,
The mere effusion of thy proper loins,
Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,
For ending thee no sooner: Thou hast nor
youth, nor age;

But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep,
Dreaming on both: for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms

Of palsied eld; and when thou art old, and rich,
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor

beauty,

To make thy riches pleasant.
That bears the name of life?
Lie hid more thousand deaths;

What's yet in this Yet in this life yet death we fear,

That makes these odds all even.
Claud.
I humbly thank you.
To sue to live, I find, I seek to die:
And seeking death, find life: Let it come on.
Enter Isabella.

Isab. What, ho! Peace here; grace and good
company!

Prov. Who's there? come in; the wish de-
serves a welcome.

Duke. Dear sir, ere long I'll visit you again.
Claud. Most holy sir, I thank you.

Isab. My business is a word or two with
Claudio.

Prov. And very welcome. Look, signior,
here's your sister.

Prov.

Duke. Provost, a word with you.
As many as you please.
Duke. Bring me to hear them speak, where I
may be conceal'd,
Yet hear them. [Exeunt Duke and Provost.
Claud. Now, sister, what's the comfort?
Isab. Why, as all comforts are, most good
indeed:

Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven,
Intends you for his swift ambassador,
Where you shall be an everlasting leiger:
Therefore your best appointment make with
speed;

To-morrow you set on.
Claud.
Is there no remedy ?
Isab. None but such remedy, as to save a
head,

To cleave a heart in twain.
Claud.

But is there any?
Isab. Yes, brother, you may live;
There is a devilish mercy in the judge,
If you'll implore it, that will free your life,
But fetter you till death.
Claud.

Perpetual durance?
Isab. Ay, just, perpetual durance; a restraint,
Though all the world's vastidity you had,
To a determined scope.

Claud.

But in what nature?
Isab. In such a one as (you consenting to't)
Would bark your honour from that trunk you
bear,
And leave you naked.

Claud.

Let me know the point.
Isab. O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake,
Lest thou a feverous life should'st entertain,
And six or seven winters more respect
Than a perpetual honour. Dar'st thou die?
The sense of death is most in apprehension;
And the poor beetle that we tread upon,

In corporal suflerance finds a pang as great
As when a giant dies.
Claud.

Claud. Yes. Has he affections in him,
That thus can make him bite the law by the nose,
When he would force it ? Sure it is no sin;
Or of the deadly seven it is the least.
Isab. Which is the least?

Claud. If it were damnable, he being so wise
Why, would be for the momentary trick,
Be perdurably fin'd 3-0 Isabel!
Isab. What says my brother?
Claud.

Death is a fearful thing.
Isab. And shamed life a hateful.
Ciaud. Ay, but to die, and go we know not
where;

To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot:
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendent world; or to be worse than worst
Of those, that lawless and uncertain thoughts
Imagine howling!-'tis too horrible!

The weariest and most loathed worldly life,
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To what we fear of death.
Isab. Alas! alas!
Claud.

Sweet sister, let me live:
What sin you do to save a brother's life,
Nature dispenses with the deed so far,
That it becomes a virtue.
Isab.

O, you beast!
O, faithless coward! O, dishonest wretch!
Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice?
Is't not a kind of incest, to take life
From thine own sister's shame? What should
I think ?

Heaven shield, my mother play'd my father fair?
For such a warped slip of wilderness

Ne'er issued from his blood. Take my defiance:
Die; perish! might but my bending down
Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed:
I'll pray a thousand prayers for thy death,
No word to save thee.

Claud. Nay, hear me, Isabel.
Isab.

O, fie, fie, fie!

Why give you me this shame ? Thy sin's not accidental, but a trade:
Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd:
'Tis best that thou diest quickly.
Claud

Think you I can a resolution fetch
From flowery tenderness? If I must die,
I will encounter darkness as a bride,
And hug it in mine arms.

Isab. There spake my brother; there my fa

ther's grave

Did utter forth a voice! Yes, thou must die:
Thou art too noble to conserve a life
In base appliances. This outward sainted de-
puty,

Whose settled visage and deliberate word
Nips youth i' the head, and follies doth enmew,
As falcon doth the fowl,-is yet a devil;
His filth within being cast, he would appear
A pond as deep as hell.
Claud.

The princely Angelo?
Isab. O, 'tis the cunning livery of hell,
The damned'st body to invest and cover
In princely guards! Dost thou think, Claudio,
If I would yield him my virginity,
Thou might'st be freed ?
Claud.
O, heavens! it cannot be.
Isab. Yes, he would give it thee, from this
rank offence,

[Going. O hear me, Isabella. Re-enter Duke.

Duke. Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one word.

Isab. What is your will?

Duke. Might you dispense with your leisure, 1 would by and by have some speech with you: the satisfaction I would require, is likewise your own benefit.

Isab. I have no superfinous leisure; my stay must be stolen out of other affairs; but I will attend you awhile.

Duke. [To Claudio, aside.] Son, I have overheard what hath past between you and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; only he hath made an essay of her virtue, to practise his judgment with the disposition of natures: she having the truth of honour in her, hath made him that gracious denial which he is most glad to receive: I am confessor to Angelo, and I know this to be true; therefore prepare yourself to death: Do not satisfy your

resolution with hopes that are fallible: to-mor-the continuance of her first affection; his unjust row you must die; go to your knees, and make unkindness, that in all reason should have ready. quenched her love, hath, like an impediment in the current, made it more violent and unruly. Go you to Ángelo: answer his requiring with a plausible obedience; agree with his demands to the point: only refer yourself to this advantage, -first, that your stay with him may not be long; that the time may have all shadow and silence in it; and the place answer to convenience: this being granted in course, now follows all. We shall advise this wronged maid to stead up your appointment, go in your place; if the encounter acknowledge itself hereafter, it may compel him to her recompense: and here, by Prov. In good time. [Exit Provost. this, is your brother saved, your honour unDuke. The hand that hath made you fair, hath tainted, the poor Mariana advantaged, and the made you good: the goodness, that is cheap in corrupt deputy scaled. The maid will I frame, beauty, makes beauty brief in goodness; but and make fit for his attempt. If you think well grace, being the soul of your complexion, should to carry this as you may, the doubleness of the keep the body of it ever fair. The assault that benefit defends the deceit from reproof. What Angelo hath made to you, fortune hath convey'd think you of it? to my understanding; and, but that frailty hath examples for his falling, I should wonder at Angelo. How would you do to content this substitute, and to save your brother?

Isab. Let me hear you speak further; I have spirit to do any thing that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit.

Duke. Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. Have you not heard speak of Mariana the sister of Frederick, the great soldier, who miscarried at sea 7

Isab. I have heard of the lady, and good words went with her name.

Duke. Her should this Angelo have married: was affianced to her by oath, and the nuptial appointed: between which time of the contract, and limit of the solemnity, her brother Frede rick was wrecked at sea, having in that perish'd vessel the dowry of his sister. But mark, how heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman: there she lost a noble and renowned brother, in his love toward her ever most kind and natural; with him the portion and sinew of her fortune, her marriage dowry; with both, her combinate husband, this well-seeming Angelo.

Isab. Can this be so ? Did Angelo so leave her ? Duke. Left her in tears, and dry'd not one of them with his comfort; swallowed his vows whole, pretending, in her, discoveries of dishonour; in few, bestowed her on her own lamentation, which she yet wears for his sake; and he, a marble to her tears, is washed with them, but relents not

Isab. What a merit were it in death, to take this poor maid from the world! What corruption in this life, that it will let this man live But how out of this can she avail?

Duke. It is a rupture that you may easily heal:
and the cure of it not only saves your brother,
but keeps you from dishonour in doing it.
Isab. Show me how, good father.
Duke. This forenamed maid hath yet in her

Enter Lucio.

Elb. His neck will come to your waist, a cord,

sir.

Clo. I spy comfort; I cry, bail: Here's a gentleman, and a friend of mine.

Duke. You are pleasant, sir; pace Lucio. Why, what a ruthles is this in him, for the rebellion of a cepiece, to take away the life of a man? Would the duke, that is absent, have done this? Ere he would have Lucio. How now, noble Pompey? What, at hang'd a man for the getting a hundred bastards, the heels of Cæsar? Art thou led in triumph ? he would have paid for the nursing of a thouWhat, is there none of Pygmalion's images, sand: He had some feeling of the sport; he newly made woman, to be had now, for putting knew the service, and that instructed him to the hand in the pocket and extracting it clutch'd? Duke. I never heard the absent duke much What reply? Ha? What say 'st thou to this tune, detected for women; he was not inclined that matter, and method? Is't not drown'd i' the last rain? Ha? What say'st thou, trot? Is the world as it was, man? Which is the way? Is it sad, and few words? Or how? The trick of it? Duke. Still thus, and thus! still worse! Lucio. How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress? Procures she still? Ha?

Clo. Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, and she is herself in the tub.

Lucio. Why, 'tis good; it is the right of it; it, inust be so: Ever your fresh whore, and your powder'd bawd: an unshunn'd consequence; it must be so: Art going to prison, Pompey ? Clo. Yes, 'faith, sir.

Lucio. Why, 'tis not amiss, Pompey: Farewell: Go; say, I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey? Or how?

mercy.

way.

Lucio. O, sir, you are deceived.
Duke. 'Tis not possible.

Lucio. Who? not the duke? yes, your begga of fifty-and his use was, to put a ducat in he clack-dish: the duke had crotchets in nim: H would be drunk too; that let me inform you Duke. You do him wrong, surely.

Lucio. Sir, I was an inward of his: A shy fellow was the duke: and I believe, I know the cause of his withdrawing.

Duke. What, I pr'ythee, might be the cause? Lucio. No,-pardon-tis a secret must be lock'd within the teeth and the fips: but this I subject held the duke to be wise. can let you understand,-The greater file of the

Duke. Wise? why, no question but he was. Elb. For being a bawd, for being a bawd. Lucio. A very superficial, ignorant, unweighLucio. Well, thep, imprison him: If imprisoning fellow. ment be the due of a bawd, why, 'tis his right: Duke. Either this is envy in you, folly, or Bawd is he, doubtless, and of antiquity too; mistaking; the very stream of his life, and the bawd-born. Farewell, good Pompey: Commend me to the prison, Pompey; You will business he hath helmed, must, upon a warturn good husband now, Pompey; you will ranted, need give him a better proclamation. Let him be but testimonied in his own bringkeep the house. ings forth, and he shall appear to the envious, a scholar, a statesman, and a soldier: Therefore, you speak unskilfully; or, if your knowledge be more, it is much darkened in your malice. Lucio. Sir, I know him, and I love him. Duke. Love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge with dearer love.

Clo. I hope, sir, your good worship will be

my bail.

Lucio. No, indeed, will I not, Pompey; it is not the wear. I will pray, Pompey, to increase your bondage: if you take it not patiently, why your mettle is the more: Adieu, trusty Pompey -Bless you, friar.

Duke. And you.

Lucio. Come, sir, I know what I know.

Lucio. Does Bridget paint still, Pompey ? Ha?, Duke. I can hardly believe that, since you

Elb. Come your ways, sir; come.

Clo. You will not bail me then, sir?

know not what you speak. But, if ever the duke return (as our prayers are he may,) let

Lucio. Then, Pompey ? nor now.-What news me desire you to make your answer before

abroad, friar? What news?

Elb. Come your ways, sir; come.
Lucio. Go,-to kennel, Pompey, go:

[Exeunt Elbow, Clown, and Officers.

What news, friar, of the duke?
"Duke. I know none: Can you tell me of any
Lucio. Some say, he is with the emperor of
Russia; other some, he is in Rome: But where
is he, think you?

Duke. I know not where: But wheresoever, I wish him well.

Lucio. It was a mad fantastical trick of him, to steal from the state, and usurp the beggary he was never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it well in his absence; he puts transgression to't.

Duke. He does well in't.

Lucio. A little more lenity to lechery would do no harm in him: something too crabbed that way, friar.

Duke. It is too general a vice, and severity

must cure it.

him: If it be honest you have spoke, you have courage to maintain it: I am bound to call upon you; and, I pray you, your name? Lucio. Sir, my name is Lucio: well known

to the duke.

Duke. He shall know you better, sir, if I may live to report you.

Lucio. I fear you not.

Duke. O, you hope the duke will return no more; or you imagine me too unhurtful an op posite. But, indeed, I can do you little harm; you'll forswear this again.

Lucio. I'll be hang'd first: thon art deceived in me, friar. But no more of this: Canst thou tell if Claudio die to-morrow, or no? Duke. Why should he die, sir? Lucio. Why? for filling a bottle with a tun dish. I would, the duke, we talk of, were return'd again: this ungenitur'd agent will unpeople the province with continency; sparrows must net build in his house-eaves, because they Lucio. Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a are lecherous. The duke yet would have dark great kindred; it is well ally'd: but it is impos-deeds darkly answered; he would never bring sible to extirpate it quite, friar, till eating and them to light: 'would, he were return'd! Marry, drinking be put down. They say, this Angelo was this Claudio is condemn'd for untrussing. Fare not made by man and woman, after the down- well, good friar; I pr'ythee, pray for me. The duke, I say to thee again, would eat mutton on right way of creation: Is it true, think you? Fridays. He's now past it; yet, and I say to Duke. How should he be made then? Lucio. Some report a sea-maid spawn'd him: thee, he would mouth with a beggar, though -Some that he was begot between two stock-she smelt brown bread and garlick: say, that I fishes:-But it is certain, that when he makes said so. Farewell. Duke. No might nor greatness in mortality water his urine is congeal'd ice; that I know to be true: and he is a motion ungenerative, Can censure 'scape; back-wounding calumny The whitest virtue strikes: What king so strong that's infallible.

Exit.