Escal. Thank you, good Pompey; and in requital of your prophecy, hark you,-I advise you, let me not find you before me again upon any complaint whatsoever, no, not for dwelling where you do; if I do, Pompey, I shall beat you to your tent, and prove a shrewd Cæsar to you; in plain dealing, Pompey, I shall have you whipt: so for this time, Pompey, fare you well. Clo. Ithank your worship for your good counsel; but I shall follow it, as the flesh and fortune shall better determine. Whip me? No, no; let carman whip his jade; The valiant heart's not whipt out of his trade. [Exit. Escal. Come hither to me, master Elbow; come hither, master Constable. How long have you been in this place of constable? Elb. Seven year and a half, Sir. Escal. I thought, by your readiness in the office, you had continued in it some time: You say, seven years together? Elb. And a half, Sir. Escal. Alas! it hath been great pains to you! They do you wrong to put you so oft upon't: Are there not men in your ward sufficient to serve it? Elb. Faith, Sir, few of any wit in such matters: as they are chosen, they are glad to choose me for them; I do it for some piece of money, and go through with all. Escal. Look you, bring me in the names of some six or seven, the most sufficient of your parish. Elb. To your worship's house, Sir? Escal. To my house: Fare you well. [Exit ELBOW.] What's o'clock, think you? Just. Eleven, Sir. Escal. I pray you home to dinner with me. Just. I humbly thank you. Escal. It grieves me for the death of Claudio; But there's no remedy. Just. Lord Angelo is severe. Escal. It is but needful: Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so; Pardon is still the nurse of second woe: But yet,-Poor Claudio!-There's no remedy. Come, Sir. SCENE II-Another Room in the same. Enter PROVOST and a SERVANT. Serv. He's hearing of a cause: he will come straight. I'll tell him of you. Prov. Pray you, do. [Exit SERV.] I'll know His pleasure; may be, he will relent: Alas, He hath but as offended in a dream! All sects, all ages, smack of this vice; and he Enter ANGELO. Ang. Now, what's the matter, provost ? Prov. Is it your will Claudio shall die to-morrow? [Exeunt. Ang. Did I not tell thee, yea? hadst thou not order? Why dost thou ask again? Prov. Lest I might be too rash: Under your good correction, I have seen, When, after execution, judgment hath Ang. Go to; let that be mine: Do you your office, or give up your place, Prov. I crave your honour's pardon. What shall be done, Sir, with the groaning Juliet? Ang. Dispose of her To some more fitting place; and that with speed. Re-enter SERVANT. Serv. Here is the sister of the man condemn'd, Desires access to you. Ang. Hath he a sister? Prov. Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous maid, And to be shortly of a sisterhood, If not already. Ang. Well, let her be admitted. See you, the fornicatress be removed; Let her have needful, but not lavish means; Enter LUCIO and ISABELLA. Prov. Save your honour! [Exit SERV. [Offering to retire. Ang. Stay a little while.-[To ISAB.] You are welcome: What's your will ? Isab. I am a woeful suitor to your honour, Please but your honour hear me. Ang. Well; what's your suit ? Isab. There is a vice, that most I do abhor, And most desire should meet the blow of justice; For which I would not plead, but that I must; For which I must not plead, but that I am At war, 'twixt will, and will not. Ang. Well; the matter? Isab. I have a brother is condemn'd to die: I do beseech you, let it be his fault, And not my brother. Prov. Heaven give thee moving graces! Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it! Why, every fault's condemn'd, ere it be done Mine were the very cipher of a function, To find the faults, whose fine stands in record, And let by the actor. Isab. O just, but severe law! [Retiring. 1 had a brother then.-Heaven keep your honour! Lucio. [To ISAB.] Give't not o'er so: to him again, entreat him; Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown; You are too cold: if you should need a pin, You could not with more tame a tongue desire it: Isab. Must he needs die? Ang. Maiden, no remedy. Isab. Yes; I do think that you might pardon him, And neither heaven, nor man, grieve at the mercy. Ang. I will not do't. Isab. But can you, if you would? Ang. Look, what I will not, that I cannot do. Isab. But might you do't, and do the world no wrong, If so your heart were touch'd with that remorse* As mine is to him? Ang. He's sentenced; 'tis too late. Lucio. You are too cold. [To ISABELLA. Isab. Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a word, Isab. I would to heaven I had your potency, Lucio. Ay, touch him: there's the vein. Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law, And you but waste your words. Isab. Alas! alas! Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once; Ang. Be you content, fair maid; It is the law, not I, condemns your brother: Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, It should be thus with him; he must die to-morrow. [Aside. Isab. To-morrow? O, that's sudden! Spare him, spare him: He's not prepared for death! Even for our kitchens We kill the fowl of season; shall we serve heaven With less respect than we do minister To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you: There's many have committed it. * Pity. d. + Be assured. When in season. Lucio. Ay, well said. Ang. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept: Those many had not dared to do that evil, If the first man that did the edict infringe, Had answer'd for his deed: now, 'tis awake; Takes note of what is done; and, like a prophet, Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils (Either now, or by remissness new-conceived, And so in progress to be hatch'd and born), Are now to have no successive degrees, But, where they live, to end. Isab. Yet show some pity. Ang. I show it most of all, when I show justice; For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall; And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong, Lives not to act another. Be satisfied; Your brother dies to-morrow; be content. Isab. So you must be the first, that gives this sentence; And he, that suffers: O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous Lucio. That's well said. Isab. Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, Would use his heaven for thunder; nothing but thunder.- Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, Splitt'st the unwedgeable and gnarled† oak, Than the soft myrtle:-O, but man, proud man! Drest in a little brief authority; Most ignorant of what he's most assured, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, As make the angels weep; who with our spleens, Lucio. O, to him, to him, wench: he will relent; Prov. Pray heaven, she win him! Isab. We cannot weigh our brother with ourself: Great men may jest with saints: 'tis wit in them; But, in the less, foul profanation. Lucio. Thou'rt in the right, girl; more o' that. Isab. That in the captain's but a choleric word, Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. Lucio. Art advised o' that? more on't. Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me? Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, That skins the vice o' the top: Go to your bosom; Knock there; and ask your heart, what it doth know A natural guiltiness, such as is his, Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue Against my brother's life. Ang. She speaks, and 'tis Such sense, that my sense breeds with it.- -Fare you well. Ang. I will bethink me:-Come again to-morrow. Isab. Hark, how I'll bribe you: Good my lord, turn back. Isab. Ay, with such gifts, that heaven shall share with you. Isab. Not with fond shekels of the tested* gold, Ang. Well: come to me To-morrow. Lucio. Go to; it is well; away. Isab. Heaven keep your honour safe! Ang. Amen: for I Am that way going to temptation, Where prayers cross. Isab. At what hour to-morrow Shall I attend your lordship? Ang. At any time 'fore noon. [Aside to ISABELLA. LAside, Isab. Save your honour! [Exeunt LUCIO, ISAB., and PROV. Ang. From thee; even from thy virtue! What's this? what's this? Is this her fault, or mine? The tempter, or the tempted, who sins most? Ha. Not she; nor doth she tempt: but it is I, That lying by the violet, in the sun, Do, as the carrion does, not as the flower, Than woman's lightness? Having waste ground enough, And pitch our evils there ? O, fie, fie, fie! That make her good? O, let her brother live: When judges steal themselves. What? do I love her, And feast upon her eyes? What is't I dream on? |