Canft thou believe thy living is a Life,
So ftinkingly depending? Go mend, go mend.

Clown. Indeed it does ftink in fome fort, Sir;
But yet, Sir, I would prove

Duke. Nay, if the Devil have given thee Proofs for Sin, Thou wilt prove his. Take him to Prifon, Officer; Correction and Inftruction must both work,

E'er this rude Beaft will profit.

Elb. He must before the Deputy, Sir; he has given him Warning; the Deputy cannot abide a Whore-mafter; if he be a Whoremonger, and comes before him, he were as good go a Mile on his Errand.

Duke. That we were all, as fome would feem to be, Free from all Faults, as Faults from feeming free.

Enter Lucio.

Elb. His Neck will come to your Waste, a Cord, Sir. Clown. I fpy Comfort; I cry Bail: Here's a Gentleman, and a Friend of mine.

Lucio. How now, noble Pompey? What, at the Wheels of Cafar? Art thou led in Triumph? What, is there none of Pigmalion's Images newly made Woman to be had now, for putting the Hand in the Pocket, and extracting clutch'd? What Reply? Ha? What fay'ft thou to this Tune, Matter and Method? Is't not drown'd i'th' laft Rain? Ha? What fay'ft thou, Trot? Is the World as it was, Man? Which is the way? Is it fad, and few Words? Or how? The Trick

of it?

Duke. Still thus, and thus; ftill worse?

Lucio. How doth my dear Morfel? thy Miftrefs? Procures fhe ftill? Ha?

Clown. Troth, Sir, fhe hath eaten up all her Beef, and she is her felf in the Tub.

Lucio. Why, 'tis good; it is the right of it; it must be fo. Ever your fresh Whore, and your powder'd Bawd, an unfhunn'd Confequence, it must be fo. Art going to Prifon, Pompey?

Clown. Yes, Faith, Sir.

Lucio. Why, 'tis not amifs, Pompey: Farewel: Go fay, I fent thee thither; for Debt, Pompey? Or how?

Elb. For being a Bawd, for being a Bawd.

Lucio. Well, then imprison him; if Imprisonment be the due of a Bawd, why, 'tis his right. Bawd is he doubt, lefs, and of Antiquity too; Bawd born. Farewel, good Pompey: Commend me to the Prifon, Pompey; you will turn good Husband now, Pompey; you will keep the House. Clown. 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 encrease our Bondage, if you take it not patiently: Why, your Mettle is the more: Adieu, trufty Pompey,

Blefs you, Friar.
Duke. And you.

1

Lucio. Does Bridget paint ftill, Pompey? Ha?

Elb. Come your ways, Sir, come.

Clown. You will not bail me then, Sir?

Lucio. Then, Pompey, nor now. What News 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 any?

Lucio. Some fay, he is with the Emperor of Ruffia; other fome, he is in Rome; But where is he think you?

Duke. I know not where; but wherefoever, I wish him well.

Lucio. It was a mad fantastical Trick of him, to steal from the State, and ufurp the Beggary he was never born to ; Lord Angelo Dukes it well in his Abfence; he puts Tranfgreffion to't.

Duke. He does well in't.

Lucio. A little more Lenity to Leachery would do no harm in him; fomething too crabbed that way, Friar.

Duke. It is too general a Vice, and Severity must cure it. Lucio. Yes, in good footh, the Vice is of great Kindred; it is well ally'd; but it is impoffible to extirp it quite, Friar, 'till eating and drinking be put down. They fay, this Angelo was not made by Man and Woman, after this downright way of Creation; is it true, think you

Duke. How fhould he be made then?

Lucio. Some report, a Sea-maid fpawn'd him. Some, that he was begot between two Stock-fishes. But it is certain, that when he makes Water, his Urine is congeal'd Ice; that I know to be true; and he is a Motion generative; that's infallible.

Duke. You are pleasant, Sir, and speak apace.

Lucio. Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him, for the Rebellion of a Cod-piece, to take away the Life of a Man? Would the Duke that is abfent have done this? E'er he would have hang'd a Man for the getting a hundred Baftards, he would have paid for the nurfing a thousand. He had fome feeling of the Sport, he knew the Service, and that inftructed him to Mercy.

Duke. I never heard the abfent Duke much detected for Women; he was not inclin'd that way.

Lucio. Oh, Sir, you are deceiv'd.

Duke. 'Tis not poffible.

Lucio. Who, not the Duke? Yes, your Beggar of fifty; and his ufe was, to put a Ducket in her Clack-dish; the Duke had Crotchets in him. He would be drunk too, that let me

inform you.

Duke. You do him wrong furely.

Lucio. Sir, I was an Inward of his; a fhy Fellow was the Duke ; and I believe I know the Caufe of his withdrawing. Duke. What, prithee, might be the Cause?

Lucio. No; Pardon: 'Tis a Secret must be lockt within the Teeth and the Lips; but this I can let you underftand, the greater File of the Subject held the Duke to be wife.

Duke. Wife? Why no queftion but he was.

Lucio. A very fuperficial, ignorant, unweighing Fellow. Duke. Either this is Envy in you, Folly, or Miftaking: The very ftream of his Life, and the Bufinefs he hath helmed, muft upon a warranted need give him a better Proclamation. Let him be but teftimonied in his own bringings forth, and he shall appear to the envious, a Scholar, a Statefman, and a Soldier; therefore you fpeak unskilfully; or if your Knowledge be more, it is much darken'd in your Malice.

Lucio. Sir, I know him, and I love him.

Duke. Love talks with better Knowledge, and Knowledg with dear Love.

Lucio

For thy Complexion shifts to strange Effects,
After the Moon. If thou art rich, thou'rt poor;
For like an Afs, whofe Back with Ingots bows,
Thou bear'ft thy heavy Riches but a Journey,
And Death unloads thee. Friend haft thou none,
For thine own Bowels which do call thee Sire,
The meer Effufion of thy proper Loins,
Do curfe the Gout, Serpigo, and the Rheum,

For ending thee no fooner. Thou haft not Youth, nor Age;
But, as it were, an after-dinner's Sleep,

Dreaming on both; for all thy bleffed Youth

Becomes as aged, and doth beg the Alms

Of palfied-Eld; and when thou art old, and rich,
Thou haft neither Heat, Affection, Limb, nor Beauty
To make thy Riches pleafant. What's yet in this
That bears the Name of Life? Yet in this Life
Lye hid more thousand Deaths; yet Death we fear,
That makes these odds all even.

Claud. I humbly thank you.

To fue to live, I find I feek to die,

And feeking Death, find Life: Let it come on.

Enter Ifabella.

Ifab. What hoa? Peace here; Grace and good Com pany.

Prov. Who's there? Come in: The Wish deserves Welcome.

Duke. Dear Sir, e'er long I'll vifit you again."
Cland. Moft holy Sir, I thank you.

Ifab. My business is a Word or two with Claudio
Prov. And very welcome. Look Signior, here's
Sifter.

Duke. Provost, a Word with you.

Prov. As many as you please.

your

Duke. Bring them to fpeak where I may be conceal'd, yet hear them.

[Exeunt Duke and Provoft.

Claud. Now, Sifter, what's the Comfort?
Ifab. Why,

As all Comforts are; moft good, moft good indeed:
Lord Angelo having Affairs to Heav'n,
Intends you for his fwift Ambassador;
Where you fhall be an everlafting Leiger.

Therefore

Therefore your best Appointment make with speed,

To Morrow you fet on.

Cland. Is there no Remedy?

Ijab. None but fuch Remedy, as to fave a Head To cleave a Heart in twain.

Cland. But is there any?

Ifab. 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!

Ifab. Ay juft, perpetual Durance, a Reftraint
Through all the World's Vaftidity you had
To a determin'd Scope.

Cland. But in what Nature?

Ifab. In fuch a one, as you confenting to't, Would bark your Honour from that Trunk you bear, And leave you naked.

Claud. Let me know the Point.

Ifab. Oh, I do fear thee, Claudio, and I quake,
Left thou a fev'rous Life fhouldft entertain,
And fix or feven Winters more respect

Than a perpetual Honour. Dar'ft thou die?
The Senfe of Death is moft in Apprehenfion,
And the poor Beetle that we tread upon,
In corporal Sufferance, finds a Pang as great
As when a Giant dies.

Claud. Why give you me this Shame ?
Think you I can a Refolution fetch
From flow'ry Tenderness? If I must die,

I will encounter Darkness as a Bride,

And hug it in mine Arms.

Ifab. There fpake my Brother; there my Father's Grave

Did utter forth a Voice.

Yes, thou must die:

Thou art too noble to conferve a Life

In bafe Appliances. This outward fainted Deputy,
Whofe fettled Vifage and deliberate Word

Nips Youth i'th' Head, and Follies doth emmew,
As Faulcon doth the Fowl, is yet a Devil;
His Filth within being caft, he would appear
A Pond as deep as Hell.

Q3

Cland.