Ang. Nay, but hear me:

Your sense pursues not mine: either you are ig

norant,

Or seem so, craftily; and that's not good.

Isab. Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good, But graciously to know I am no better.

Ang. Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright, When it doth tax itself: at these black masks Proclaim an enshield beauty ten times louder Than beauty could displayed. But mark me; To be received plain, I'll speak more gross : Your brother is to die.

Isab. So.

Ang. And his offence is so, as it appears Accountant to the law upon that pain. Isab. True.

Ang. Admit no other way to save his life, (As I subscribe not that, nor any other, But in the loss of question,) that you, his sister, Finding yourself desir'd of such a person, Whose credit with the judge, or own great place, 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 let him suffer;

What would you do?

Isab. 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?

Isab. 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. Else let my brother die,

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. selves;

Women!

Which are as easy broke as they make forms. 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,)

bold;

led me be

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 intreat 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 licence 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 believ'd, And most pernicious purpose!

ing!

Seeming, seem

I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look fort:

Sign me a present pardon for my brother,

Or, with an out-stretch'd throat, I'll tell the world Aloud, what man thou art.

Ang. Who will believe thee, Isabel?

My unsoild name, the austereness of my life, My vouch against you, and my place i'the state, Will so your accusation over-weigh,

That you shall stifle in your own report,

And smell of calumiy. 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
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 should I complain? Did I tell this,

Who would believe me? O perilous mouths,
That bear in them one and the self-same 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.

Duke. So, then you hope of pardon from Lord

Angelo ?

Claud. The miserable have no other medicine,

But only hope :

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

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 run'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
thyself;

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 effects,
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 gont, 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