Angelo.
We must not make a scarecrow of the law,
Setting it up to fear the birds of prey,
An let it keep one shape, 'till custom make it
Their pearch, and not their terror.

Escal.
Ay, but yet
Let us be keen, and rather cut a little,
Than fall, and bruise to death. Alas! this gentleman,
Whom I would save, had a most noble father;
Let but your Honour know,
Who I believe to be most strait in virtue,
Whether you had not, sometime in your life,
Err'd in this point, which now you censure him,
And pull'd the law upon you.* ^note

Ang.
'Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus,
Another thing to fall.
You may not so extenuate his offence,
For I have had such faults; but rather tell me,
When I, that censure him, do so offend,
Let mine own judgment pattern out my death,
And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die. Enter Provost.

Escal.
Be't as your wisdom will.

Ang.
Where is the Provost?

Prov.
Here, if it like your Honour.

Ang.
See, that Claudio
Be executed by nine, to-morrow morning.
Bring him his Confessor, let him be prepar'd;
For that's the utmost of his pilgrimage—

Escal.† ^note
Well, heav'n forgive him! and forgive us all!
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall:
Some run through brakes of vice, and answer none;
And some condemned for a fault alone. [Exit.‡ ^note

Prov.
Is't your fix'd design, Claudio shall die, to-morrow?

Ang.
Did not I 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
Repented o'er his doom.

Ang.
Go to; let that be mine.
Do you your office, or give up your place,
And you shall well be spar'd.

Prov.
I crave your pardon.
What shall be done, Sir, with the groaning Juliet?
She's very near her hour.

Ang.
Dispose of her
To some more fitting place, and that with speed.

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. [Exit Servant. Enter Lucio, and Isabella.

Ang.
Y'are welcome; what's your will?

Isab.
I am a woful 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;
And yet 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.
Heav'n 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 cypher of a function,

To find the faults, whose fine stands in record,
And let go by the actor.

Isab.
O just, but severe law!
I had a brother, then;—heav'n keep your Honour!

Lucio.
Give not o'er so: to him again, intreat 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.
To him, I say.

Isab.
Must he needs die?

Ang.
Maiden, no remedy.

Isab.
Yes; I do think, that you might pardon him;
And neither heav'n, 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 sentenc'd; 'tis too late.

Isab.
Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a word,
May call it back again: Well, believe this,
No ceremony that to Great ones 'longs,
Not the King's crown, nor the deputed sword,
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe,
Become them with one half so good a grace,
As mercy does: if he had been as you,
And you as he, you would have slipt like him;
But he, like you, would not have been so stern.

Ang.
Pray you, be gone.

Isab.
I wou'd to heav'n I had your potency,
And you were Isabel; should it then be thus?
No; I would tell what 'twere to be a judge,
And what a prisoner.

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;
And he, that might the 'vantage best have took,

Found out the remedy. How would you be,
If He, which is the top of Judgment, should
But judge you, as you are? Oh, think on that;
And mercy then will breathe within your lips,
Like man new made.

Ang.* ^note
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 dies, to-morrow.

Isab.
To-morrow? oh! that's sudden. Spare him, spare him:
Good, good my Lord, bethink you:
Who is it, that hath dy'd for this offence?
There's many have committed it.

Lucio.
Ay, well said.

Ang.
The Law hath not been dead, tho' it hath slept:
Those many had not dar'd to do that evil,
If the first man, that did th' edict infringe,
Had answer'd for his deed.

Isab.
Yet shew some pity.

Ang.
I shew it most of all, when I shew justice;
For then I pity those, I do not know;
Which a dismiss'd offence would after gaul;
And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong,
Lives not to act another. Be satisfy'd;
Your brother dies, to-morrow; be content.

Isab.
So you must be the first, that gives this sentence;
And he, that suffers: oh, 'tis excellent,
To have a Giant's strength; but it is tyrannous,
To use it like a Giant.

Lucio.
That's well said.

Isab.
Could great men thunder† ^note

As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet;
For every pelting, petty, officer
Would use his heav'n for thunder;
Nothing but thunder: merciful heav'n!
Thou rather with thy sharp and sulph'rous bolt
Split'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 assur'd,
His glassy essence, like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heav'n,
As make the angels weep.

Prov.
Pray heav'n, she win him!

Isab.
We cannot weigh our brother with yourself:
Great men may jest with saints; 'tis wit in them;
But, in the less, foul profanation.* ^note

Ang.
Why do you put these sayings upon me?

Isab.
Because authority, tho' it err like others,
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself,
That skins the vice o' th' top: go to your bosom;
Knock there, and ask your heart, what it doth know
That's like my brother's fault; if it confess
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.

Isab.
Gentle my Lord, turn back.

Ang.
I will bethink me, come again, to-morrow.

Isab.
Hark, how I'll bribe you.

Ang.
How? bribe me?

Isab.
Ay, with such gifts, that heav'n shall share with you.

Lucio.
You had marr'd all else.

Isab.
Not with fond shekles of the tested gold,
Or stones, whose rate are either rich or poor,
As fancy values them; but with true prayers,

That shall be up at heav'n, and enter there,
Ere sun-rise: prayers from preserved souls,
From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate
To nothing temporal.* ^note

Ang.
Well; come, to-morrow.

Isab.
Heav'n 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.

Isab.
Save your Honour! [Exe. Lucio, and Isabella.

Ang.
From thee; even from thy virtue.
What's this? what's this? is this her fault, or mine?† ^note
The tempter, or the tempted, who sins most?
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,
Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be,
That modesty may more betray our sense,
Than woman's lightness? having waste ground enough,
Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary,
And pitch our evils there? oh, fie, fie, fie!
What dost thou? or what art thou, Angelo?
Dost thou desire her foully, for those things
That make her good? Oh, let her brother live:
Thieves for their robbery have authority,
When judges steal themselves. What? do I love her,
That I desire to hear her speak again,
And feast upon her eyes?
Oh, cunning enemy, that to catch a saint,
With saints dost bait thy hook! most dangerous
Is that temptation, that doth goad us on

To sin in loving virtue: ne'er could the strumpet,
With all her double vigour, art and nature,
Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid
Subdues me quite: ever till this very now,
When men were fond, I smil'd, and wonder'd how. [Exit.

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