Serv.
He's hearing of a Cause; he will come straight:
I'll tell him of you.

Prov.
Pray you do; 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
To die for't! Enter Angelo.

Ang.
Now, what's the Matter, Provost?

Prov.
Is it your Will 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 Honour's Pardon.
What shall be done, Sir, with the groaning Juliet?
She's very near her Hour.

Ang.
Dispose of her
To some more fitter Place, and that with speed.

Ser.
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 Sister-hood,
If not already.

Ang.
Well; let her be admitted.
See you the Fornicatress be remov'd;
Let her have needful, but not lavish Means;
There shall be Order for't. Enter Lucio and Isabella.

Prov.

'Save your Honour.

Ang.

Stay a little while. 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 more 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.
Heav'n give thee moving Graces.

Ang.
Condemn the Fault, and not the Actor of it;
Why every Fault's condemn'd e'er it be done;
Mine were the Cipher of a Function
To fine 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.
Giv't 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 a more tame Tongue desire it.
To him, I say.

Isab.
Must he needs die?

Ang.
Maiden, no Remedy.

Isab.
Yes; I do think that you may 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.

Lucio.
You are too cold.

Isab.
Too late? why so? 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 would 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.
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.

Isab.
To Morrow? Oh! that's sudden.
Spare him, spare him;
He's not prepar'd for Death: Even for our Kitchins
We kill the Fowl of Season; shall we serve Heav'n
With less Respect than we do minister
To our gross selves? 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, that did th' 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 shews what future Evils
Either now, or by Remissness, new conceiv'd,
And so in Progress to be hatch'd, and born,
Are now to have no successive degrees,
But here they live to end.

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 satisfied;
Your Brother dies to Morrow; be content.

Isab.
So you must be the first that gives this Sentence,
And he that suffers: Oh, it is 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
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 sulphurous Bolt
Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled Oak,
Than the soft Mirtle: O but Man! proud Man!
Drest in a little brief Authority,
Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd,
His glassie Essence, like an angry Ape,
Plays such fantastick Tricks before high Heav'n,
As makes the Angels weep; who with our Spleens
Would all themselves laugh mortal.

Lucio.
Oh, to him, to him Wench; he will relent;
He's coming; I perceive't.

Prov.
Pray Heaven she win him.

Isab.
We cannot weigh our Brother with our self:
Great Men may jest with Saints; 'tis Wit in them,
But in the less foul Prophanation.

Lucio.
Thou'rt i'right, Girl; more o'that.

Isab.
That in the Captain's but a cholerick Word,
Which in the Soldier is flat Blasphemy.

Lucio.
Art advis'd o'that? More on't.

Ang.
Why do you put these Sayings upon me?

Isab.
Because Authority, tho' it err like others,
Hath yet a kind of Medicine in it self,
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: Good my Lord turn back.

Ang.
How? Bribe me?

Isab.
Ay, with such Gifts that Heav'n shall share with you.

Luc.
You had marr'd all else.

Isab.
Not with fond Sickles 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
E'er Sun rise: Prayers from preserved Souls,
From fasting Maids, whose Minds are dedicate
To nothing Temporal.

Ang.
Well; come to me to Morrow.

Lucio.
Go to; 'tis well; away.

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. [Exeunt Lucio and Isabella.

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,
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 fouly, 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? What is it I dream on?
Oh cunning Enemy, that to catch a Saint,
With Saints dost bait thou Hook! most dangerous
Is that Temptation, that doth goad us on
To Sin, in loving Virtue; never could the Strumpet,
With all her double Vigor, Art, and Nature,
Once stir my Temper: But this virtuous Maid
Subdues me quite; even 'till now,
When Men were fond, I smil'd, and wondred how. [Exit.

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