Claud.
Now, sister, what's the comfort?

Isab.
Why, as all comforts are; most good indeed:
Lord Angelo having affairs to heav'n,
Intends you for his swift ambassador;
Where you shall be an everlasting leiger.
Therefore your best appointment make with speed,
To-morrow you set out.

Claud.
Is there no remedy?

Isab.
None, but such remedy, as to save a head,
To cleave a heart in twain.

Claud.
But is there any?

Isab.
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?

Isab.
Ay just, perpetual durance, a restraint,
Tho' all the world's vastidity you had,
To a determin'd scope.

Claud.
But in what nature?

Isab.
In such a one, as you consenting to't,
Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear,
And leave you naked.

Claud.
Let me know the point.

Isab.
Oh, I do fear thee, Claudio, and I quake,
Lest thou a fev'rous life should'st entertain,
And six or seven winters more respect
Than a perpetual honour. Dar'st thou die?
The sense of death is most in apprehension,

And the poor beetle that we tread upon,
In corp'ral sufferance finds a pang as great,
As when a giant dies.

Claud.
Why give you me this shame?
Think you I can a resolution fetch
From flow'ry tenderness? if I must die,
I will encounter darkness as a bride,
And hug it in mine arms.

Isab.
There spake my brother; there my father's grave
Did utter forth a voice. Yes, thou must die:
Thou art too noble to conserve a life
In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy,
Whose settled visage and delib'rate word
Nips youth i'th' head, and follies doth emmew
As faulcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil:
His filth within being cast he would appear
A pond as deep as hell.

Claud.
The Princely Angelo?

Isab.
Oh 'tis the cunning livery of hell,
The damned'st body to invest and cover
In Princely guards. Dost thou think, Claudio?
If I would yield him my virginity,
Thou might'st be freed?

Claud.
Oh heav'ns, it cannot be.

Isab.
Yes, he would give't thee; from this rank offence
So to offend him still. This night's the time
That I should do what I abhor to name,
Or else thou dy'st to-morrow.

Claud.
Thou shalt not do't.

Isab.
Oh, were it but my life,
I'd throw it down for your deliverance
As frankly as a pin.

Claud.
Thanks, dearest Isabel.

Isab.
Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow.

Claud.
Yes. Has he affections in him,
That thus can make him bite the law by th' nose,
When he would force it? sure it is no sin;
Or of the deadly seven it is the least.

Isab.
Which is the least?

Claud.
If it were damnable, he being so wise,
Why would he for the momentary trick
Be perdurably fin'd? oh Isabel!

Isab.
What says my brother?

Claud.
Death's a fearful thing.

Isab.
And shamed life a hateful.

&plquo;Claud.
&plquo;Ay but to die, and go we know not where:
&plquo;To lye in cold obstruction, and to rot;
&plquo;This sensible warm motion to become
&plquo;A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
&plquo;To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
&plquo;In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice,
&plquo;To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,
&plquo;And blown with restless violence round about
&plquo;The pendant world; or to be worse than worst
&plquo;Of those, that lawless and incertain thought
&plquo;Imagine howling;—'tis too horrible!
&plquo;The weariest and most loathed worldly life,
&plquo;That age, ach, penury, imprisonment
&plquo;Can lay on nature, is a paradise
&plquo;To what we fear of death.

Isab.
Alas! alas!

Claud.
Sweet sister, let me live.
What sin you do to save a brother's life,
Nature dispenses with the deed so far,
That it becomes a virtue.

Isab.
Oh you beast!

Oh faithless coward! oh dishonest wretch!
Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice?
Is't not a kind of incest, to take life
From thine own sister's shame? what should I think?
Heav'n grant my mother plaid my father fair:
For such a warped slip of wilderness
Ne'er issu'd from his blood. Take my defiance,
Die, perish! might my only bending down
Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed.
I'll pay a thousand prayers for thy death;
No word to save thee.

Claud.
Hear me, Isabel.

Isab.
Oh, fie, fie, fie!
Thy sin's not accidental, but a trade;
Mercy to thee would prove it self a bawd;
'Tis best that thou dy'st quickly.

Claud.
Oh hear me, Isabella.

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