ANG. Thus wifdom wishes to appear most bright,

When it doth tax itself: as these black masks
Proclaim an enfhield beauty ten times louder
Than beauty could difplayed.-But mark me;
To be received plain, I'll speak more gross:
Your brother is to die.

ISAB, So.

ANG. And his offence is fo, as it

appears

Accountant to the law upon that pain.

ISAB. True.

ANG. Admit no other way to fave his life, (As I fubfcribe not that, nor any other, But in the lofs of question,) that you, his fifter, Finding yourself defir'd of fuch a person, Whofe 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 fave him, but that either You must lay down the treasures of your body To this fuppofed, or else let him fuffer;

What would you do?

ISAB. As much for my poor brother as myself:
That is, Were I under the terms of death,
The impreffion of keen whips I'd wear as rubies,
And ftrip myself to death, as to a bed

That longing I have been fick for, ere I'd yield
My body up to fhame.

ANG. Then muft your brother die.
ISAB. And 'twere the cheaper way:

Better it were, a brother died at once,
Than that a fifter, by redeeming him,
Should die for ever.

ANG. Were not you then as cruel as the sentence

VOL. I.

Z z

That you have flander'd fo?

ISAB. Ignomy in ranfom, and free pardon, Are of two houfes: lawful mercy is

Nothing akin to foul redemption.

ANG. You feem'd of late to make the law a tyrant; And rather prov'd the fliding 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 fomething do excufe the thing I hate,

For his advantage that I dearly love.
ANG. We are all frail.

ISAB. Elfe let my brother die,
If not a feodary, but only he,
Owe, and fucceed by weakness.

ANG. Nay, women are frail too.

ISAB. Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves; Which are as eafy broke as they make forms. Women!-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 falfe prints.

ANG. I think it well:

And from this teftimony of your own fex,

(Since, I fuppofe, we are made to be no stronger
Than faults may fhake our frames,) let me be bold;-
I do arreft 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 exprefs'd

By all external warrants,) fhow it now,

By putting on the deftin'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 That he fhall die for it.

tell me, you

ANG. He fhall not, Ifabel, if you give me love.

ISAB. I know, your virtue hath a licence in't, Which feems a little fouler than it is,

To pluck on others.

ANG. Believe me, on mine honour,

My words exprefs my purpose.

ISAB. Ha! little honour to be much believ'd,

And most pernicious purpose !-Seeming, feeming!—

I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for't:

Sign me a prefent pardon for my brother,

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

ANG. Who will believe thee, Ifabel?

My unfoil'd name, the austereness of my life,
My vouch against you, and my place i'the state
Will fo your accufation over-weigh,

That you fhall ftifle in your own report,
And smell of calumny. I have begun;
And now I give my fenfual race the rein:、
Fit thy confent to my fharp appetite;

Lay by all nicety, and prolixious blushes,
That banish what they fue 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 fufferance: answer me to-morrow,
Or, by the affection that now guides me moft,

I'll prove a tyrant to him: As for you,

Say what you can, my falfe o'erweighs your true. [Exit. ISAB. To whom fhould I complain? Did I tell this,

Who would believe me? O perilous mouths,
That bear in them one and the felf-fame tongue,
Either of condemnation or approof!

Bidding the law make curt'fy 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 fuch a mind of honour,
That had he twenty heads to tender down
On twenty bloody blocks, he'd yield them up,
Before his fifter fhould her body stoop
To fuch abhorr'd pollution.

Then Ifabel, 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 foul's reft.

ACT III.

SCENE I. A Room in the Prifon.

Enter DUKE, CLAUDIO, and PROVOST.

[Exit,

DUKE. So, then you hope of pardon from lord Angela? CLAUD. The miserable have no other medicine,

But only hope :

I have hope to live, and am prepar'd to die.

DUKE. Be abfolute for death; either death, or life, Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life,If I do lofe thee, I do lofe a thing

That none but fools would keep a breath thou art,
(Servile to all the skiey influences,)

That doft this habitation, where thou keep'ft,
Hourly afflict: merely, thou art death's fool;

For him thou labour'ft by thy flight to fhun,

And yet run'ft toward him ftill: Thou art not noble; For all the accommodations that thou bear'ft,

Are nur'sd by baseness: Thou art by no means valiant;
For thou doft fear the soft and tender fork

Of a poor worm: Thy best of rest is sleep,
And that thou oft provok'ft; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;
For thou exift'ft on many a thousand grains
That iffue out of duft: Happy thou art not:
For what thou haft not, ftill thou ftriv'ft to get;
And what thou haft, forget'ft: Thou art not certain ;
For thy complexion fhifts 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 haft thou none;
For thine own bowels, which do call thee fire,
The mere effufion of thy proper loins,

Do curfe the gout, ferpigo, and the rheum,

For ending thee no fooner: Thou haft nor youth, nor

age;

But, as it were, an after-dinner's fleep,

Dreaming on both: for all thy blessed 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 pleasant, What's yet in this,
That bears the name of life? Yet in this life
Lie hid more thousand deaths: yet death we fear,
That makes thefe 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.