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 spared. Pro. I crave your honor'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. Re-enter SERVANT. Ser. Here is the sister of the man condemn'd, Desires access to you. Ang. Hath he a sister? Pro. Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous maid, And to be shortly of a sisterhood, If not already. Ang. Well, let her be admitted. See you, the fornicatress be removed; [Exit Servant. Let her have needful, but not lavish means; There shall be order for it. Enter LUCIO and ISABELLA. Pro. Save your honor! [offering to retire. Ang. Stay a little while.-[to Isabella.] You are welcome. What's your will? Isa. I am a woful suitor to your honor, Please but your honor hear me. Ang. Well; what's your suit? Isa. There is a vice, that most I do abhor, For which I must not plead, but that I am At war, 'twixt will, and will not. Ang. Well; the matter? Isa. I have a brother is condemn'd to die : I do beseech you, let it be his fault, And not my brother. Pro. Heaven 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 cipher of a function, To fine the faults,1 whose fine stands in record, Isa. O just, but severe law! I had a brother then.-Heaven keep your honor! [retiring. Lucio. [to Isa.] Give 't not o'er so: to him again, entreat 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. Isa. Must he needs die? Ang. Maiden, no remedy. Isa. Yes; I do think that you might pardon him, And neither Heaven nor man grieve at the mercy. To pronounce the fine or sentence of the law, appointed for certain crimes. Ang. I will not do 't. Isa. But can you, if you would? Ang. Look, what I will not, that I cannot do. Isa. But might you do 't, and do the world no wrong, If so your heart were touch'd with that remorse 1 Ang. He's sentenced; 'tis too late. [to Isabella. Lucio. You are too cold. Isa. Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a word, May call it back again. Well, believe this: 2 Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, As mercy does. If he had been as you, and you as he, You would have slipp'd like him; but he, like you, Would not have been so stern. Ang. Pray you, begone. Isa. I would to Heaven 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. [aside. Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law, And you but waste your words. 1 Pity. 2 Be assured of this. Isa. Alas! alas! Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once; If he, which is the top of judgment, should Ang. Be you content, fair maid; morrow. he must die to Isa. To-morrow? O, that's sudden! Spare him, spare him: He's not prepared for death! Even for our kitchens We kill the fowl of season; 2 shall we serve Heaven With less respect than we do minister To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you : Who is it that hath died for this offence? There's many have committed it. Lucio. Ay, well said. Ang. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept : Those many had not dared to do that evil, 1 As man regenerate. 2 When it is in season. Takes note of what is done; and, like a prophet, Isa. Yet show some pity. Ang. I show it most of all, when I show justice; For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall; And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong, Lives not to act another. Be satisfied; Your brother dies to-morrow: be content. Isa. So you must be the first, that gives this sen tence; And he, that suffers! O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength, but it is tyrannous Lucio. That's well said. Isa. Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, For every pelting,1 petty officer, Would use his heaven for thunder; nothing but thunder. Merciful Heaven! Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak Than the soft myrtle; but man, proud man! |