SCENE I. A room in Mariana’s house.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE

by William Shakespeare

Contents

ACT I

Scene I. An apartment in the Duke’s palace

Scene II. A street

Scene III. A monastery

Scene IV. A nunnery

ACT II

Scene I. A hall in Angelo’s house

Scene II. Another room in the same

Scene III. A room in a prison

Scene IV. A room in Angelo’s house

ACT III

Scene I. A room in the prison

Scene II. The street before the prisons

ACT IV

Scene I. A room in Mariana’s house

Scene II. A room in the prison

Scene III. Another room in the same

Scene IV. A room in Angelo’s house

Scene V. Fields without the town

Scene VI. Street near the city gate

ACT V

Scene I. A public place near the city gate

Dramatis Personæ

Vincentio, DUKE of Vienna

ESCALUS, an ancient Lord

PROVOST

ELBOW, a simple constable

ABHORSON, an executioner

A JUSTICE

VARRIUS, a Gentleman, Servant to the Duke

ANGELO, Deputy to the Duke

MARIANA, betrothed to Angelo

BOY, singer

SERVANT, to Angelo

MESSENGER, from Angelo

ISABELLA, Sister to Claudio

FRANCISCA, a nun

CLAUDIO, a young Gentleman

JULIET, betrothed to Claudio

LUCIO, a fantastic

Two GENTLEMEN

FRIAR THOMAS

FRIAR PETER

Mistress Overdone, a BAWD

POMPEY, Servant to Mistress Overdone

FROTH, a foolish gentleman

BARNARDINE, a dissolute prisoner

Lords, Officers, Servants, Citizens and Attendants

SCENE: Vienna

ACT I

SCENE I. An apartment in the Duke’s palace.

Enter Duke, Escalus, Lords and Attendants.

DUKE.

Escalus.

ESCALUS.

My lord.

DUKE.

Of government the properties to unfold

Would seem in me t’ affect speech and discourse,

Since I am put to know that your own science

Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice

My strength can give you. Then no more remains

But that, to your sufficiency, as your worth is able,

And let them work. The nature of our people,

Our city’s institutions, and the terms

For common justice, you’re as pregnant in

As art and practice hath enriched any

That we remember. There is our commission,

From which we would not have you warp.—Call hither,

I say, bid come before us, Angelo.

[_Exit an Attendant._]

What figure of us think you he will bear?

For you must know we have with special soul

Elected him our absence to supply;

Lent him our terror, drest him with our love,

And given his deputation all the organs

Of our own power. What think you of it?

ESCALUS.

If any in Vienna be of worth

To undergo such ample grace and honour,

It is Lord Angelo.

Enter Angelo.

DUKE.

Look where he comes.

ANGELO.

Always obedient to your Grace’s will,

I come to know your pleasure.

DUKE.

Angelo,

There is a kind of character in thy life

That to th’ observer doth thy history

Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings

Are not thine own so proper as to waste

Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee.

Heaven doth with us as we with torches do,

Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues

Did not go forth of us, ’twere all alike

As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touched

But to fine issues; nor nature never lends

The smallest scruple of her excellence

But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines

Herself the glory of a creditor,

Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech

To one that can my part in him advertise.

Hold, therefore, Angelo.

In our remove be thou at full ourself.

Mortality and mercy in Vienna

Live in thy tongue and heart. Old Escalus,

Though first in question, is thy secondary.

Take thy commission.

ANGELO.

Now, good my lord,

Let there be some more test made of my metal,

Before so noble and so great a figure

Be stamped upon it.

DUKE.

No more evasion.

We have with a leavened and prepared choice

Proceeded to you; therefore take your honours.

Our haste from hence is of so quick condition

That it prefers itself, and leaves unquestioned

Matters of needful value. We shall write to you,

As time and our concernings shall importune,

How it goes with us; and do look to know

What doth befall you here. So, fare you well.

To th’ hopeful execution do I leave you

Of your commissions.

ANGELO.

Yet give leave, my lord,

That we may bring you something on the way.

DUKE.

My haste may not admit it;

Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do

With any scruple. Your scope is as mine own,

So to enforce or qualify the laws

As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand;

I’ll privily away. I love the people,

But do not like to stage me to their eyes.

Though it do well, I do not relish well

Their loud applause and _Aves_ vehement;

Nor do I think the man of safe discretion

That does affect it. Once more, fare you well.

ANGELO.

The heavens give safety to your purposes!

ESCALUS.

Lead forth and bring you back in happiness.

DUKE.

I thank you. Fare you well.

[_Exit._]

ESCALUS.

I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave

To have free speech with you; and it concerns me

To look into the bottom of my place.

A power I have, but of what strength and nature

I am not yet instructed.

ANGELO.

’Tis so with me. Let us withdraw together,

And we may soon our satisfaction have

Touching that point.

ESCALUS.

I’ll wait upon your honour.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. A street.

Enter Lucio and two other Gentlemen.

LUCIO.

If the Duke, with the other dukes, come not to composition with the

King of Hungary, why then all the dukes fall upon the King.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Heaven grant us its peace, but not the King of Hungary’s!

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Amen.

LUCIO.

Thou conclud’st like the sanctimonious pirate that went to sea with the

ten commandments, but scraped one out of the table.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

“Thou shalt not steal”?

LUCIO.

Ay, that he razed.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Why, ’twas a commandment to command the captain and all the rest from

their functions! They put forth to steal. There’s not a soldier of us

all that, in the thanksgiving before meat, do relish the petition well

that prays for peace.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

I never heard any soldier dislike it.

LUCIO.

I believe thee; for I think thou never wast where grace was said.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

No? A dozen times at least.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

What? In metre?

LUCIO.

In any proportion or in any language.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

I think, or in any religion.

LUCIO.

Ay, why not? Grace is grace, despite of all controversy; as, for

example, thou thyself art a wicked villain, despite of all grace.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Well, there went but a pair of shears between us.

LUCIO.

I grant, as there may between the lists and the velvet. Thou art the

list.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

And thou the velvet. Thou art good velvet; thou’rt a three-piled piece,

I warrant thee. I had as lief be a list of an English kersey as be

piled, as thou art piled, for a French velvet. Do I speak feelingly

now?

LUCIO.

I think thou dost, and indeed, with most painful feeling of thy speech.

I will, out of thine own confession, learn to begin thy health; but,

whilst I live, forget to drink after thee.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

I think I have done myself wrong, have I not?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Yes, that thou hast, whether thou art tainted or free.

Enter Mistress Overdone, a Bawd.

LUCIO.

Behold, behold, where Madam Mitigation comes! I have purchased as many

diseases under her roof as come to—

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

To what, I pray?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Judge.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

To three thousand dolours a year.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Ay, and more.

LUCIO.

A French crown more.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Thou art always figuring diseases in me, but thou art full of error; I

am sound.

LUCIO.

Nay, not, as one would say, healthy, but so sound as things that are

hollow. Thy bones are hollow. Impiety has made a feast of thee.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

How now, which of your hips has the most profound sciatica?

BAWD.

Well, well! There’s one yonder arrested and carried to prison was worth

five thousand of you all.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Who’s that, I pray thee?

BAWD.

Marry, sir, that’s Claudio, Signior Claudio.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Claudio to prison? ’Tis not so.

BAWD.

Nay, but I know ’tis so. I saw him arrested, saw him carried away; and,

which is more, within these three days his head to be chopped off.

LUCIO.

But, after all this fooling, I would not have it so. Art thou sure of

this?

BAWD.

I am too sure of it. And it is for getting Madam Julietta with child.

LUCIO.

Believe me, this may be. He promised to meet me two hours since, and he

was ever precise in promise-keeping.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Besides, you know, it draws something near to the speech we had to such

a purpose.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

But most of all agreeing with the proclamation.

LUCIO.

Away! Let’s go learn the truth of it.

[_Exeunt Lucio and Gentlemen._]

BAWD.

Thus, what with the war, what with the sweat, what with the gallows,

and what with poverty, I am custom-shrunk.

Enter Pompey.

How now? What’s the news with you?

POMPEY.

Yonder man is carried to prison.

BAWD.

Well, what has he done?

POMPEY.

A woman.

BAWD.

But what’s his offence?

POMPEY.

Groping for trouts in a peculiar river.

BAWD.

What? Is there a maid with child by him?

POMPEY.

No, but there’s a woman with maid by him. You have not heard of the

proclamation, have you?

BAWD.

What proclamation, man?

POMPEY.

All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must be plucked down.

BAWD.

And what shall become of those in the city?

POMPEY.

They shall stand for seed. They had gone down too, but that a wise

burgher put in for them.

BAWD.

But shall all our houses of resort in the suburbs be pulled down?

POMPEY.

To the ground, mistress.

BAWD.

Why, here’s a change indeed in the commonwealth! What shall become of

me?

POMPEY.

Come, fear not you. Good counsellors lack no clients. Though you change

your place, you need not change your trade. I’ll be your tapster still.

Courage, there will be pity taken on you. You that have worn your eyes

almost out in the service, you will be considered.

Enter Provost, Claudio, Juliet and Officers.

BAWD.

What’s to do here, Thomas Tapster? Let’s withdraw.

POMPEY.

Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the Provost to prison. And there’s

Madam Juliet.

[_Exeunt Bawd and Pompey._]

CLAUDIO.

Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to the world?

Bear me to prison, where I am committed.

PROVOST.

I do it not in evil disposition,

But from Lord Angelo by special charge.

CLAUDIO.

Thus can the demi-god Authority

Make us pay down for our offence by weight.

The words of heaven; on whom it will, it will;

On whom it will not, so; yet still ’tis just.

Enter Lucio and two Gentlemen.

LUCIO.

Why, how now, Claudio? Whence comes this restraint?

CLAUDIO.

From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty.

As surfeit is the father of much fast,

So every scope by the immoderate use

Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue,

Like rats that ravin down their proper bane,

A thirsty evil; and when we drink, we die.

LUCIO.

If I could speak so wisely under an arrest, I would send for certain of

my creditors; and yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the foppery

of freedom as the morality of imprisonment. What’s thy offence,

Claudio?

CLAUDIO.

What but to speak of would offend again.

LUCIO.

What, is’t murder?

CLAUDIO.

No.

LUCIO.

Lechery?

CLAUDIO.

Call it so.

PROVOST.

Away, sir; you must go.

CLAUDIO.

One word, good friend.—Lucio, a word with you.

LUCIO.

A hundred, if they’ll do you any good. Is lechery so looked after?

CLAUDIO.

Thus stands it with me: upon a true contract

I got possession of Julietta’s bed.

You know the lady; she is fast my wife,

Save that we do the denunciation lack

Of outward order. This we came not to

Only for propagation of a dower

Remaining in the coffer of her friends,

From whom we thought it meet to hide our love

Till time had made them for us. But it chances

The stealth of our most mutual entertainment

With character too gross is writ on Juliet.

LUCIO.

With child, perhaps?

CLAUDIO.

Unhappily, even so.

And the new deputy now for the Duke—

Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness,

Or whether that the body public be

A horse whereon the governor doth ride,

Who, newly in the seat, that it may know

He can command, lets it straight feel the spur;

Whether the tyranny be in his place,

Or in his eminence that fills it up,

I stagger in—but this new governor

Awakes me all the enrolled penalties

Which have, like unscoured armour, hung by th’ wall

So long that nineteen zodiacs have gone round,

And none of them been worn; and for a name

Now puts the drowsy and neglected act

Freshly on me. ’Tis surely for a name.

LUCIO.

I warrant it is. And thy head stands so tickle on thy shoulders that a

milkmaid, if she be in love, may sigh it off. Send after the Duke, and

appeal to him.

CLAUDIO.

I have done so, but he’s not to be found.

I prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service:

This day my sister should the cloister enter,

And there receive her approbation.

Acquaint her with the danger of my state;

Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends

To the strict deputy; bid herself assay him.

I have great hope in that. For in her youth

There is a prone and speechless dialect

Such as moves men; beside, she hath prosperous art

When she will play with reason and discourse,

And well she can persuade.

LUCIO.

I pray she may, as well for the encouragement of the like, which else

would stand under grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life,

who I would be sorry should be thus foolishly lost at a game of

tick-tack. I’ll to her.

CLAUDIO.

I thank you, good friend Lucio.

LUCIO.

Within two hours.

CLAUDIO.

Come, officer, away.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. A monastery.

Enter Duke and Friar Thomas.

DUKE.

No, holy father, throw away that thought;

Believe not that the dribbling dart of love

Can pierce a complete bosom. Why I desire thee

To give me secret harbour hath a purpose

More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends

Of burning youth.

FRIAR THOMAS.

May your Grace speak of it?

DUKE.

My holy sir, none better knows than you

How I have ever loved the life removed,

And held in idle price to haunt assemblies

Where youth, and cost, a witless bravery keeps.

I have delivered to Lord Angelo,

A man of stricture and firm abstinence,

My absolute power and place here in Vienna,

And he supposes me travelled to Poland;

For so I have strewed it in the common ear,

And so it is received. Now, pious sir,

You will demand of me why I do this?

FRIAR THOMAS.

Gladly, my lord.

DUKE.

We have strict statutes and most biting laws,

The needful bits and curbs to headstrong weeds,

Which for this fourteen years we have let slip,

Even like an o’ergrown lion in a cave

That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers,

Having bound up the threat’ning twigs of birch,

Only to stick it in their children’s sight

For terror, not to use, in time the rod

Becomes more mocked than feared: so our decrees,

Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead,

And liberty plucks justice by the nose,

The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart

Goes all decorum.

FRIAR THOMAS.

It rested in your Grace

To unloose this tied-up justice when you pleased;

And it in you more dreadful would have seemed

Than in Lord Angelo.

DUKE.

I do fear, too dreadful.

Sith ’twas my fault to give the people scope,

’Twould be my tyranny to strike and gall them

For what I bid them do; for we bid this be done

When evil deeds have their permissive pass

And not the punishment. Therefore, indeed, my father,

I have on Angelo imposed the office;

Who may in th’ ambush of my name strike home,

And yet my nature never in the fight

To do in slander. And to behold his sway,

I will, as ’twere a brother of your order,

Visit both prince and people. Therefore, I prithee,

Supply me with the habit, and instruct me

How I may formally in person bear

Like a true friar. Moe reasons for this action

At our more leisure shall I render you;

Only, this one: Lord Angelo is precise;

Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses

That his blood flows or that his appetite

Is more to bread than stone. Hence shall we see,

If power change purpose, what our seemers be.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. A nunnery.

Enter Isabella and Francisca, a Nun.

ISABELLA.

And have you nuns no farther privileges?

FRANCISCA.

Are not these large enough?

ISABELLA.

Yes, truly; I speak not as desiring more,

But rather wishing a more strict restraint

Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare.

LUCIO.

[_Within_.] Ho! Peace be in this place!

ISABELLA.

Who’s that which calls?

FRANCISCA.

It is a man’s voice. Gentle Isabella,

Turn you the key, and know his business of him;

You may, I may not; you are yet unsworn.

When you have vowed, you must not speak with men

But in the presence of the prioress;

Then, if you speak, you must not show your face;

Or if you show your face, you must not speak.

He calls again. I pray you answer him.

[_Exit Francisca._]

ISABELLA.

Peace and prosperity! Who is’t that calls?

Enter Lucio.

LUCIO.

Hail, virgin, if you be, as those cheek-roses

Proclaim you are no less. Can you so stead me

As bring me to the sight of Isabella,

A novice of this place, and the fair sister

To her unhappy brother Claudio?

ISABELLA.

Why “her unhappy brother”? let me ask,

The rather for I now must make you know

I am that Isabella, and his sister.

LUCIO.

Gentle and fair, your brother kindly greets you.

Not to be weary with you, he’s in prison.

ISABELLA.

Woe me! For what?

LUCIO.

For that which, if myself might be his judge,

He should receive his punishment in thanks:

He hath got his friend with child.

ISABELLA.

Sir, make me not your story.

LUCIO.

’Tis true.

I would not, though ’tis my familiar sin

With maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest,

Tongue far from heart, play with all virgins so.

I hold you as a thing enskied and sainted

By your renouncement an immortal spirit,

And to be talked with in sincerity,

As with a saint.

ISABELLA.

You do blaspheme the good in mocking me.

LUCIO.

Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, ’tis thus:

Your brother and his lover have embraced;

As those that feed grow full, as blossoming time

That from the seedness the bare fallow brings

To teeming foison, even so her plenteous womb

Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry.

ISABELLA.

Someone with child by him? My cousin Juliet?

LUCIO.

Is she your cousin?

ISABELLA.

Adoptedly, as school-maids change their names

By vain though apt affection.

LUCIO.

She it is.

ISABELLA.

O, let him marry her!

LUCIO.

This is the point.

The Duke is very strangely gone from hence;

Bore many gentlemen, myself being one,

In hand, and hope of action; but we do learn,

By those that know the very nerves of state,

His givings-out were of an infinite distance

From his true-meant design. Upon his place,

And with full line of his authority,

Governs Lord Angelo; a man whose blood

Is very snow-broth; one who never feels

The wanton stings and motions of the sense;

But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge

With profits of the mind, study and fast.

He, to give fear to use and liberty,

Which have for long run by the hideous law

As mice by lions, hath picked out an act,

Under whose heavy sense your brother’s life

Falls into forfeit. He arrests him on it,

And follows close the rigour of the statute

To make him an example. All hope is gone,

Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer

To soften Angelo. And that’s my pith of business

’Twixt you and your poor brother.

ISABELLA.

Doth he so

Seek his life?

LUCIO.

Has censured him already;

And, as I hear, the Provost hath a warrant

For’s execution.

ISABELLA.

Alas, what poor ability’s in me

To do him good?

LUCIO.

Assay the power you have.

ISABELLA.

My power? Alas, I doubt.

LUCIO.

Our doubts are traitors,

And make us lose the good we oft might win

By fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo,

And let him learn to know, when maidens sue,

Men give like gods; but when they weep and kneel,

All their petitions are as freely theirs

As they themselves would owe them.

ISABELLA.

I’ll see what I can do.

LUCIO.

But speedily.

ISABELLA.

I will about it straight;

No longer staying but to give the Mother

Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you.

Commend me to my brother. Soon at night

I’ll send him certain word of my success.

LUCIO.

I take my leave of you.

ISABELLA.

Good sir, adieu.

[_Exeunt._]

ACT II

SCENE I. A hall in Angelo’s house.

Enter Angelo, Escalus, Servants, and a Justice.

ANGELO.

We must not make a scarecrow of the law,

Setting it up to fear the birds of prey,

And let it keep one shape till custom make it

Their perch, and not their terror.

ESCALUS.

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,

Whom I believe to be most strait in virtue,

That, in the working of your own affections,

Had time cohered with place, or place with wishing,

Or that the resolute acting of your blood

Could have attained th’ effect of your own purpose,

Whether you had not sometime in your life

Erred in this point which now you censure him,

And pulled the law upon you.

ANGELO.

’Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus,

Another thing to fall. I not deny

The jury passing on the prisoner’s life

May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two

Guiltier than him they try. What’s open made to justice,

That justice seizes. What knows the laws

That thieves do pass on thieves? ’Tis very pregnant,

The jewel that we find, we stoop and take ’t,

Because we see it; but what we do not see,

We tread upon, and never think of it.

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 judgement pattern out my death,

And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die.

Enter Provost.

ESCALUS.

Be it as your wisdom will.

ANGELO.

Where is the Provost?

PROVOST.

Here, if it like your honour.

ANGELO.

See that Claudio

Be executed by nine tomorrow morning.

Bring him his confessor, let him be prepared,

For that’s the utmost of his pilgrimage.

[_Exit Provost._]

ESCALUS.

Well, heaven forgive him; and forgive us all.

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.

Some run from brakes of vice, and answer none,

And some condemned for a fault alone.

Enter Elbow and Officers with Froth and Pompey.

ELBOW.

Come, bring them away. If these be good people in a commonweal that do

nothing but use their abuses in common houses, I know no law. Bring

them away.

ANGELO.

How now, sir, what’s your name? And what’s the matter?

ELBOW.

If it please your honour, I am the poor Duke’s constable, and my name

is Elbow. I do lean upon justice, sir, and do bring in here before your

good honour two notorious benefactors.

ANGELO.

Benefactors? Well, what benefactors are they? Are they not malefactors?

ELBOW.

If it please your honour, I know not well what they are, but precise

villains they are, that I am sure of, and void of all profanation in

the world that good Christians ought to have.

ESCALUS.

This comes off well. Here’s a wise officer.

ANGELO.

Go to. What quality are they of? Elbow is your name? Why dost thou not

speak, Elbow?

POMPEY.

He cannot, sir. He’s out at elbow.

ANGELO.

What are you, sir?

ELBOW.

He, sir? A tapster, sir; parcel bawd; one that serves a bad woman;

whose house, sir, was, as they say, plucked down in the suburbs; and

now she professes a hot-house, which, I think is a very ill house too.

ESCALUS.

How know you that?

ELBOW.

My wife, sir, whom I detest before heaven and your honour—

ESCALUS.

How? Thy wife?

ELBOW.

Ay, sir, whom I thank heaven is an honest woman—

ESCALUS.

Dost thou detest her therefore?

ELBOW.

I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as well as she, that this house,

if it be not a bawd’s house, it is pity of her life, for it is a

naughty house.

ESCALUS.

How dost thou know that, constable?

ELBOW.

Marry, sir, by my wife, who, if she had been a woman cardinally given,

might have been accused in fornication, adultery, and all uncleanliness

there.

ESCALUS.

By the woman’s means?

ELBOW.

Ay, sir, by Mistress Overdone’s means; but as she spit in his face, so

she defied him.

POMPEY.

Sir, if it please your honour, this is not so.

ELBOW.

Prove it before these varlets here, thou honourable man, prove it.

ESCALUS.

[_To Angelo_.] Do you hear how he misplaces?

POMPEY.

Sir, she came in great with child; and longing, saving your honour’s

reverence, for stewed prunes; sir, we had but two in the house, which

at that very distant time stood, as it were, in a fruit dish, a dish of

some threepence; your honours have seen such dishes; they are not china

dishes, but very good dishes—

ESCALUS.

Go to, go to. No matter for the dish, sir.

POMPEY.

No, indeed, sir, not of a pin; you are therein in the right. But to the

point. As I say, this Mistress Elbow, being, as I say, with child, and

being great-bellied, and longing, as I said, for prunes; and having but

two in the dish, as I said, Master Froth here, this very man, having

eaten the rest, as I said, and, as I say, paying for them very

honestly; for, as you know, Master Froth, I could not give you

threepence again—

FROTH.

No, indeed.

POMPEY.

Very well. You being then, if you be remembered, cracking the stones of

the foresaid prunes—

FROTH.

Ay, so I did indeed.

POMPEY.

Why, very well. I telling you then, if you be remembered, that such a

one and such a one were past cure of the thing you wot of, unless they

kept very good diet, as I told you—

FROTH.

All this is true.

POMPEY.

Why, very well then—

ESCALUS.

Come, you are a tedious fool. To the purpose. What was done to Elbow’s

wife that he hath cause to complain of? Come me to what was done to

her.

POMPEY.

Sir, your honour cannot come to that yet.

ESCALUS.

No, sir, nor I mean it not.

POMPEY.

Sir, but you shall come to it, by your honour’s leave. And I beseech

you, look into Master Froth here, sir, a man of fourscore pound a year;

whose father died at Hallowmas—was’t not at Hallowmas, Master Froth?

FROTH.

All-hallond Eve.

POMPEY.

Why, very well. I hope here be truths. He, sir, sitting, as I say, in a

lower chair, sir—’twas in the Bunch of Grapes, where, indeed, you have

a delight to sit, have you not?

FROTH.

I have so, because it is an open room, and good for winter.

POMPEY.

Why, very well then. I hope here be truths.

ANGELO.

This will last out a night in Russia

When nights are longest there. I’ll take my leave,

And leave you to the hearing of the cause;

Hoping you’ll find good cause to whip them all.

ESCALUS.

I think no less. Good morrow to your lordship.

[_Exit Angelo._]

Now, sir, come on. What was done to Elbow’s wife, once more?

POMPEY.

Once, sir? There was nothing done to her once.

ELBOW.

I beseech you, sir, ask him what this man did to my wife.

POMPEY.

I beseech your honour, ask me.

ESCALUS.

Well, sir, what did this gentleman to her?

POMPEY.

I beseech you, sir, look in this gentleman’s face. Good Master Froth,

look upon his honour; ’tis for a good purpose.—Doth your honour mark

his face?

ESCALUS.

Ay, sir, very well.

POMPEY.

Nay, I beseech you, mark it well.

ESCALUS.

Well, I do so.

POMPEY.

Doth your honour see any harm in his face?

ESCALUS.

Why, no.

POMPEY.

I’ll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him.

Good, then, if his face be the worst thing about him, how could Master

Froth do the constable’s wife any harm? I would know that of your

honour.

ESCALUS.

He’s in the right. Constable. What say you to it?

ELBOW.

First, an it like you, the house is a respected house; next, this is a

respected fellow; and his mistress is a respected woman.

POMPEY.

By this hand, sir, his wife is a more respected person than any of us

all.

ELBOW.

Varlet, thou liest; thou liest, wicked varlet! The time is yet to come

that she was ever respected with man, woman, or child.

POMPEY.

Sir, she was respected with him before he married with her.

ESCALUS.

Which is the wiser here, Justice or Iniquity? Is this true?

ELBOW.

O thou caitiff! O thou varlet! O thou wicked Hannibal! I respected with

her before I was married to her? If ever I was respected with her, or

she with me, let not your worship think me the poor Duke’s officer.

Prove this, thou wicked Hannibal, or I’ll have mine action of battery

on thee.

ESCALUS.

If he took you a box o’ th’ ear, you might have your action of slander

too.

ELBOW.

Marry, I thank your good worship for it. What is’t your worship’s

pleasure I shall do with this wicked caitiff?

ESCALUS.

Truly, officer, because he hath some offences in him that thou wouldst

discover if thou couldst, let him continue in his courses till thou

know’st what they are.

ELBOW.

Marry, I thank your worship for it.—Thou seest, thou wicked varlet,

now, what’s come upon thee. Thou art to continue now, thou varlet, thou

art to continue.

ESCALUS.

[_To Froth_.] Where were you born, friend?

FROTH.

Here in Vienna, sir.

ESCALUS.

Are you of fourscore pounds a year?

FROTH.

Yes, an’t please you, sir.

ESCALUS.

So. [_To Pompey_.] What trade are you of, sir?

POMPEY.

A tapster, a poor widow’s tapster.

ESCALUS.

Your mistress’ name?

POMPEY.

Mistress Overdone.

ESCALUS.

Hath she had any more than one husband?

POMPEY.

Nine, sir; Overdone by the last.

ESCALUS.

Nine?—Come hither to me, Master Froth. Master Froth, I would not have

you acquainted with tapsters; they will draw you, Master Froth, and you

will hang them. Get you gone, and let me hear no more of you.

FROTH.

I thank your worship. For mine own part, I never come into any room in

a taphouse but I am drawn in.

ESCALUS.

Well, no more of it, Master Froth. Farewell.

[_Exit Froth._]

Come you hither to me, Master tapster. What’s your name, Master

tapster?

POMPEY.

Pompey.

ESCALUS.

What else?

POMPEY.

Bum, sir.

ESCALUS.

Troth, and your bum is the greatest thing about you; so that, in the

beastliest sense, you are Pompey the great. Pompey, you are partly a

bawd, Pompey, howsoever you colour it in being a tapster, are you not?

Come, tell me true, it shall be the better for you.

POMPEY.

Truly, sir, I am a poor fellow that would live.

ESCALUS.

How would you live, Pompey? By being a bawd? What do you think of the

trade, Pompey? Is it a lawful trade?

POMPEY.

If the law would allow it, sir.

ESCALUS.

But the law will not allow it, Pompey; nor it shall not be allowed in

Vienna.

POMPEY.

Does your worship mean to geld and splay all the youth of the city?

ESCALUS.

No, Pompey.

POMPEY.

Truly, sir, in my poor opinion, they will to’t then. If your worship

will take order for the drabs and the knaves, you need not to fear the

bawds.

ESCALUS.

There is pretty orders beginning, I can tell you. It is but heading and

hanging.

POMPEY.

If you head and hang all that offend that way but for ten year

together, you’ll be glad to give out a commission for more heads. If

this law hold in Vienna ten year, I’ll rent the fairest house in it

after threepence a bay. If you live to see this come to pass, say

Pompey told you so.

ESCALUS.

Thank you, good Pompey; and, in requital of your prophecy, hark you: I

advise you, let me not find you before me again upon any complaint

whatsoever; no, not for dwelling where you do. If I do, Pompey, I shall

beat you to your tent, and prove a shrewd Caesar to you. In plain

dealing, Pompey, I shall have you whipped. So for this time, Pompey,

fare you well.

POMPEY.

I thank your worship for your good counsel. [_Aside_.] But I shall

follow it as the flesh and fortune shall better determine.

Whip me? No, no; let carman whip his jade;

The valiant heart’s not whipped out of his trade.

[_Exit._]

ESCALUS.

Come hither to me, Master Elbow. Come hither, Master Constable. How

long have you been in this place of constable?

ELBOW.

Seven year and a half, sir.

ESCALUS.

I thought, by the readiness in the office, you had continued in it

sometime. You say seven years together?

ELBOW.

And a half, sir.

ESCALUS.

Alas, it hath been great pains to you. They do you wrong to put you so

oft upon’t. Are there not men in your ward sufficient to serve it?

ELBOW.

Faith, sir, few of any wit in such matters. As they are chosen, they

are glad to choose me for them; I do it for some piece of money, and go

through with all.

ESCALUS.

Look you bring me in the names of some six or seven, the most

sufficient of your parish.

ELBOW.

To your worship’s house, sir?

ESCALUS.

To my house. Fare you well.

[_Exit Elbow._]

What’s o’clock, think you?

JUSTICE.

Eleven, sir.

ESCALUS.

I pray you home to dinner with me.

JUSTICE.

I humbly thank you.

ESCALUS.

It grieves me for the death of Claudio,

But there’s no remedy.

JUSTICE.

Lord Angelo is severe.

ESCALUS.

It is but needful.

Mercy is not itself that oft looks so;

Pardon is still the nurse of second woe.

But yet, Poor Claudio! There’s no remedy.

Come, sir.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. Another room in the same.

Enter Provost and a Servant.

SERVANT.

He’s hearing of a cause. He will come straight.

I’ll tell him of you.

PROVOST.

Pray you do.

[_Exit Servant._]

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.

ANGELO.

Now, what’s the matter, Provost?

PROVOST.

Is it your will Claudio shall die tomorrow?

ANGELO.

Did not I tell thee yea? Hadst thou not order?

Why dost thou ask again?

PROVOST.

Lest I might be too rash.

Under your good correction, I have seen

When, after execution, judgement hath

Repented o’er his doom.

ANGELO.

Go to; let that be mine.

Do you your office, or give up your place,

And you shall well be spared.

PROVOST.

I crave your honour’s pardon.

What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet?

She’s very near her hour.

ANGELO.

Dispose of her

To some more fitter place; and that with speed.

Enter Servant.

SERVANT.

Here is the sister of the man condemned

Desires access to you.

ANGELO.

Hath he a sister?

PROVOST.

Ay, my good lord, a very virtuous maid,

And to be shortly of a sisterhood,

If not already.

ANGELO.

Well, let her be admitted.

[_Exit Servant._]

See you the fornicatress be removed;

Let her have needful but not lavish means;

There shall be order for it.

Enter Lucio and Isabella.

PROVOST.

[_Offering to retire_.] Save your honour!

ANGELO.

Stay a little while. [_To Isabella_.] You are welcome. What’s your

will?

ISABELLA.

I am a woeful suitor to your honour,

Please but your honour hear me.

ANGELO.

Well, what’s your suit?

ISABELLA.

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;

For which I must not plead, but that I am

At war ’twixt will and will not.

ANGELO.

Well, the matter?

ISABELLA.

I have a brother is condemned to die;

I do beseech you, let it be his fault,

And not my brother.

PROVOST.

Heaven give thee moving graces.

ANGELO.

Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it?

Why, every fault’s condemned ere it be done.

Mine were the very cipher of a function

To find the faults whose fine stands in record,

And let go by the actor.

ISABELLA.

O just but severe law!

I had a brother, then. Heaven keep your honour!

[_Going._]

LUCIO.

[_To Isabella_.] 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.

ISABELLA.

Must he needs die?

ANGELO.

Maiden, no remedy.

ISABELLA.

Yes, I do think that you might pardon him,

And neither heaven nor man grieve at the mercy.

ANGELO.

I will not do’t.

ISABELLA.

But can you if you would?

ANGELO.

Look, what I will not, that I cannot do.

ISABELLA.

But might you do’t, and do the world no wrong,

If so your heart were touched with that remorse

As mine is to him?

ANGELO.

He’s sentenced, ’tis too late.

LUCIO.

[_To Isabella_.] You are too cold.

ISABELLA.

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 slipped like him, but he like you

Would not have been so stern.

ANGELO.

Pray you be gone.

ISABELLA.

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.

[_Aside_.] Ay, touch him; there’s the vein.

ANGELO.

Your brother is a forfeit of the law,

And you but waste your words.

ISABELLA.

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 judgement, should

But judge you as you are? O, think on that,

And mercy then will breathe within your lips,

Like man new made.

ANGELO.

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 tomorrow.

ISABELLA.

Tomorrow? O, that’s sudden! Spare him, spare him!

He’s not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens

We kill the fowl of season. 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.

ANGELO.

The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept.

Those many had not dared to do that evil

If the first that did th’ edict infringe

Had answered for his deed. Now ’tis awake,

Takes note of what is done, and, like a prophet,

Looks in a glass that shows what future evils,

Either now, or by remissness new conceived,

And so in progress to be hatched and born,

Are now to have no successive degrees,

But, where they live, to end.

ISABELLA.

Yet show some pity.

ANGELO.

I show it most of all when I show justice;

For then I pity those I do not know,

Which a dismissed offence would after gall,

And do him right that, answering one foul wrong,

Lives not to act another. Be satisfied;

Your brother dies tomorrow; be content.

ISABELLA.

So you must be the first that gives this sentence,

And he that suffers. O, it is excellent

To have a giant’s strength; but it is tyrannous

To use it like a giant.

LUCIO.

That’s well said.

ISABELLA.

Could great men thunder

As Jove himself does, Jove would ne’er be quiet,

For every pelting petty officer

Would use his heaven for thunder.

Nothing but thunder. Merciful Heaven,

Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt

Splits the unwedgeable and gnarled oak,

Than the soft myrtle. But man, proud man,

Dressed in a little brief authority,

Most ignorant of what he’s most assured,

His glassy essence, like an angry ape

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven

As makes the angels weep; who, with our spleens,

Would all themselves laugh mortal.

LUCIO.

O, to him, to him, wench! He will relent;

He’s coming. I perceive ’t.

PROVOST.

Pray heaven she win him.

ISABELLA.

We cannot weigh our brother with ourself.

Great men may jest with saints; ’tis wit in them,

But in the less, foul profanation.

LUCIO.

Thou’rt i’ th’ right, girl; more o’ that.

ISABELLA.

That in the captain’s but a choleric word

Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

LUCIO.

Art advised o’ that? More on’t.

ANGELO.

Why do you put these sayings upon me?

ISABELLA.

Because authority, though 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.

ANGELO.

She speaks, and ’tis such sense

That my sense breeds with it. [_Going_.]

Fare you well.

ISABELLA.

Gentle my lord, turn back.

ANGELO.

I will bethink me. Come again tomorrow.

ISABELLA.

Hark how I’ll bribe you. Good my lord, turn back.

ANGELO.

How? Bribe me?

ISABELLA.

Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you.

LUCIO.

You had marred all else.

ISABELLA.

Not with fond shekels of the tested gold,

Or stones, whose rates are either rich or poor

As fancy values them, but with true prayers,

That shall be up at heaven and enter there

Ere sunrise, prayers from preserved souls,

From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate

To nothing temporal.

ANGELO.

Well; come to me tomorrow.

LUCIO.

[_Aside to Isabella_.] Go to, ’tis well; away.

ISABELLA.

Heaven keep your honour safe.

ANGELO.

[_Aside_.] Amen.

For I am that way going to temptation,

Where prayers cross.

ISABELLA.

At what hour tomorrow

Shall I attend your lordship?

ANGELO.

At any time ’fore noon.

ISABELLA.

Save your honour.

[_Exeunt Isabella, Lucio and Provost._]

ANGELO.

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? O, fie, fie, fie!

What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo?

Dost thou desire her foully for those things

That make her good? O, 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’t I dream on?

O 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. Never could the strumpet

With all her double vigour, art, and nature,

Once stir my temper, but this virtuous maid

Subdues me quite. Ever till now

When men were fond, I smiled and wondered how.

[_Exit._]

SCENE III. A room in a prison.

Enter Duke disguised as a Friar, and Provost.

DUKE.

Hail to you, Provost, so I think you are.

PROVOST.

I am the Provost. What’s your will, good friar?

DUKE.

Bound by my charity and my blessed order,

I come to visit the afflicted spirits

Here in the prison. Do me the common right

To let me see them, and to make me know

The nature of their crimes, that I may minister

To them accordingly.

PROVOST.

I would do more than that, if more were needful.

Enter Juliet.

Look, here comes one, a gentlewoman of mine,

Who, falling in the flaws of her own youth,

Hath blistered her report. She is with child,

And he that got it, sentenced: a young man

More fit to do another such offence

Than die for this.

DUKE.

When must he die?

PROVOST.

As I do think, tomorrow.

[_To Juliet_.] I have provided for you; stay a while

And you shall be conducted.

DUKE.

Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry?

JULIET.

I do; and bear the shame most patiently.

DUKE.

I’ll teach you how you shall arraign your conscience,

And try your penitence, if it be sound

Or hollowly put on.

JULIET.

I’ll gladly learn.

DUKE.

Love you the man that wronged you?

JULIET.

Yes, as I love the woman that wronged him.

DUKE.

So then it seems your most offenceful act

Was mutually committed?

JULIET.

Mutually.

DUKE.

Then was your sin of heavier kind than his.

JULIET.

I do confess it, and repent it, father.

DUKE.

’Tis meet so, daughter; but lest you do repent

As that the sin hath brought you to this shame,

Which sorrow is always toward ourselves, not heaven,

Showing we would not spare heaven as we love it,

But as we stand in fear—

JULIET.

I do repent me as it is an evil,

And take the shame with joy.

DUKE.

There rest.

Your partner, as I hear, must die tomorrow,

And I am going with instruction to him.

Grace go with you! _Benedicite!_

[_Exit._]

JULIET.

Must die tomorrow? O, injurious love

That respites me a life, whose very comfort

Is still a dying horror!

PROVOST.

’Tis pity of him.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. A room in Angelo’s house.

Enter Angelo.

ANGELO.

When I would pray and think, I think and pray

To several subjects. Heaven hath my empty words,

Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue,

Anchors on Isabel. Heaven in my mouth,

As if I did but only chew his name,

And in my heart the strong and swelling evil

Of my conception. The state whereon I studied

Is, like a good thing being often read,

Grown sere and tedious; yea, my gravity,

Wherein—let no man hear me—I take pride,

Could I with boot change for an idle plume

Which the air beats for vain. O place, O form,

How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit,

Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls

To thy false seeming! Blood, thou art blood.

Let’s write good angel on the devil’s horn.

’Tis not the devil’s crest.

[_Knock within._]

How now, who’s there?

Enter Servant.

SERVANT.

One Isabel, a sister, desires access to you.

ANGELO.

Teach her the way.

[_Exit Servant._]

O heavens,

Why does my blood thus muster to my heart,

Making both it unable for itself

And dispossessing all my other parts

Of necessary fitness?

So play the foolish throngs with one that swoons,

Come all to help him, and so stop the air

By which he should revive. And even so

The general subject to a well-wished king

Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness

Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love

Must needs appear offence.

Enter Isabella.

How now, fair maid?

ISABELLA.

I am come to know your pleasure.

ANGELO.

That you might know it, would much better please me

Than to demand what ’tis. Your brother cannot live.

ISABELLA.

Even so. Heaven keep your honour.

ANGELO.

Yet may he live a while. And, it may be,

As long as you or I. Yet he must die.

ISABELLA.

Under your sentence?

ANGELO.

Yea.

ISABELLA.

When, I beseech you? That in his reprieve,

Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted

That his soul sicken not.

ANGELO.

Ha! Fie, these filthy vices! It were as good

To pardon him that hath from nature stolen

A man already made, as to remit

Their saucy sweetness that do coin heaven’s image

In stamps that are forbid. ’Tis all as easy

Falsely to take away a life true made

As to put metal in restrained means

To make a false one.

ISABELLA.

’Tis set down so in heaven, but not in earth.

ANGELO.

Say you so? Then I shall pose you quickly.

Which had you rather, that the most just law

Now took your brother’s life; or, to redeem him,

Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness

As she that he hath stained?

ISABELLA.

Sir, believe this:

I had rather give my body than my soul.

ANGELO.

I talk not of your soul. Our compelled sins

Stand more for number than for accompt.

ISABELLA.

How say you?

ANGELO.

Nay, I’ll not warrant that, for I can speak

Against the thing I say. Answer to this:

I, now the voice of the recorded law,

Pronounce a sentence on your brother’s life.

Might there not be a charity in sin

To save this brother’s life?

ISABELLA.

Please you to do’t,

I’ll take it as a peril to my soul;

It is no sin at all, but charity.

ANGELO.

Pleased you to do’t at peril of your soul,

Were equal poise of sin and charity.

ISABELLA.

That I do beg his life, if it be sin,

Heaven let me bear it. You granting of my suit,

If that be sin, I’ll make it my morn prayer

To have it added to the faults of mine,

And nothing of your answer.

ANGELO.

Nay, but hear me.

Your sense pursues not mine. Either you are ignorant,

Or seem so, crafty; and that’s not good.

ISABELLA.

Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good,

But graciously to know I am no better.

ANGELO.

Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright

When it doth tax itself, as these black masks

Proclaim an enshield beauty ten times louder

Than beauty could, displayed. But mark me;

To be received plain, I’ll speak more gross.

Your brother is to die.

ISABELLA.

So.

ANGELO.

And his offence is so, as it appears,

Accountant to the law upon that pain.

ISABELLA.

True.

ANGELO.

Admit no other way to save his life—

As I subscribe not that, nor any other,

But, in the loss of question, that you, his sister,

Finding yourself desired of such a person

Whose 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 save him but that either

You must lay down the treasures of your body

To this supposed, or else to let him suffer,

What would you do?

ISABELLA.

As much for my poor brother as myself.

That is, were I under the terms of death,

Th’ impression of keen whips I’d wear as rubies,

And strip myself to death as to a bed

That longing have been sick for, ere I’d yield

My body up to shame.

ANGELO.

Then must your brother die.

ISABELLA.

And ’twere the cheaper way.

Better it were a brother died at once

Than that a sister, by redeeming him,

Should die for ever.

ANGELO.

Were not you then as cruel as the sentence

That you have slandered so?

ISABELLA.

Ignominy in ransom and free pardon

Are of two houses. Lawful mercy

Is nothing kin to foul redemption.

ANGELO.

You seemed of late to make the law a tyrant,

And rather proved the sliding of your brother

A merriment than a vice.

ISABELLA.

O, pardon me, my lord. It oft falls out,

To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean.

I something do excuse the thing I hate

For his advantage that I dearly love.

ANGELO.

We are all frail.

ISABELLA.

Else let my brother die,

If not a feodary but only he

Owe and succeed by weakness.

ANGELO.

Nay, women are frail too.

ISABELLA.

Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves,

Which are as easy 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 false prints.

ANGELO.

I think it well.

And from this testimony of your own sex,

Since I suppose we are made to be no stronger

Than faults may shake our frames, let me be bold.

I do arrest 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 expressed

By all external warrants, show it now

By putting on the destined livery.

ISABELLA.

I have no tongue but one. Gentle my lord,

Let me intreat you speak the former language.

ANGELO.

Plainly conceive, I love you.

ISABELLA.

My brother did love Juliet,

And you tell me that he shall die for ’t.

ANGELO.

He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love.

ISABELLA.

I know your virtue hath a license in’t,

Which seems a little fouler than it is,

To pluck on others.

ANGELO.

Believe me, on mine honour,

My words express my purpose.

ISABELLA.

Ha! Little honour to be much believed,

And most pernicious purpose! Seeming, seeming!

I will proclaim thee, Angelo, look for’t.

Sign me a present pardon for my brother

Or with an outstretched throat I’ll tell the world aloud

What man thou art.

ANGELO.

Who will believe thee, Isabel?

My unsoiled name, th’ austereness of my life,

My vouch against you, and my place i’ th’ state

Will so your accusation overweigh

That you shall stifle in your own report,

And smell of calumny. I have begun,

And now I give my sensual race the rein.

Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite;

Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes

That banish what they sue 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 ling’ring sufferance. Answer me tomorrow,

Or, by the affection that now guides me most,

I’ll prove a tyrant to him. As for you,

Say what you can, my false o’erweighs your true.

[_Exit._]

ISABELLA.

To whom should I complain? Did I tell this,

Who would believe me? O perilous mouths,

That bear in them one and the self-same tongue

Either of condemnation or approof,

Bidding the law make curtsy to their will,

Hooking both right and wrong to th’ appetite,

To follow as it draws! I’ll to my brother.

Though he hath fall’n by prompture of the blood,

Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour

That, had he twenty heads to tender down

On twenty bloody blocks, he’d yield them up

Before his sister should her body stoop

To such abhorred pollution.

Then, Isabel, 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 soul’s rest.

[_Exit._]

ACT III

SCENE I. A room in the prison.

Enter Duke, Claudio and Provost.

DUKE.

So then you hope of pardon from Lord Angelo?

CLAUDIO.

The miserable have no other medicine

But only hope.

I have hope to live, and am prepared to die.

DUKE.

Be absolute for death. Either death or life

Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life:

If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing

That none but fools would keep. A breath thou art,

Servile to all the skyey influences

That dost this habitation where thou keep’st

Hourly afflict. Merely, thou art death’s fool;

For him thou labour’st by thy flight to shun,

And yet runn’st toward him still. Thou art not noble;

For all th’ accommodations that thou bear’st

Are nursed by baseness. Thou’rt by no means valiant;

For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork

Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep,

And that thou oft provok’st, yet grossly fear’st

Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;

For thou exists on many a thousand grains

That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;

For what thou hast not, still thou striv’st to get,

And what thou hast, forget’st. Thou art not certain;

For thy complexion shifts to strange effects

After the moon. If thou art rich, thou’rt poor;

For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows,

Thou bear’st thy heavy riches but a journey,

And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none;

For thine own bowels which do call thee sire,

The mere effusion of thy proper loins,

Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum

For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age,

But as it were an after-dinner’s sleep

Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth

Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms

Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich,

Thou hast 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 these odds all even.

CLAUDIO.

I humbly thank you.

To sue to live, I find I seek to die,

And seeking death, find life. Let it come on.

ISABELLA.

[_Within_.] What ho! Peace here; grace and good company!

PROVOST.

Who’s there? Come in. The wish deserves a welcome.

DUKE.

Dear sir, ere long I’ll visit you again.

CLAUDIO.

Most holy sir, I thank you.

Enter Isabella.

ISABELLA.

My business is a word or two with Claudio.

PROVOST.

And very welcome. Look, signior, here’s your sister.

DUKE.

Provost, a word with you.

PROVOST.

As many as you please.

DUKE.

Bring me to hear them speak, where I may be concealed.

[_Exeunt Duke and Provost._]

CLAUDIO.

Now, sister, what’s the comfort?

ISABELLA.

Why,

As all comforts are, most good, most good indeed.

Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven,

Intends you for his swift ambassador,

Where you shall be an everlasting leiger.

Therefore your best appointment make with speed;

Tomorrow you set on.

CLAUDIO.

Is there no remedy?

ISABELLA.

None, but such remedy as, to save a head,

To cleave a heart in twain.

CLAUDIO.

But is there any?

ISABELLA.

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.

CLAUDIO.

Perpetual durance?

ISABELLA.

Ay, just; perpetual durance; a restraint,

Though all the world’s vastidity you had,

To a determined scope.

CLAUDIO.

But in what nature?

ISABELLA.

In such a one as, you consenting to’t,

Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear,

And leave you naked.

CLAUDIO.

Let me know the point.

ISABELLA.

O, I do fear thee, Claudio, and I quake,

Lest thou a feverous life shouldst 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 corporal sufferance finds a pang as great

As when a giant dies.

CLAUDIO.

Why give you me this shame?

Think you I can a resolution fetch

From flowery tenderness? If I must die,

I will encounter darkness as a bride

And hug it in mine arms.

ISABELLA.

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 deliberate word

Nips youth i’ th’ head, and follies doth enew

As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil.

His filth within being cast, he would appear

A pond as deep as hell.

CLAUDIO.

The precise Angelo?

ISABELLA.

O, ’tis the cunning livery of hell

The damned’st body to invest and cover

In precise guards! Dost thou think, Claudio,

If I would yield him my virginity

Thou mightst be freed?

CLAUDIO.

O heavens, it cannot be.

ISABELLA.

Yes, he would give it 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 diest tomorrow.

CLAUDIO.

Thou shalt not do’t.

ISABELLA.

O, were it but my life,

I’d throw it down for your deliverance

As frankly as a pin.

CLAUDIO.

Thanks, dear Isabel.

ISABELLA.

Be ready, Claudio, for your death tomorrow.

CLAUDIO.

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.

ISABELLA.

Which is the least?

CLAUDIO.

If it were damnable, he being so wise,

Why would he for the momentary trick

Be perdurably fined? O Isabel!

ISABELLA.

What says my brother?

CLAUDIO.

Death is a fearful thing.

ISABELLA.

And shamed life a hateful.

CLAUDIO.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;

To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;

This sensible warm motion to become

A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit

To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside

In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;

To be imprisoned in the viewless winds

And blown with restless violence round about

The pendent world; or to be worse than worst

Of those that lawless and incertain thought

Imagine howling—’tis too horrible.

The weariest and most loathed worldly life

That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment

Can lay on nature is a paradise

To what we fear of death.

ISABELLA.

Alas, alas!

CLAUDIO.

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.

ISABELLA.

O, you beast!

O faithless coward! O 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?

Heaven shield my mother played my father fair,

For such a warped slip of wilderness

Ne’er issued from his blood. Take my defiance,

Die, perish! Might but my bending down

Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed.

I’ll pray a thousand prayers for thy death,

No word to save thee.

CLAUDIO.

Nay, hear me, Isabel.

ISABELLA.

O fie, fie, fie!

Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade.

Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd.

’Tis best that thou diest quickly.

[_Going._]

CLAUDIO.

O, hear me, Isabella.

Enter Duke as a Friar.

DUKE.

Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one word.

ISABELLA.

What is your will?

DUKE.

Might you dispense with your leisure, I would by and by have some

speech with you. The satisfaction I would require is likewise your own

benefit.

ISABELLA.

I have no superfluous leisure, my stay must be stolen out of other

affairs, but I will attend you a while.

DUKE.

[_To Claudio aside_.] Son, I have overheard what hath passed between

you and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; only

he hath made an assay of her virtue, to practise his judgement with the

disposition of natures. She, having the truth of honour in her, hath

made him that gracious denial which he is most glad to receive. I am

confessor to Angelo, and I know this to be true; therefore prepare

yourself to death. Do not satisfy your resolution with hopes that are

fallible. Tomorrow you must die; go to your knees and make ready.

CLAUDIO.

Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so out of love with life that I will

sue to be rid of it.

DUKE.

Hold you there. Farewell.

[_Exit Claudio._]

Enter Provost.

Provost, a word with you.

PROVOST.

What’s your will, father?

DUKE.

That, now you are come, you will be gone. Leave me a while with the

maid; my mind promises with my habit no loss shall touch her by my

company.

PROVOST.

In good time.

[_Exit Provost._]

DUKE.

The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good. The goodness that

is cheap in beauty makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being the

soul of your complexion, shall keep the body of it ever fair. The

assault that Angelo hath made to you, fortune hath conveyed to my

understanding; and, but that frailty hath examples for his falling, I

should wonder at Angelo. How will you do to content this substitute,

and to save your brother?

ISABELLA.

I am now going to resolve him. I had rather my brother die by the law

than my son should be unlawfully born. But, O, how much is the good

Duke deceived in Angelo! If ever he return, and I can speak to him, I

will open my lips in vain, or discover his government.

DUKE.

That shall not be much amiss. Yet, as the matter now stands, he will

avoid your accusation: he made trial of you only. Therefore fasten your

ear on my advisings, to the love I have in doing good, a remedy

presents itself. I do make myself believe that you may most

uprighteously do a poor wronged lady a merited benefit; redeem your

brother from the angry law; do no stain to your own gracious person;

and much please the absent Duke, if peradventure he shall ever return

to have hearing of this business.

ISABELLA.

Let me hear you speak farther. I have spirit to do anything that

appears not foul in the truth of my spirit.

DUKE.

Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. Have you not heard speak of

Mariana, the sister of Frederick, the great soldier who miscarried at

sea?

ISABELLA.

I have heard of the lady, and good words went with her name.

DUKE.

She should this Angelo have married, was affianced to her oath, and the

nuptial appointed. Between which time of the contract and limit of the

solemnity, her brother Frederick was wrecked at sea, having in that

perished vessel the dowry of his sister. But mark how heavily this

befell to the poor gentlewoman. There she lost a noble and renowned

brother, in his love toward her ever most kind and natural; with him,

the portion and sinew of her fortune, her marriage dowry; with both,

her combinate husband, this well-seeming Angelo.

ISABELLA.

Can this be so? Did Angelo so leave her?

DUKE.

Left her in her tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort,

swallowed his vows whole, pretending in her discoveries of dishonour;

in few, bestowed her on her own lamentation, which she yet wears for

his sake; and he, a marble to her tears, is washed with them, but

relents not.

ISABELLA.

What a merit were it in death to take this poor maid from the world!

What corruption in this life, that it will let this man live! But how

out of this can she avail?

DUKE.

It is a rupture that you may easily heal, and the cure of it not only

saves your brother, but keeps you from dishonour in doing it.

ISABELLA.

Show me how, good father.

DUKE.

This forenamed maid hath yet in her the continuance of her first

affection. His unjust unkindness, that in all reason should have

quenched her love, hath, like an impediment in the current, made it

more violent and unruly. Go you to Angelo; answer his requiring with a

plausible obedience; agree with his demands to the point. Only refer

yourself to this advantage: first, that your stay with him may not be

long; that the time may have all shadow and silence in it; and the

place answer to convenience. This being granted in course, and now

follows all. We shall advise this wronged maid to stead up your

appointment, go in your place. If the encounter acknowledge itself

hereafter, it may compel him to her recompense; and here, by this, is

your brother saved, your honour untainted, the poor Mariana advantaged,

and the corrupt deputy scaled. The maid will I frame and make fit for

his attempt. If you think well to carry this as you may, the doubleness

of the benefit defends the deceit from reproof. What think you of it?

ISABELLA.

The image of it gives me content already, and I trust it will grow to a

most prosperous perfection.

DUKE.

It lies much in your holding up. Haste you speedily to Angelo; if for

this night he entreat you to his bed, give him promise of satisfaction.

I will presently to Saint Luke’s; there at the moated grange resides

this dejected Mariana. At that place call upon me; and dispatch with

Angelo, that it may be quickly.

ISABELLA.

I thank you for this comfort. Fare you well, good father.

[_Exit Isabella._]

SCENE II. The street before the prison.

Enter Elbow, Pompey and Officers.

ELBOW.

Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that you will needs buy and sell

men and women like beasts, we shall have all the world drink brown and

white bastard.

DUKE.

O heavens, what stuff is here?

POMPEY.

’Twas never merry world since, of two usuries, the merriest was put

down, and the worser allowed by order of law a furred gown to keep him

warm; and furred with fox on lambskins too, to signify that craft,

being richer than innocency, stands for the facing.

ELBOW.

Come your way, sir.—Bless you, good father friar.

DUKE.

And you, good brother father. What offence hath this man made you, sir?

ELBOW.

Marry, sir, he hath offended the law; and, sir, we take him to be a

thief too, sir; for we have found upon him, sir, a strange picklock,

which we have sent to the deputy.

DUKE.

Fie, sirrah, a bawd, a wicked bawd;

The evil that thou causest to be done,

That is thy means to live. Do thou but think

What ’tis to cram a maw or clothe a back

From such a filthy vice. Say to thyself,

From their abominable and beastly touches

I drink, I eat, array myself, and live.

Canst thou believe thy living is a life,

So stinkingly depending? Go mend, go mend.

POMPEY.

Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir. But yet, sir, I would prove—

DUKE.

Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs for sin,

Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer.

Correction and instruction must both work

Ere this rude beast will profit.

ELBOW.

He must before the deputy, sir; he has given him warning. The deputy

cannot abide a whoremaster. If he be a whoremonger and comes before

him, he were as good go a mile on his errand.

DUKE.

That we were all, as some would seem to be,

Free from our faults, as faults from seeming, free!

ELBOW.

His neck will come to your waist—a cord, sir.

Enter Lucio.

POMPEY.

I spy comfort, I cry bail! Here’s a gentleman, and a friend of mine.

LUCIO.

How now, noble Pompey? What, at the wheels of Caesar? Art thou led in

triumph? What, is there none of Pygmalion’s images, newly made woman,

to be had now, for putting the hand in the pocket and extracting it

clutched? What reply, ha? What say’st thou to this tune, matter, and

method? Is’t not drowned i’ th’ last rain, ha? What say’st thou, trot?

Is the world as it was, man? Which is the way? Is it sad and few words?

Or how? The trick of it?

DUKE.

Still thus, and thus; still worse!

LUCIO.

How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress? Procures she still, ha?

POMPEY.

Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, and she is herself in the

tub.

LUCIO.

Why, ’tis good. It is the right of it. It must be so. Ever your fresh

whore and your powdered bawd; an unshunned consequence; it must be so.

Art going to prison, Pompey?

POMPEY.

Yes, faith, sir.

LUCIO.

Why, ’tis not amiss, Pompey. Farewell. Go, say I sent thee thither. For

debt, Pompey? Or how?

ELBOW.

For being a bawd, for being a bawd.

LUCIO.

Well, then, imprison him. If imprisonment be the due of a bawd, why,

’tis his right. Bawd is he doubtless, and of antiquity, too. Bawd born.

Farewell, good Pompey. Commend me to the prison, Pompey. You will turn

good husband now, Pompey; you will keep the house.

POMPEY.

I hope, sir, your good worship will be my bail.

LUCIO.

No, indeed, will I not, Pompey; it is not the wear. I will pray,

Pompey, to increase your bondage. If you take it not patiently, why,

your mettle is the more. Adieu, trusty Pompey.—Bless you, friar.

DUKE.

And you.

LUCIO.

Does Bridget paint still, Pompey, ha?

ELBOW.

Come your ways, sir, come.

POMPEY.

You will not bail me then, sir?

LUCIO.

Then, Pompey, nor now.—What news abroad, friar? What news?

ELBOW.

Come your ways, sir, come.

LUCIO.

Go to kennel, Pompey, go.

[_Exeunt Elbow, Pompey and Officers._]

What news, friar, of the Duke?

DUKE.

I know none. Can you tell me of any?

LUCIO.

Some say he is with the Emperor of Russia; other some, he is in Rome.

But where is he, think you?

DUKE.

I know not where, but wheresoever, I wish him well.

LUCIO.

It was a mad fantastical trick of him to steal from the state and usurp

the beggary he was never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it well in his

absence. He puts transgression to’t.

DUKE.

He does well in’t.

LUCIO.

A little more lenity to lechery would do no harm in him. Something too

crabbed that way, friar.

DUKE.

It is too general a vice, and severity must cure it.

LUCIO.

Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a great kindred; it is well allied;

but it is impossible to extirp it quite, friar, till eating and

drinking be put down. They say this Angelo was not made by man and

woman after this downright way of creation. Is it true, think you?

DUKE.

How should he be made, then?

LUCIO.

Some report a sea-maid spawned him; some, that he was begot between two

stockfishes. But it is certain that when he makes water, his urine is

congealed ice; that I know to be true. And he is a motion ungenerative;

that’s infallible.

DUKE.

You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace.

LUCIO.

Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him, for the rebellion of a

codpiece to take away the life of a man! Would the Duke that is absent

have done this? Ere he would have hanged a man for the getting a

hundred bastards, he would have paid for the nursing a thousand. He had

some feeling of the sport; he knew the service, and that instructed him

to mercy.

DUKE.

I never heard the absent Duke much detected for women; he was not

inclined that way.

LUCIO.

O, sir, you are deceived.

DUKE.

’Tis not possible.

LUCIO.

Who, not the Duke? Yes, your beggar of fifty; and his use was to put a

ducat in her clack-dish. The Duke had crotchets in him. He would be

drunk too, that let me inform you.

DUKE.

You do him wrong, surely.

LUCIO.

Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy fellow was the Duke; and I believe I

know the cause of his withdrawing.

DUKE.

What, I prithee, might be the cause?

LUCIO.

No, pardon. ’Tis a secret must be locked within the teeth and the lips.

But this I can let you understand: the greater file of the subject held

the Duke to be wise.

DUKE.

Wise? Why, no question but he was.

LUCIO.

A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow.

DUKE.

Either this is envy in you, folly, or mistaking. The very stream of his

life, and the business he hath helmed, must upon a warranted need give

him a better proclamation. Let him be but testimonied in his own

bringings-forth, and he shall appear to the envious a scholar, a

statesman, and a soldier. Therefore you speak unskilfully. Or, if your

knowledge be more, it is much darkened in your malice.

LUCIO.

Sir, I know him, and I love him.

DUKE.

Love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge with dearer love.

LUCIO.

Come, sir, I know what I know.

DUKE.

I can hardly believe that, since you know not what you speak. But, if

ever the Duke return, as our prayers are he may, let me desire you to

make your answer before him. If it be honest you have spoke, you have

courage to maintain it. I am bound to call upon you, and I pray you

your name?

LUCIO.

Sir, my name is Lucio, well known to the Duke.

DUKE.

He shall know you better, sir, if I may live to report you.

LUCIO.

I fear you not.

DUKE.

O, you hope the Duke will return no more; or you imagine me too

unhurtful an opposite. But indeed, I can do you little harm. You’ll

forswear this again.

LUCIO.

I’ll be hanged first! Thou art deceived in me, friar. But no more of

this. Canst thou tell if Claudio die tomorrow or no?

DUKE.

Why should he die, sir?

LUCIO.

Why? For filling a bottle with a tun-dish. I would the Duke we talk of

were returned again. This ungenitured agent will unpeople the province

with continency. Sparrows must not build in his house-eaves because

they are lecherous. The Duke yet would have dark deeds darkly answered.

He would never bring them to light. Would he were returned! Marry, this

Claudio is condemned for untrussing. Farewell, good friar, I prithee

pray for me. The Duke, I say to thee again, would eat mutton on

Fridays. He’s now past it; yet, and, I say to thee, he would mouth with

a beggar though she smelt brown bread and garlic. Say that I said so.

Farewell.

[_Exit._]

DUKE.

No might nor greatness in mortality

Can censure ’scape. Back-wounding calumny

The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong

Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue?

But who comes here?

Enter Escalus, Provost and Officers with Mistress Overdone, a Bawd.

ESCALUS.

Go, away with her to prison.

BAWD.

Good my lord, be good to me. Your honour is accounted a merciful man,

good my lord.

ESCALUS.

Double and treble admonition, and still forfeit in the same kind? This

would make mercy swear and play the tyrant.

PROVOST.

A bawd of eleven years’ continuance, may it please your honour.

BAWD.

My lord, this is one Lucio’s information against me. Mistress Kate

Keepdown was with child by him in the Duke’s time; he promised her

marriage. His child is a year and a quarter old come Philip and Jacob.

I have kept it myself; and see how he goes about to abuse me.

ESCALUS.

That fellow is a fellow of much license. Let him be called before us.

Away with her to prison. Go to, no more words.

[_Exeunt Officers with Bawd._]

Provost, my brother Angelo will not be altered; Claudio must die

tomorrow. Let him be furnished with divines, and have all charitable

preparation. If my brother wrought by my pity, it should not be so with

him.

PROVOST.

So please you, this friar hath been with him, and advised him for th’

entertainment of death.

ESCALUS.

Good even, good father.

DUKE.

Bliss and goodness on you!

ESCALUS.

Of whence are you?

DUKE.

Not of this country, though my chance is now

To use it for my time. I am a brother

Of gracious order, late come from the See

In special business from his Holiness.

ESCALUS.

What news abroad i’ th’ world?

DUKE.

None, but that there is so great a fever on goodness that the

dissolution of it must cure it. Novelty is only in request, and as it

is as dangerous to be aged in any kind of course as it is virtuous to

be constant in any undertaking. There is scarce truth enough alive to

make societies secure; but security enough to make fellowships

accursed. Much upon this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. This news

is old enough, yet it is every day’s news. I pray you, sir, of what

disposition was the Duke?

ESCALUS.

One that, above all other strifes, contended especially to know

himself.

DUKE.

What pleasure was he given to?

ESCALUS.

Rather rejoicing to see another merry, than merry at anything which

professed to make him rejoice. A gentleman of all temperance. But leave

we him to his events, with a prayer they may prove prosperous, and let

me desire to know how you find Claudio prepared. I am made to

understand that you have lent him visitation.

DUKE.

He professes to have received no sinister measure from his judge, but

most willingly humbles himself to the determination of justice. Yet had

he framed to himself, by the instruction of his frailty, many deceiving

promises of life, which I, by my good leisure, have discredited to him,

and now he is resolved to die.

ESCALUS.

You have paid the heavens your function, and the prisoner the very debt

of your calling. I have laboured for the poor gentleman to the

extremest shore of my modesty, but my brother justice have I found so

severe that he hath forced me to tell him he is indeed Justice.

DUKE.

If his own life answer the straitness of his proceeding, it shall

become him well; wherein if he chance to fail, he hath sentenced

himself.

ESCALUS.

I am going to visit the prisoner. Fare you well.

DUKE.

Peace be with you.

[_Exeunt Escalus and Provost._]

He who the sword of heaven will bear

Should be as holy as severe,

Pattern in himself to know,

Grace to stand, and virtue go;

More nor less to others paying

Than by self-offences weighing.

Shame to him whose cruel striking

Kills for faults of his own liking!

Twice treble shame on Angelo,

To weed my vice, and let his grow!

O, what may man within him hide,

Though angel on the outward side!

How may likeness, made in crimes,

Make practice on the times,

To draw with idle spiders’ strings

Most ponderous and substantial things!

Craft against vice I must apply.

With Angelo tonight shall lie

His old betrothed but despised.

So disguise shall, by th’ disguised,

Pay with falsehood false exacting,

And perform an old contracting.

[_Exit._]

ACT IV

SCENE I. A room in Mariana’s house.

Enter Mariana and a Boy singing.

SONG

_ Take, O take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn,

And those eyes, the break of day,

Lights that do mislead the morn.

But my kisses bring again,

Bring again;

Seals of love, but sealed in vain,

Sealed in vain._

Enter Duke as a Friar.

MARIANA.

Break off thy song, and haste thee quick away;

Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice

Hath often stilled my brawling discontent.

[_Exit Boy._]

I cry you mercy, sir, and well could wish

You had not found me here so musical.

Let me excuse me, and believe me so,

My mirth it much displeased, but pleased my woe.

DUKE.

’Tis good; though music oft hath such a charm

To make bad good and good provoke to harm.

I pray you tell me, hath anybody inquired for me here today? Much upon

this time have I promised here to meet.

MARIANA.

You have not been inquired after. I have sat here all day.

Enter Isabella.

DUKE.

I do constantly believe you. The time is come even now. I shall crave

your forbearance a little. Maybe I will call upon you anon for some

advantage to yourself.

MARIANA.

I am always bound to you.

[_Exit._]

DUKE.

Very well met, and welcome.

What is the news from this good deputy?

ISABELLA.

He hath a garden circummured with brick,

Whose western side is with a vineyard backed;

And to that vineyard is a planched gate

That makes his opening with this bigger key.

This other doth command a little door

Which from the vineyard to the garden leads;

There have I made my promise, upon the

Heavy middle of the night to call on him.

DUKE.

But shall you on your knowledge find this way?

ISABELLA.

I have ta’en a due and wary note upon’t;

With whispering and most guilty diligence,

In action all of precept, he did show me

The way twice o’er.

DUKE.

Are there no other tokens

Between you ’greed concerning her observance?

ISABELLA.

No, none, but only a repair i’ th’ dark,

And that I have possessed him my most stay

Can be but brief, for I have made him know

I have a servant comes with me along,

That stays upon me; whose persuasion is

I come about my brother.

DUKE.

’Tis well borne up.

I have not yet made known to Mariana

A word of this.—What ho, within! Come forth.

Enter Mariana.

I pray you be acquainted with this maid;

She comes to do you good.

ISABELLA.

I do desire the like.

DUKE.

Do you persuade yourself that I respect you?

MARIANA.

Good friar, I know you do, and have found it.

DUKE.

Take, then, this your companion by the hand,

Who hath a story ready for your ear.

I shall attend your leisure; but make haste.

The vaporous night approaches.

MARIANA.

Will’t please you walk aside?

[_Exeunt Mariana and Isabella._]

DUKE.

O place and greatness, millions of false eyes

Are stuck upon thee; volumes of report

Run with these false, and most contrarious quest

Upon thy doings; thousand escapes of wit

Make thee the father of their idle dream

And rack thee in their fancies.

Enter Mariana and Isabella.

Welcome; how agreed?

ISABELLA.

She’ll take the enterprise upon her, father,

If you advise it.

DUKE.

It is not my consent,

But my entreaty too.

ISABELLA.

Little have you to say

When you depart from him, but, soft and low,

“Remember now my brother.”

MARIANA.

Fear me not.

DUKE.

Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at all.

He is your husband on a pre-contract.

To bring you thus together ’tis no sin,

Sith that the justice of your title to him

Doth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go;

Our corn’s to reap, for yet our tithe’s to sow.

[_Exeunt._]