Shakespeare's First Folio Part 62

Ang. I will not doe't

Isab. But can you if you would?

Ang. Looke what I will not, that I cannot doe

Isab. But might you doe't & do the world no wrong If so your heart were touch'd with that remorse, As mine is to him?

Ang. Hee's sentenc'd, tis too late

Luc. You are too cold

Isab. Too late? why no: I that doe speak a word May call it againe: well, beleeue this No ceremony that to great ones longs, Not the Kings Crowne; nor the deputed sword, The Marshalls Truncheon, nor the Iudges Robe Become them with one halfe so good a grace As mercie does: If he had bin as you, and you as he, You would haue slipt like him, but he like you Would not haue beene so sterne

Ang. Pray you be gone

Isab. I would to heauen I had your potencie, And you were Isabell: should it then be thus?

No: I would tell what 'twere to be a Iudge, And what a prisoner

Luc. I, touch him: there's the veine

Ang. Your Brother is a forfeit of the Law, And you but waste your words

Isab. Alas, alas: Why all the soules that were, were forfeit once, And he that might the vantage best haue tooke, Found out the remedie: how would you be, If he, which is the top of Iudgement, should But iudge you, as you are? Oh, thinke on that, And mercie then will breathe within your lips Like man new made

Ang. Be you content, (faire Maid) It is the Law, not I, condemne your brother, Were he my kinsman, brother, or my sonne, It should be thus with him: he must die to morrow

Isab. To morrow? oh, that's sodaine, Spare him, spare him: Hee's not prepar'd for death; euen for our kitchins We kill the fowle of season: shall we serue heauen With lesse respect then we doe minister To our grosse-selues? good, good my Lord, bethink you; Who is it that hath di'd for this offence?

There's many haue committed it

Luc. I, well said

Ang. The Law hath not bin dead, thogh it hath slept Those many had not dar'd to doe that euill If the first, that did th' Edict infringe Had answer'd for his deed. Now 'tis awake, Takes note of what is done, and like a Prophet Lookes in a gla.s.se that shewes what future euils Either now, or by remissenesse, new conceiu'd, And so in progresse to be hatch'd, and borne, Are now to haue no successiue degrees, But here they liue to end

Isab. Yet shew some pittie

Ang. I shew it most of all, when I show Iustice; For then I pittie those I doe not know, Which a dismis'd offence, would after gaule And doe him right, that answering one foule wrong Liues not to act another. Be satisfied; Your Brother dies to morrow; be content

Isab. So you must be y first that giues this sentence, And hee, that suffers: Oh, it is excellent To haue a Giants strength: but it is tyrannous To vse it like a Giant

Luc. That's well said

Isab. Could great men thunder As Ioue himselfe do's, Ioue would neuer be quiet, For euery pelting petty Officer Would vse his heauen for thunder; Nothing but thunder: Mercifull heauen, Thou rather with thy sharpe and sulpherous bolt Splits the vn-wedgable and gnarled Oke, Then the soft Mertill: But man, proud man, Drest in a little briefe authoritie, Most ignorant of what he's most a.s.sur'd, (His gla.s.sie Essence) like an angry Ape Plaies such phantastique tricks before high heauen, As makes the Angels weepe: who with our spleenes, Would all themselues laugh mortall

Luc. Oh, to him, to him wench: he will relent, Hee's comming: I perceiue't

Pro. Pray heauen she win him

Isab. We cannot weigh our brother with our selfe, Great men may iest with Saints: tis wit in them, But in the lesse fowle prophanation

Luc. Thou'rt i'th right (Girle) more o'that

Isab. That in the Captaine's but a chollericke word, Which in the Souldier is flat blasphemie

Luc. Art auis'd o'that? more on't

Ang. Why doe you put these sayings vpon me?

Isab. Because Authoritie, though it erre like others, Hath yet a kinde of medicine in it selfe That skins the vice o'th top; goe to your bosome, Knock there, and aske your heart what it doth know That's like my brothers fault: if it confesse A naturall guiltinesse, such as is his, Let it not sound a thought vpon your tongue Against my brothers life

Ang. Shee speakes, and 'tis such sence That my Sence breeds with it; fare you well

Isab. Gentle my Lord, turne backe

Ang. I will bethinke me: come againe to morrow

Isa. Hark, how Ile bribe you: good my Lord turn back

Ang. How? bribe me?

Is. I, with such gifts that heauen shall share with you

Luc. You had mar'd all else

Isab. Not with fond Sickles of the tested-gold, Or Stones, whose rate are either rich, or poore As fancie values them: but with true prayers, That shall be vp at heauen, and enter there Ere Sunne rise: prayers from preserued soules, From fasting Maides, whose mindes are dedicate To nothing temporall

Ang. Well: come to me to morrow

Luc. Goe to: 'tis well; away

Isab. Heauen keepe your honour safe

Ang. Amen.

For I am that way going to temptation, Where prayers crosse

Isab. At what hower to morrow, Shall I attend your Lordship?

Ang. At any time 'fore-noone

Isab. 'Saue your Honour

Ang. From thee: euen from thy vertue.

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 Sunne, Doe as the Carrion do's, not as the flowre, Corrupt with vertuous season: Can it be, That Modesty may more betray our Sence Then womans lightnesse? hauing waste ground enough, Shall we desire to raze the Sanctuary And pitch our euils there? oh fie, fie, fie: What dost thou? or what art thou Angelo?

Dost thou desire her fowly, for those things That make her good? oh, let her brother liue: Theeues for their robbery haue authority, When Iudges steale themselues: what, doe I loue her, That I desire to heare her speake againe?

And feast vpon her eyes? what is't I dreame on?

Oh cunning enemy, that to catch a Saint, With Saints dost bait thy hooke: most dangerous Is that temptation, that doth goad vs on To sinne, in louing vertue: neuer could the Strumpet With all her double vigor, Art, and Nature Once stir my temper: but this vertuous Maid Subdues me quite: Euer till now When men were fond, I smild, and wondred how.

Enter.

Scena Tertia.