So then you hope of pardon from Lord Angelo?

The miserable have no other medicine

But only hope.

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

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.

I humbly thank you.

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

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

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

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

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

Most holy sir, I thank you.

My business is a word or two with Claudio.

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

Provost, a word with you.

As many as you please.

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

Now, sister, what’s the comfort?

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.

Is there no remedy?

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

To cleave a heart in twain.

But is there any?

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.

Perpetual durance?

Ay, just; perpetual durance; a restraint,

Though all the world’s vastidity you had,

To a determined scope.

But in what nature?

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

Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear,

And leave you naked.

Let me know the point.

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.

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.

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.

The precise Angelo?

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?

O heavens, it cannot be.

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.

Thou shalt not do’t.

O, were it but my life,

I’d throw it down for your deliverance

As frankly as a pin.

Thanks, dear Isabel.

Be ready, Claudio, for your death tomorrow.

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.

Which is the least?

If it were damnable, he being so wise,

Why would he for the momentary trick

Be perdurably fined? O Isabel!

What says my brother?

Death is a fearful thing.

And shamed life a hateful.

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.

Alas, alas!

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.

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.

Nay, hear me, Isabel.

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.

O, hear me, Isabella.

Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one word.

What is your will?

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.

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

affairs, but I will attend you a while.

[_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.

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

sue to be rid of it.

Hold you there. Farewell.

Provost, a word with you.

What’s your will, father?

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.

In good time.

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?

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.

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.

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

appears not foul in the truth of my spirit.

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?

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

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.

Can this be so? Did Angelo so leave her?

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.

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?

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.

Show me how, good father.

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?

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

most prosperous perfection.

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.

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