Ang. Go to; let that be mine: Do you your office, or give up your place, Prov. I crave your honour's pardon. What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet ? Ang. Dispose of her To some more fitter place; and that with speed. Re-enter Servant. Serv. Here is the sister of the man condemn'd, Desires access to you. Ang. Hath he a sister? Prov. Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous maid, And to be shortly of a sisterhood, Let her have needful, but not lavish, means; There shall be order for it. Enter LUCIO and ISABELLA. Prov. Save your honour! [Offering to retire. Ang. Stay a little while.-[To ISAB.] you are wel come: What's your will? Isab. I am a woeful suitor to your honour, Please but your honour hear me. Ang. Well; what's your suit? Isab. 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. Ang. Well; the matter? Isab. I have a brother is condemn'd to die: I do beseech you, let it be his fault, And not my brother. Prov. Heaven give thee moving graces! Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it! Isab. O just, but severe law! I had a brother then.-Heaven keep your honour! [Retiring. Lucio. [To ISAB.] Give't not o'er so: to him again, intreat 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: Isab. Must he needs die? Ang. Maiden, no remedy. Isab. Yes; I do think that you might pardon him, And neither heaven, nor man, grieve at the mercy. Ang. I will not do't. Isab. But can you, if you would? Ang. Look, what I will not, that I cannot do. Isab. But might you do't, and do the world no wrong, If so, your heart were touch'd with that remorse As mine is to him? Ang. He's sentenc'd; 'tis too late. Lucio. You are too cold. [TO ISABELLA. Isab. Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a word, Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, And you as he, you would have slipt like him; Isab. I would to heaven I had your potency, Lucio. Ay, touch him: there's the vein. And you but waste your words. Isab. Alas! alas! Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once; Ang. Be you content, fair maid; It is the law, not I, condemns your brother: [Aside. It should be thus with him;-he must die to-morrow. Isab. To-morrow? O, that's sudden! Spare him, spare him: He's not prepar'd for death! Even for our kitchens To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you : There's many have committed it. Lucio. Ay, well said. Ang. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept: Those many had not dar'd to do that evil, If the first man, that did the edict infringe, Takes note of what is done; and, like a prophet, Isab. Yet show some pity. Ang. I show it most of all, when I show justice; For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall; And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong, Lives not to act another. Be satisfied; Your brother dies to-morrow; be content. Isab. 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. Isab. Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, Would use his heaven for thunder; nothing but thun der. Merciful heaven! Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, Than the soft myrtle;-O, but man, proud man! Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd, Plays such fantastick tricks before high heaven, Lucio. O, to him, to him, wench: he will relent; Prov. Pray heaven, she win him! Isab. 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 in the right, girl; more o' that. Isab. That in the captain's but a cholerick word, Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. Lucio. Art advis'd o' that? more on't. Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me? Isab. Because authority, though it err like others, Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, That skins the vice o' the 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 Ang. She speaks, and 'tis |