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Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness,
Sir, believe this,
Ang. I talk not of your soul: Our compellid sins Stand more for number than accompt. Isab.
Ilow say you?
Please you to do't,
Ang. Pleas'd you to do't, at peril of your soul, Were equal poize of sin and charity.
Isab. That I do beg his life, if it be sin,
Nay, but hear me : Your sense pursues not mine: either you are igno
rant, Or seem so, craftily; and that's not good.
Isab. Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good, But graciously to know I am no better.
Ang. 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 receiv'd plain, I'll speak more gross: Your brother is to die.
Ang. And his offence is so, as it appears Accouutant to the law upon that paint.
• Enshielded, covered.
Ang. Admit no other way to save his life (As I subscribe* not that, nor any other, But in the loss of questiont), that you, his sister, Finding yourself desir'd 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 ydur body
To tliis supposed, or else let him suffer; What would
do? Isab. As much for my poor brother, as myself: That is, Were I under the terms of death, The impression of keen whips I'd wear as rubies, And strip myself to death, as to a bed That longing I have been sick for, ere I'd yield My body up to shame. Ang.
Then must your brother die. · Isab. And 'twere the cheaper way: Better it were, a brother died at once, Than that a sister, by redeeming him, Should die for ever.
Ang. Were not you then as cruel as the sentence That you have slander'd so?
Isab. Ignomyi in ransom, and free pardon, Are of two houses : lawful mercy is Nothing akin to foul redemption. Ang. You seem'u of late to make the law a ty.
rant, And rather prov'd the sliding of A merriment than a vice.
Isab. O, pardon me, my lord; it oft falls out, To have what we'd have, we speak not what we
Ang. We are all frail,
Else let my brother die,
• Agree to.
If not a feodary*, but only he,
Nay, women are frail too. Isub. Ay, as the glasses where they view them
selves; 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 printst. Ang
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 express d By all external warrants), show it now, By putting on the destin'd livery,
Isab. I have no tongue but one: gentle my lord, Let me intreat you speak the former language.
Ang. Plainly conceive, I love you.
Isab. My brother did love Juliet; and you tell me, That he shall die for it.
Ang. He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love.
Isab. I know, your virtue hath a licence in't,
Believe me, ou mine honour, My words express my purpose.
Isab, Ha! little honour to be much believ'd, And most pernicious purpose Seeming, seemings! I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for't: Sign me a present pardon for my brother, Or, with an outstretch'd throat, I'll tell the world Aloud, what man thou art. Ang.
Who will helieve thee, Isabel? My unsoil'ü name, the austereness of my life,
My vouch* against you, and my place i' the state,
SCENE 1. A Room in the prison.
Enter Duke, Claudio, and Provost.
Duke. So, then you hope of pardon from lord
Angelo ? Claud. The miserable have no other medicine But only hope: I have hope to live, and am prepar'd 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 skiey 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 run'st toward him still: Thou art not noble; For all the acconimodations that thou bear'st, Are purs'd by baseness: Thou art by no means va
liant: 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. Thon art not thy
self; For thou exist'st 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 cer.