Act IIScene 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 knowHis pleasure, may be he will relent. Alas,He hath but as offended in a dream;All sects, all ages, smack of this vice, and heTo 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 seenWhen, after execution, judgement hathRepented 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 herTo some more fitter place; and that with speed.
Enter Servant.
Servant
Here is the sister of the man condemnedDesires 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 amAt 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 functionTo 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 remorseAs 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 wordMay 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 graceAs mercy does.If he had been as you, and you as he,You would have slipped like him, but he like youWould 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 judgeAnd 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 tookFound out the remedy. How would you beIf He, which is the top of judgement, shouldBut 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 kitchensWe kill the fowl of season. Shall we serve heavenWith less respect than we do ministerTo 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 evilIf the first that did th’ edict infringeHad 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 excellentTo have a giant’s strength; but it is tyrannousTo use it like a giant.
Lucio
That’s well said.
Isabella
Could great men thunderAs Jove himself does, Jove would ne’er be quiet,For every pelting petty officerWould use his heaven for thunder.Nothing but thunder. Merciful Heaven,Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous boltSplits 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 apePlays such fantastic tricks before high heavenAs 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 wordWhich 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 itselfThat skins the vice o’ th’ top. Go to your bosom,Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth knowThat’s like my brother’s fault. If it confessA natural guiltiness such as is his,Let it not sound a thought upon your tongueAgainst my brother’s life.
Angelo
She speaks, and ’tis such senseThat 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 poorAs fancy values them, but with true prayers,That shall be up at heaven and enter thereEre sunrise, prayers from preserved souls,From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicateTo 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 tomorrowShall 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 IThat, lying by the violet in the sun,Do as the carrion does, not as the flower,Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it beThat modesty may more betray our senseThan woman’s lightness? Having waste ground enough,Shall we desire to raze the sanctuaryAnd pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie!What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo?Dost thou desire her foully for those thingsThat make her good? O, let her brother live.Thieves for their robbery have authorityWhen judges steal themselves. What, do I love her,That I desire to hear her speak againAnd 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 dangerousIs that temptation that doth goad us onTo sin in loving virtue. Never could the strumpetWith all her double vigour, art, and nature,Once stir my temper, but this virtuous maidSubdues me quite. Ever till nowWhen men were fond, I smiled and wondered how.
Exit.