Enter Angelo. Ang. Now, what's the matter, Provost? Prov. Left I might be too rash. Ang. Go to; let that be mine, Do you your office, or give up your place, Prov. I crave your pardon. What shall be done, Sir, with the groaning Juliet? She's very near her hour. Ang. Difpofe of her To.fome more fitting place, and that with speed. Ang. Hath he a fifter? Prov. Ay, my good lord, a very virtuous maid, And to be shortly of a fifter-hood, If not already. Ang. Well; let her be admitted. See you, the fornicatrefs be remov'd; [Exit Servant. Let her have needful, but not lavish, means; Prov. SCEN Enter Lucio and Isabella. AVE your honour. Avg. Stay yet a while. Y'are welcome; what's your will? Ifab. I am a woful fuitor to your Honour, Please but your Honour hear me. Ang. Ang. Well; what's your fuit?. Ifab. There is a vice that most I do abhor, Ang. Well; the matter? Ifab. I have a brother is condemn'd to die; I do beseech you, let it be his fault, And not my brother. Prov. Heav'n give thee moving graces! Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it? To find the faults, whofe fine ftands in record,' Ifab. O juft, but fevere law! I had a brother then; heav'n keep your Honour! You could not with more tame a tongue desire it. Ifab. Muft he needs die? Ang. Maiden, no remedy. Ifab. Yes; I do think that you might pardon him; And neither heav'n, nor man, grieve at the mercy. Ang. I will not do't. Ifab. But can you, if you would? Ang. Look, what I will not, that I cannot do. wrong, 57 If fo your heart were touch'd with that remorfe, Ang. He's fentenc'd; 'tis too late. Lucio. You are too cold. A Ifab. Too late? why, no; I, that do fpeak a word, Not the King's crown, nor the deputed fword, Ifab. I wou'd to heav'n I had your potency," Lucio. Ay, touch him; there's the vein. Ifab. Alas! alas! Why, all the fouls that are, were forfeit once: Like man new made. Ang. Be ( you content, fair maid; It is the law, not I, condemns your brother. A 14. Ifab. To-morrow, Oh! that's fudden. Spare him, fpare him. He's not prepar'd for death: Even for our kitchins We kill the fowl, of feafon; fhall we ferve heav'n *And mercy then will breathe within your lips, Like man new made.] This is a fine Thought, and finely expreffed: The Meaning is, that Mercy will add fuch Grace to your PerJon, that you will appear as amiable as Man come fresh out of the Hands of his Creator. With lefs refpect, than we do minister [you: To our grofs felves? good, good my lord, bethink Who is it, that hath dy'd for this offence? There's many hath committed it. Lucio. Ay, well faid. Ang. The law hath not been dead, tho' it hath Those many had not dar'd to do that evil, [flept: If the first man that did th' edict infringe, Ifab. Yet fhew some pity.. Ang. I fhew it most of all, when I fhew juftice For then I pity those, I do not know; Which a difmifs'd offence would after gaul; And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong, Lives not to act another. Be fatisfy'd; Your brother dies, to-morrow; be content. Ifab. So you must be the firft, that gives this fen tence; And he, that fuffers: oh, 'tis excellent To have a giant's ftrength; but it is tyrannous, Lucio. That's well faid. Ifab. Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet; Would ufe his heav'n for thunder; Thou rather with thy fharp, and fulph'rous, bolt Than the foft myrtle: O, but man! proud man, Moft ignorant of what he's most assur'd, His glaffy effence, like an angry ape, Plays fuch fantastic tricks before high heav'n, Lucio. Oh, to him, to him, Wench: he will relent; He's coming: I perceive't. Prov. Pray heav'n, fhe win him! Ifab. We cannot weigh our brother with yourself : Great men may jeft with Saints; 'tis wit in them ; But, in the lefs, foul prophanation. Lucio. Thou'rt right, girl; more o' that. Lucio. Art avis'd o'that? more on't. Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me? Ifab. Becaufe authority, tho' it érr like others, Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, That ĺkins the vice o'th'top: go to your bofom ; Knock there, and ask your heart, what it doth know That's like my brother's fault; if it confefs A natural guiltinefs, fuch as is his, Let it not found a thought upon your tongue Ang. She fpeaks, and 'tis such sense, That my fenfe bleeds with it.. Fare you well. Ang. I will bethink me; come again to-morrow. Ifab. Hark, how I'll bribe you: good my lord, turn back. Ang. How? bribe me? Ifab. Ay, with fuch gifts, that heav'n fhall fhare with you. Lucio. You had marr'd all else. Ifab. Not with fond fhekles of the tested gold, From |