Enter DUKE, as a Friar, CLAUDIO, and Provost.

S°

DUKE.

O then, you hope of pardon from Lord Angelo? Claud. The miserable have no other medicine, But only hope.

I've 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 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 run'st toward him still thou art not noble;
For all th' accommodations that thou bear'st,
Are nurs'd by baseness: thou art 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 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 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 palsi'd eld; and when thou art old and rich,
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,
To make thy riches pleasant.
That bears the name of life?
Lie hid more thousand deaths;
That makes these odds all even.
Claud.

What's yet in this,
Yet in this life
yet death we fear,'

I humbly thank you.

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

And seeking death, find life: let it come on.

Isab. [Without.] What, hoa! Peace here; grace and good company!

Prov.

Who's there? come in the wish deserves a welcome.

Enter ISABElla.

Duke. Dear sir, ere long I'll visit you again.
Claud. Most holy sir, I thank you.

Isab. My business is a word or two with Claudio. Prov. And very welcome. Look, signior; here's your sister.

Duke.

Prov.

Provost, a word with you.

As many as you please. Duke. Bring me to hear them speak, where I may be conceal'd. [Exeunt DUKE and Provost. Now, sister, what's the comfort?

Claud.

Isab. 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; To-morrow you set on.

Claud.

Is there no remedy?

Isab. None, but such remedy, as to save a head, To cleave a heart in twain.

Claud.

But is there any?

Isab. 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.

Claud.

Perpetual durance?

Isab. Ay, just; perpetual durance: a restraintThough all the world's vastidity you had

To a determin'd scope.

Claud.

But in what nature?

Isab. In such a one as, you consenting to't, Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear, And leave you naked.

Claud.

Let me know the point.

Isab. O! I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake, Lest thou a feverous life should'st 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.

Claud.

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.

Isab. 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 emmew
As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil;

His filth within being cast, he would appear
A pond as deep as Hell.

Claud.

The priestly Angelo? Isab. O, 'tis the cunning livery of Hell,

The damned'st body to invest and cover

In priestly guards! Dost thou think, Claudio!
If I would yield him my virginity,

Thou might'st be freed.

Claud.

O, Heavens! it cannot be.

Isab. Yes, he would give't 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 to-morrow.

Claud.

Thou shalt not do't.

Isab. O! were it but my life,

I'd throw it down for your deliverance
As frankly as a pin.

Claud.

Thanks, dear Isabel.

Isab. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow. Claud. 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 n;

Or of the deadly seven it is the least.

Isab. Which is the least?

Claud. If it were damnable, he being so wise, Why would he for the momentary trick

Be perdurably fin'd? O Isabel!

Isab. What says my brother?
Claud.

Death is a fearful thing.

Isab. And shamed life a hateful.

Claud. 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 region of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprison'd 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 thoughts
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.

Isab. Alas! alas!

Claud.

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.

Isab.

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 play'd my father fair! For such a warped slip of wilderness