for death. Even for our kitchens
    We kill the fowl of season; shall we serve heaven
    With less respect than we do minister
    To 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. [Aside] Ay, well said.
  ANGELO. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept.
    Those many had not dar'd to do that evil
    If the first that did th' edict infringe
    Had answer'd 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 conceiv'd,
    And so in progress to be hatch'd and born-
    Are now to have no successive degrees,
    But here 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 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.
  ISABELLA. 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. [To ISABELLA] That's well said.
  ISABELLA. Could great men thunder
    As Jove himself does, Jove would never be quiet,
    For every pelting petty officer
    Would use his heaven for thunder,
    Nothing but thunder. Merciful Heaven,
    Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt,
    Splits the unwedgeable and gnarled oak
    Than the soft myrtle. But man, proud man,
    Dress'd in a little brief authority,
    Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd,
    His glassy essence, like an angry ape,
    Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
    As makes the angels weep; who, with our speens,
    Would all themselves laugh mortal.
  LUCIO. [To ISABELLA] O, to him, to him, wench! He will relent;
    He's coming; I perceive 't.
  PROVOST. [Aside] 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. [To ISABELLA] Thou'rt i' th' right, girl; more o' that.
  ISABELLA. That in the captain's but a choleric word
    Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.
  LUCIO. [To ISABELLA] Art avis'd 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 itself
    That skins the vice o' th' 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
    Against my brother's life.
  ANGELO. [Aside] She speaks, and 'tis
    Such sense that my sense breeds with it.- Fare you well.
  ISABELLA. Gentle my lord, turn back.
  ANGELO. I will bethink me. Come again to-morrow.
  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. [To ISABELLA) You had marr'd all else.
  ISABELLA. Not with fond sicles of the tested gold,
    Or stones, whose rate are either rich or poor
    As fancy values them; but with true prayers
    That shall be up at heaven and enter there
    Ere sun-rise, prayers from preserved souls,
    From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate
    To nothing temporal.
  ANGELO. Well; come to me to-morrow.
  LUCIO. [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 to-morrow
    Shall I attend your lordship?
  ANGELO. At any time 'fore noon.
  ISABELLA. Save your honour! Exeunt all but ANGELO
  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 I
    That, lying by the violet in the sun,
    Do as the carrion does, not as the flow'r,
    Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be
    That modesty may more betray our sense
    Than woman's lightness? Having waste ground enough,
    Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary,
    And pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie!
    What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo?
    Dost thou desire her foully for those things
    That make her good? O, let her brother live!
    Thieves for their robbery have authority
    When judges steal themselves. What, do I love her,
    That I desire to hear her speak again,
    And 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 dangerous
    Is that temptation that doth goad us on
    To sin in loving virtue. Never could the strumpet,
    With all her double vigour, art and nature,
    Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid
    Subdues me quite. Ever till now,
    When men were fond, I smil'd and wond'red how. Exit