Elb. And a half, Sir.

Efcal. Alas! it hath been great Pains to you; they do you Wrong to put you fo oft upon't: Are there not Men in your Ward fufficient to ferve it?

Elb. Faith, Sir, few of any Wit in fuch Matters; as they are chosen they are glad to chufe me for them: I do it for fome piece of Money, and go through with all.

Efcal. Look you, bring me in the Names of fome fix or feven, the most fufficient of your Parish.

Elb. To your Worship's House, Sir?

Efcal. To my Houfe; fare you well. What's a Clock, think you?

Just. Eleven, Sir.

[Exit Elbow.

Efcal. I pray you go home to Dinner with me.
Just. I humbly thank you.

Efcal. It grieves me for the Death of Claudio:
But there's no Remedy.

Just. Lord Angelo is fevere.

Efcal. It is but needful.

Mercy is not it felf, that oft looks fo;
Pardon is ftill the Nurse of fecond Woe:
But yet, poor Claudio, there is no Remedy.
Come, Sir.

SCENE II.

Enter Provoft, and a Servant.

[Exeunt.

Serv. He's hearing of a Caufe; he will come straight:

I'll tell him of you.

Prov. Pray you do; I'll know

His Pleafure; may be he will relent; alas!

He hath but as offended in a Dream:

All Sects, all Ages fmack of this Vice, and he

To die for't!

Enter Angelo.

Ang. Now, what's the Matter, Provost?

Prov. Is it your Will Claudio fhall die to morrow? Ang. Did not I tell thee yea? hadft thou not Order? Why doft thou ask again?

Prov. Left I might be too rafh.

Under your good Correction, I have seen

P 4

When

When after Execution, Judgment hath
Repented o'er his Doom.

Ang. Go to; let that be mine;

Do you your Office, or give up your Place,
And you fhall well be fpar'd.

Prov. I crave your Honour's Pardon.

What shall be done, Sir, with the groaning Juliet?
She's very near her Hour.

Ang. Difpofe of her

To fome more fitter Place, and that with speed.
Ser. Here is the Sifter of the Man condemn'd,
Defires Access to you.

Ang. Hath he a Sifter?

Prov. Ay, my good Lord, a very virtuous Maid, And to be shortly of a Sifter-hood,

If not already.

Ang. Well; let her be admitted.

See you the Fornicatrefs be remov'd;

Let her have needful, but not lavish Means;

There shall be Order for't.

Enter Lucio and Isabella.

Prov. 'Save your Honour.

Ang. Stay a little while. Y'are welcome; what's your Will?

Ifab. I am a woful Suitor to your Honour, Please but your Honour hear me.

Ang. Well; what's your Suit?

Ifab. There is a Vice that moft I do abhor,

And more defire should meet the Blow of Juftice,
For which I would not plead, but that I muft,
For which I muft not plead, but that I am
At War 'twixt will, and will not.

Ang. Well; the Matter?

Ifab. I have a Brother is condemn'd to die; I do befeech 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;
Why every Fault's condemn'd e'er it be done;
Mine were the Cipher of a Function

To fine the Faults, whofe Fine ftands in Record,
And let go by the Actor.

Ifab.

Ifab. O juft, but fevere Law:

I had a Brother then; Heav'n keep your Honour.
Lucio. Giy't not o'er fo: To him again, intreat him,
Kneel down before him, hang upon his Gown;
You are too cold; if you should need a Pin,

You could not with a more tame Tongue desire it,
To him, I fay.

Ifab. Muft he needs die?

Ang. Maiden, no Remedy.

Ifab. Yes; I do think that you may 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.' Ifab. But might you do't, and do the World no Wrong, If fo your Heart were touch'd with that Remorse, As mine is to him?

Ang. He's fentenc'd; 'tis too late.

Lucio. You are too cold.

Ifab. Too late? why fo? I that do fpeak a Word,
May 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 fo good a Grace

As Mercy does: If he had been as you, and you as he,
You would have flipt like him; but he, like you,
Would not have been fo ftern.

Ang. Pray you be gone.

Ifab. I would to Heav'n I had your Potency, And you were fabel; fhould it then be thus? No; I would tell what 'twere to be a Judge, And what a Prifoner.

Lucio. Ay, touch him; there's the Vein. Ang. Your Brother is a Forfeit of the Law, And you but waste your Words.

Ifab. Alas! alas!

Why, all the Souls that were, were Forfeit once;
And he that might the 'Vantage beft have took,
Found out the Remedy. How would you be,
If he, which is the top of Judgment, fhould

But

But judge you as you are? Oh, think on that,
And Mercy then will breathe within your Lips,
Like Man new-made.

Ang. Be you content, fair Maid,

It is the Law, not I, condemns your Brother.
Were he my Kinfman, Brother, or my Son,
It should be thus with him; he must die to Morrow.
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 Seafon; fhall we ferve Heav'n
With lefs Refpe&t than we do minifter

To our grofs felves? Good, good my Lord, bethink you:
Who is it that hath dy'd for this Offence?

There's many have committed it.

Lucio. Ay, well faid,

Ang. The Law hath not been dead, tho' it hath flept: Thofe many had not dar'd to do that Evil,

If the firft, that did th' Edict infringe,
Had anfwer'd for his Deed.

Now 'tis awake,
Takes note of what is done, and like a Prophet,
Looks in a Glafs that fhews what future Evils
Either now, or by Remifsnefs, new conceiv'd,
And fo in Progrefs to be hatch'd, and born,
Are now to have no fucceffive degrees,
But here they live to end.

Ifab. Yet fhew fome Pity.

Ang. I fhew it most of all when I fhew Justice;
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 fatisfied;

Your Brother dies to Morrow; be content.

Ifab. So you must be the firft that gives this Sentence, And he that fuffers: Oh, it is excellent

To have a Giant's Strength; but it is tyrannous
To use it like a Giant.

Lucio. That's well faid.

Ifab. Could great Men thunder

As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet;
For every pelting petty Officer

Would

Would use his Heav'n for Thunder;

Nothing but Thunder: Merciful Heav'n,

Thou rather with thy fharp and fulphurous Bolt
Split'ft the unwedgeable and gnarled Oak,
Than the foft Mirtle: O but Man! proud Man!
Dreft in a little brief Authority,

Moft ignorant of what he's most affur'd,
His glaffie Effence, like an angry Ape,

Plays fuch fantastick Tricks before high Heav'n,
As makes the Angels weep; who with our Spleens
Would all themselves laugh mortal.

Lucio. Oh, to him, to him Wench; he will relent;
He's coming; I perceive't.

Prov. Pray Heaven fhe win him,

Ifab. We cannot weigh our Brother with our felf:
Great Men may jeft with Saints; 'tis Wit in them,
But in the lefs foul Prophanation.

Lucio. Thou'rt i'right, Girl; more o'that.
Ifab. That in the Captain's but a cholerick Word,
Which in the Soldier is flat Blafphemy.

Lucio. Art advis'd o'that? More on't.

Ang. Why do you put these Sayings upon me?
Ifab. Becaufe Authority, tho' it err like others,
Hath yet a kind of Medicine in it self,

That skins 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
Against my Brother's Life.

Ang. She fpeaks, and 'tis fuch Sense,

That my Senfe breeds with it. Fare you well

Ifab. Gentle, my Lord, turn back.

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 share with you.
Luc. You had marr'd all elfe.

Ifab. Not with fond Sickles of the tefted Gold,
Or Stones, whofe Rate are either rich or poor,
As Fancy values them; but with true Prayers,]

That