Or, by the affection that now guides me most,
I’ll prove a tyrant to him. As for you,
Say what you can, my false o’erweighs your true.
[Exit.]
ISABELLA.
To whom should I complain? Did tell this,
Who would believe me? O perilous mouths
That bear in them one and the selfsame tongue
Either of condemnation or approof!
Bidding the law make court’sy to their will;
Hooking both right and wrong to the appetite,
To follow as it draws! I’ll to my brother:
Though he hath fallen by prompture of the blood,
Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour
That, had he twenty heads to tender down
On twenty bloody blocks, he’d yield them up
Before his sister should her body stoop
To such abhorr’d pollution.
Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die:
More than our brother is our chastity.
I’ll tell him yet of Angelo’s request,
And fit his mind to death, for his soul’s rest.
[Exit.]
ACT III.
SCENE I. A Room in the prison.
[Enter DUKE, CLAUDIO, and PROVOST.]
DUKE.
So, then you hope of pardon from Lord Angelo?
CLAUDIO.
The miserable have no other medicine
But only hope:
I have 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 skiey influences,
That dost this habitation, where thou keep’st
Hourly afflict; mere’y, thou art death’s fool;
For him thou labour’st by thy flight to shun,
And yet runn’st toward him still. Thou art not noble;
For all the 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, forgett’st. Thou art not certain;
For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,
After the moon. If thou art rich, thou art 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 palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,
To make thy riches pleasant. What’s yet in this
That bears the name of life? Yet in this life
Lie hid more thousand deaths: yet death we fear,
That makes these odds all even.
CLAUDIO.
I humbly thank you.
To sue to live, I find I seek to die;
And, seeking death, find life. Let it come on.
ISABELLA.
[Within.] What, ho! Peace here; grace and good company!
PROVOST.
Who’s there? come in: the wish deserves a welcome.
DUKE.
Dear sir, ere long I’ll visit you again.
CLAUDIO.
Most holy sir, I thank you.
[Enter ISABELLA.]
ISABELLA.
My business is a word or two with Claudio.
PROVOST.
And very welcome. Look, signior, here’s your sister.
DUKE.
Provost, a word with you.
PROVOST.
As many as you please.
DUKE.
Bring me to hear them speak, where I may be conceal’d.
[Exeunt DUKE and PROVOST.]
CLAUDIO.
Now, sister, what’s the comfort?
ISABELLA.
Why,
As all comforts are; most good, most good, in deed:
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;
Tomorrow you set on.
CLAUDIO.
Is there no remedy?
ISABELLA.
None, but such remedy as, to save a head,
To cleave a heart in twain.
CLAUDIO.
But is there any?
ISABELLA.
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.
CLAUDIO.
Perpetual durance?
ISABELLA.
Ay, just;