And to transport him in the mind he is
Were damnable.
PROVOST.
Here in the prison, father,
There died this morning of a cruel fever
One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate,
A man of Claudio’s years; his beard and head
Just of his colour. What if we do omit
This reprobate till he were well inclined;
And satisfy the deputy with the visage
Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio?
DUKE.
O, ‘tis an accident that Heaven provides!
Despatch it presently; the hour draws on
Prefix’d by Angelo: see this be done,
And sent according to command; whiles I
Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die.
PROVOST.
This shall be done, good father, presently.
But Barnardine must die this afternoon:
And how shall we continue Claudio,
To save me from the danger that might come
If he were known alive?
DUKE.
Let this be done;—
Put them in secret holds; both Barnardine and Claudio.
Ere twice the sun hath made his journal greeting
To the under generation, you shall find
Your safety manifested.
PROVOST.
I am your free dependant.
DUKE.
Quick, dispatch, and send the head to Angelo.
[Exit PROVOST.]
Now will I write letters to Angelo,—
The provost, he shall bear them,—whose contents
Shall witness to him I am near at home,
And that, by great injunctions, I am bound
To enter publicly: him I’ll desire
To meet me at the consecrated fount,
A league below the city; and from thence,
By cold gradation and well-balanced form.
We shall proceed with Angelo.
[Re-enter PROVOST.]
PROVOST.
Here is the head; I’ll carry it myself.
DUKE.
Convenient is it. Make a swift return;
For I would commune with you of such things
That want no ear but yours.
PROVOST.
I’ll make all speed.
[Exit.]
ISABELLA.
[Within.] Peace, ho, be here!
DUKE.
The tongue of Isabel.—She’s come to know
If yet her brother’s pardon be come hither:
But I will keep her ignorant of her good,
To make her heavenly comforts of despair
When it is least expected.
[Enter ISABELLA.]
ISABELLA.
Ho, by your leave!
DUKE.
Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter.
ISABELLA.
The better, given me by so holy a man.
Hath yet the deputy sent my brother’s pardon?
DUKE.
He hath released him, Isabel, from the world:
His head is off and sent to Angelo.
ISABELLA.
Nay, but it is not so.
DUKE.
It is no other:
Show your wisdom, daughter, in your close patience.
ISABELLA.
O, I will to him and pluck out his eyes!
DUKE.
You shall not be admitted to his sight.
ISABELLA.
Unhappy Claudio! Wretched Isabel!
Injurious world! Most damned Angelo!
DUKE.
This nor hurts him nor profits you a jot:
Forbear it, therefore; give your cause to Heaven.
Mark what I say; which you shall find
By every syllable a faithful verity:
The duke comes home tomorrow;—nay, dry your eyes;
One of our convent, and his confessor,
Gives me this instance. Already he hath carried
Notice to Escalus and Angelo,
Who do prepare to meet him at the gates,
There to give up their power. If you can, pace your wisdom
In that good path that I would wish it go,
And you shall have your bosom on this wretch,
Grace of the duke, revenges to your heart,
And general honour.
ISABELLA.
I am directed by you.
DUKE.
This letter, then, to Friar Peter give;
‘Tis that he sent me of the duke’s return.
Say, by this token, I desire his company
At Mariana’s house tonight. Her cause and yours
I’ll perfect him withal; and he shall bring you
Before the duke; and to the head of Angelo
Accuse him home, and home. For my poor self,
I am combined by a sacred vow,
And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter:
Command these fretting waters from your eyes
With a light heart; trust not my holy order,
If I pervert your course.—Who’s here?
[Enter LUCIO.]
LUCIO.
Good even. Friar, where is the provost?
DUKE.
Not within, sir.
LUCIO. O pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart to see thine eyes so red; thou must be patient: I am fain to dine and sup with water and bran; I dare not for my head fill my belly; one fruitful meal would set me to’t. But they say the duke will be here tomorrow. By my troth, Isabel, I loved thy brother. If the old fantastical duke of dark corners had been at home, he had lived.
[Exit ISABELLA.]
DUKE. Sir, the duke is marvellous little beholding to your reports; but the best is, he lives not in them.
LUCIO. Friar, thou knowest not the duke so well as I do: he’s a better woodman than thou takest him for.
DUKE.
Well, you’ll answer this one day. Fare ye well.