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Just. I humbly thank you.

Efcal. It grieves me for the death of Claudio: But there's no remedy.

Juft. Lord Angelo is fevere.

Efcal. It is but needful:

Mercy is not it felf, that oft looks fo
Pardon is ftill the nurse of second woe:

But yet, poor Claudio! there's no remedy.
Come, Sir.

Enter Provoft, and a Servant.

[Exeunt.

Serv. He's hearing of a Cause; he will come ftraight: I'll tell him of you.

Prov. Pray you, do; I'll know

His pleasure; may be, he'll relent; alas!

He hath but as offended in a dream:

All fects, all ages fmack of this vice; and he

To die for it!

Enter Angelo.

Ang. Now, what's the matter, Provoft?

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

Prov. Left I might be too rash.

Under your good correction, I have seen,
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 pardon.

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

Ang. Difpofe of her

To fome more fitting place, and that with speed.
Serv. Here is the fifter of the man condemn'd,
Defires access to you.

Ang. Hath he a fifter?

Prov. Ay, my good lord, a very virtuous maid, And to be fhortly of a fifter-hood,

If not already.

Ang. Well, let her be admitted.

See you, the fornicatrefs be remov'd;

[Exit Servant.

Let her have needful, but not lavish, means;
There fhall be order for it.

Enter Lucio and Ifabella.

Prov. 'Save your Honour.

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

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

Ang. Well, what's your fuit?

Ifab. There is a vice that most I do abhor,
And most defire fhould meet the blow of juftice;
For which I would not plead, but that I muft;
For which I must 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 beseech 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, ere it be done; Mine were the very cipher of a function,

To find the faults, whofe fine ftands in record,
And let go by the actor.

Ifab. O juft, but severe law!

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I had a brother then; heav'n keep your Honour!
Lucio. Give 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 more tame a tongue defire it.
To him, I fay.

Ifab. Muft he needs die?
Ang. Maiden, no remedy.

Ifab. Yes; I do think, that you might 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, no; I, that do speak a word,
May call it back again: Well believe this, (9)
No ceremony that to Great ones 'longs,

Not the King's crown, nor the deputed fword,
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 so stern.
Ang. Pray you, be gone.

Ifab. I wou'd 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 prisoner.

Lucio. Ay, touch him; there's the vein.

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(9) Well, believe this,] This manner of Pointing, which runs thro' all the Copies, gives an Air of Address too familiar for an Inferior to ufe to a Perfon of Distinction. But taking away the Comma after, Well, not only removes the Objection, but reftores a Mode of Expreffion, which our Author delights to use. Well believe this; i. e. Be convinc'd, be throughly affur'd of this.

So, afterwards, in this Play, Angelo fays;

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I think it well.

So, Gonzalo, in the Tempeft.

I do well believe your Highness,

And fo, in King John;

And well fhall you perceive

So one of the Gentlemen in the opening Scene of Cymbeline;

I do well believe.

And fo Pifanio, in the fame Play;

&c. &c.

You shall be miss'd at Court;'
And that will well confirm it.

Ang.

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Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law,
And you but waste
your words.
Ifab. Alas! alas!

Why, all the fouls that were, were forfeit once;
And he, that might the 'vantage best have took,
Found out the remedy. How would you be,
If he, which is the top of Judgment, fhould
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 fon,
It should be thus with him; he dies to morrow.

Ifab. To morrow? oh! that's fudden. Spare him,
spare him.

He's not prepar'd for death: Even for our kitchins
We kill the fowl, of season; fhall we ferve heav'n
With less refpect, 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 fleptt
Those many had not dar'd to do that evil,

If the first man, 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 glass that fhews what future evils,
Or new, 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 thew fome pity.

Ang. I fhew it most of all, when I fhew justice;

For then I pity thofe, I do not know;

Which a dismiss'd offence would after gaul;

And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong,
Lives not to act another. Be fatisfy'd;

Your brother dies to morrow; be content.

VOL. I.

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Ifab. So you must be the first, that gives this fen

tence;

And he, that fuffers: oh, 'tis excellent

To have a Giant's ftrength; but it is tyrannnous,
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 ufe his heav'n for thunder;

Nothing but thunder: merciful heav'n!

Thou rather with thy fharp, and fulph'rous, bolt
Split'ft the unwedgeable and gnarled oak,
Than the foft myrtle: O, but man! proud man,
Dreft in a little brief authority,

Moft ignorant of what he's most affur'd,

His glaffy effence, like an angry ape,

Plays fuch fantastick tricks before high heav'n,

As makes the angels weep; who, with our fpleens, (10) Would all themfelves laugh mortal.

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

Prov. Pray heav'n, the win him!

Ifab. We cannot weigh our brother with your felf: (11) Great men may jeft with Saints; 'tis wit in them; But, in the lefs, foul prophanation.

(10) As makes the Angels weep; who, with our fpleens,

Would all themselves laugh mortal] Men play fuch fantastick Tricks, and appear fo ridiculous, as to make the Angels weep in Compaffion of our Extravagance: who, if they were endued with our Spleens and perishable Organs, would laugh themselves out of Immortality; or, as we fay in common Life, laugh themfelves dead. This Notion of the Angels weeping for the Sins of Men is purely Rabbinical. — Ob peccatum flentes Angelos inducunt Hebræorum Magiftri. — Grotius ad S. Lucam, c. 15. v. 7.

(11) We cannot weigh our Brother with our felf.] Why not? Tho' tlis fhould be the Reading of all the Copies, 'tis as plain as Light, it is not the Author's Meaning. Ifabella would fay, there is fo great a Dif proportion in Quality betwixt Lord Angelo and her Brother, that their Actions can bear no Comparison, or Equality, together: but her Brother's Crimes would be aggravated, Angelo's Frailties extenuated, from the Difference of their Degrees and State of Life. Mr. Warburton.

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