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 But yet, poor Claudio! there's no remedy. 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, Ang. Go to; let that be mine, Do you your office, or give up your place, Prov. I crave your pardon. What shall be done, Sir, with the groaning Juliet ? Ang. Difpofe of her To fome more fitting place, and that with speed. 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; 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, 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, Ifab. O juft, but severe law! I had a brother then; heav'n keep your Honour! Ifab. Muft he needs die? 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, Not the King's crown, nor the deputed fword, Ifab. I wou'd to heav'n I had your Potency, Lucio. Ay, touch him; there's the vein. (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; 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;' Ang. Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law, Why, all the fouls that were, were forfeit once; Ang. Be you content, fair maid; It is the Law, not I, condemns your brother. Ifab. To morrow? oh! that's fudden. Spare him, He's not prepar'd for death: Even for our kitchins To our grofs felves? good, good my lord, bethink you! Lucio. Ay, well faid. Ang. The Law hath not been dead, tho' it hath fleptt If the first man, that did th' Edict infringe, And fo in progrefs to be hatch'd and born, 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, Your brother dies to morrow; be content. VOL. I. Ifah 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, Lucio. That's well faid. Ifab. Could Great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet; Would ufe his heav'n for thunder; Nothing but thunder: merciful heav'n! Thou rather with thy fharp, and fulph'rous, bolt 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. |