MEASURE FOR MEASURE. William Shakespeare
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I have a brother is condemn’d to die;
I do beseech you, let it be his fault,
And not my brother.
PROVOST.
Heaven give thee moving graces.
ANGELO.
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 whose fine stands in record,
And let go by the actor.
ISABELLA.
O just but severe law!
I had a brother, then.—Heaven keep your honour!
[Retiring.]
LUCIO.
[To ISABELLA.] Give’t not o’er so: to him again, entreat 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 desire it:
To him, I say.
ISABELLA.
Must he needs die?
ANGELO.
Maiden, no remedy.
ISABELLA.
Yes; I do think that you might pardon him,
And neither heaven nor man grieve at the mercy.
ANGELO.
I will not do’t.
ISABELLA.
But can you, if you would?
ANGELO.
Look, what I will not, that I cannot do.
ISABELLA.
But might you do’t, and do the world no wrong,
If so your heart were touch’d with that remorse
As mine is to him?
ANGELO.
He’s sentenc’d; ‘tis too late.
LUCIO.
[To ISABELLA.] You are too cold.
ISABELLA.
Too late? Why, no; I, that do speak 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 so good a grace
As mercy does.
If he had been as you, and you as he,
You would have slipp’d like him;
But he, like you, would not have been so stern.
ANGELO.
Pray you, be gone.
ISABELLA.
I would to heaven I had your potency,
And you were Isabel! should it then be thus?
No; I would tell what ‘twere to be a judge
And what a prisoner.
LUCIO.
[Aside.] Ay, touch him; there’s the vein.
ANGELO.
Your brother is a forfeit of the law,
And you but waste your words.
ISABELLA.
Alas! alas!
Why, all the souls 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, should
But judge you as you are? O, think on that;
And mercy then will breathe within your lips,
Like man new made.
ANGELO.
Be you content, fair maid:
It is the law, not I, condemns your brother:
Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son,
It should be thus with him;—he must die tomorrow.
ISABELLA.
Tomorrow! O, that’s sudden! Spare him, spare him!
He’s not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens
We kill the fowl of season: shall we serve heaven
With less respect than we do minister
To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you:
Who is it that hath died for this offence?
There’s many have committed it.
LUCIO.
Ay, well said.
ANGELO.
The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept:
Those many had not dared to do that evil
If the first that did the edict infringe
Had answer’d for his deed: now ‘tis awake;
Takes note of what is done; and, like a prophet,
Looks in a glass that shows what future evils,—
Either now, or by remissness new conceiv’d,
And so in progress to be hatch’d and born,—
Are now to have no successive degrees,
But, where they live, to end.
ISABELLA.
Yet show some pity.
ANGELO.
I show it most of all when I show justice;
For then I pity those I do not know,
Which a dismiss’d offence would after gall,
And do him right that, answering one foul wrong,
Lives not to act another. Be satisfied;
Your brother dies tomorrow; be content.
ISABELLA.
So you must be the first that gives this sentence;
And he that suffers. O, it is excellent
To have a giant’s strength; but it is tyrannous
To use it like a giant.
LUCIO.
That’s well said.
ISABELLA.
Could great men thunder
As Jove himself does, Jove would ne’er be quiet,
For every pelting petty officer
Would use his heaven for thunder: nothing but thunder.—
Merciful Heaven!
Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt,
Splits the unwedgeable and gnarled oak
Than the soft myrtle; but man, proud man!
Dress’d in a little brief authority,—
Most ignorant of what he’s most assured,
His glassy essence,—like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As makes the angels weep; who, with our spleens,
Would all themselves laugh mortal.
LUCIO.