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

will?

fab, I am a weeful fuitor to your honour,

Please but

your

honour hear me,

Ang. Well; what's your fuit ?

Lab. 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 must;,
For which I must not plead, but that I am
At war, 'twixt will, and will not.

Ang. Well; the matter?

Ijab. 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 cypher of a function,

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

Ifab. O juft, but fevere law!

I ad 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.

Ijab. 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.

jab. Too late? why, no; I, that do fpeak a word,

May

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 so 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 fo ftern.
Ang. Pray you, be gone.

Ifab. I wou'd to heav'n I had your potency,
And you were Ifabel; 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. 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, should
But judge you, as you are? oh, think on that;
And mercy then will breathe within your lips,
Like man new made.

(9) Well, believe this,] This manner of pointing, which runs thro all the copies, gives an air of addrefs 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 delig ts to ufe, Well believe this; i e. Be convinc'd, be throughly aftur'd of this.

So, afterwards, in this Play, Angelo says ;
I think it well.

So, Gonzalo, in the Tempeft.

I do well believe your Highnefs,

And fo, in King John;

And well fhall you perceive.

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

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Ang. Be you content, fair maid;

It is the law, not I, condemns your brother.
Were he my kinfman, brother, or my fon,

It fhould 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 feafon; 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 flept: Thofe many had not dar'd to do that evil,

If the first man, that did th' ecict 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 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 moft of all, when I fhew juftice; For then I pity thofe, I do not know;

Which a difmifs'd offence would after gaul;

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

Your brother dies to-morrow; be content.

Ifab. So you must be the fift, that gives this fentence; And he, that fuffers : oh, 'tis excellent

To have a giant's ftrength; but it is tyrannous,
To ufe 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

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 themselves 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 yourself: (11) Great men may jeft with faints; 'tis wit in them; But, in the lefs, foul prophanation.

Lucio. Thou'rt right, girl; more o' that.

fab. That in the captain's but a cholerick word, Which in the foldier is flat blafphemy. Lucio. Art avis'd o' that? more on't.

bofom;

Ang. Why do you put these fayings upon me? fab. Becaufe authority, tho' it err like others, Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, That fkins the vice, o' th' top: go to your Knock there, and ask your heart, what it doth know That's like my brother's fault; if it confefs A natural guiltinefs, fuch as is his,

(10) As makes the angels weep; who, with our fpteens,

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 pleens and perishable organs, would laugh themselves out of immortality; or, as we fay in common life, laugh themselves dead. This notion of the Angels weeping for the fins 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 ourself.] Why not? Tho' this 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 ditpropotion 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.

Let

Let it not found a thought upon your tongue -
Againft my brother's life.

Ang. She fpeaks, and 'tis fuch sense,

That my fenfe breeds with it. Fare you well.
Ijab. Gentle, my Lord, turn back.

Ang. I will bethink me: come again to-morrow. Ifab. Hark, how I'll bribe you: good my Lord, turn back.

Ang. How? bribe me?

fab. Ay, with fuch gifts, that heav'n fhall fhare with you.

Lucio. You had marr'd all else.

Ifab. Not with fond fhekels of the tested gold,
Or ftones, whofe rate are either rich, or poor,
As fancy values them; but with true prayers,
That shall be up at heav'n, and enter there,
Ere fun-rife: prayers from preferv'd fouls,
From fafting maids, whofe minds are dedicate
To nothing temporal.

Ang. Well; come to-morrow.
Lucio. Go to; 'tis well; away.

Ijab. Heav'n keep your honour fafe!
Ang. Amen:

For I am that way going to temptation,
Where prayers crofs.

Ifab. At what hour to-morrow

Shall I attend your Lordship?
Ang. At any time 'fore noon.
Ifab. Save your honour!

[Exe. Lucio and Ifabella.

Ang. From thee; even from thy virtue.

What's this? what's this? is this her fault, or mine ?

The tempter, or the tempted, who fins moft?

Not the; nor doth the tempt; but it is I,

That, lying by the violet in the fun,

Do, as the carrion does, not as the flower,
Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be,
That modesty may more betray our sense,

Than woman's lightnefs? having wafte ground enough,
Shall we defire to raze the fanctuary,
And pitch our evils there? oh, fy, fy, fy!
What doft thou? or what art thou, Angelo?

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