The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare (moboreader .TXT) 📕

DUKE. My very worthy cousin, fairly met!

Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you.

ANGELO, ESCALUS. Happy return be to your royal Grace!

DUKE. Many and hearty thankings to you both.

We have made inquiry of you, and we hear Such goodness of your justice that our soul Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks, Forerunning more requital.

ANGELO. You make my bonds still greater.

DUKE. O, your desert speaks loud; and I should wrong it To lock it in the wards of covert bosom, When it deserves, with characters of brass, A forted residence ‘gainst the tooth of time And razure of oblivion. Give me your hand.

And let the subject see, to make them know That outward courtesies would fain proclaim Favours that keep within. Come, Escalus, You must walk by us on our other hand, And good supporters are you.

Enter FRIAR PETER and ISABELLA PETER. Now is your time; speak loud, and kneel before him.

ISABELLA. Justice, O royal Duke! Vail your regard Upon a wrong’d-I would fain have said a maid!

O worthy Prince, dishonour not your eye By throwing it on any other object

Till you have heard me in my true complaint, And given me justice, justice, justice, justice.

DUKE. Relate your wrongs. In what? By whom? Be brief.

Here is Lord Angelo shall give you justice; Reveal yourself to him.

ISABELLA. O worthy Duke,

You bid me seek redemption of the devil!

Hear me yourself; for that which I must speak Must either punish me, not being believ’d, Or wring redress from you. Hear me, O, hear me, here!

ANGELO. My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not firm; She hath been a suitor to me for her brother, Cut off by course of justice-ISABELLA. By course of justice!

ANGELO. And she will speak most bitterly and strange.

ISABELLA. Most strange, but yet most truly, will I speak.

That Angelo’s forsworn, is it not strange?

That Angelo’s a murderer, is’t not strange?

That Angelo is an adulterous thief,

An hypocrite, a virgin-violator,

Is it not strange and strange?

DUKE. Nay, it is ten times strange.

ISABELLA. It is not truer he is Angelo

Than this is all as true as it is strange; Nay, it is ten times true; for truth is truth To th’ end of reck’ning.

DUKE. Away with her. Poor soul,

She speaks this in th’ infirmity of sense.

ISABELLA. O Prince! I conjure thee, as thou believ’st There is another comfort than this world, That thou neglect me not with that opinion That I am touch’d with madness. Make not impossible That which but seems unlike: ‘tis not impossible But one, the wicked’st caitiff on the ground, May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute, As Angelo; even so may Angelo,

In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms, Be an arch-villain. Believe it, royal Prince, If he be less, he’s nothing; but he’s more, Had I more name for badness.

DUKE. By mine honesty,

If she be mad, as I believe no other, Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense, Such a dependency of thing on thing,

As e’er I heard in madness.

ISABELLA. O gracious Duke,

Harp not on that; nor do not banish reason For inequality; but let your reason serve To make the truth appear where it seems hid, And hide the false seems true.

DUKE. Many that are not mad

Have, sure, more lack of reason. What would you say?

ISABELLA. I am the sister of one Claudio, Condemn’d upon the act of fornication To lose his head; condemn’d by Angelo.

I, in probation of a sisterhood,

Was sent to by my brother; one Lucio

As then the messenger—

LUCIO. That’s I, an’t like your Grace.

I came to her from Claudio, and desir’d her To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo For her poor brother’s pardon.

ISABELLA. That’s he, indeed.

DUKE. You were not bid to speak.

LUCIO. No, my good lord;

Nor wish’d to hold my peace.

DUKE. I wish you now, then;

Pray you take note of it; and when you have A business for yourself, pray heaven you then Be perfect.

LUCIO. I warrant your honour.

DUKE. The warrant’s for yourself; take heed to’t.

ISABELLA. This gentleman told somewhat of my tale.

LUCIO. Right.

DUKE. It may be right; but you are i’ the wrong To speak before your time. Proceed.

ISABELLA. I went

To this pernicious caitiff deputy.

DUKE. That’s somewhat madly spoken.

ISABELLA. Pardon it;

The phrase is to the matter.

DUKE. Mended again. The matter-proceed.

ISABELLA. In brief-to set the needless process by, How I persuaded, how I pray’d, and kneel’d, How he refell’d me, and how I replied, For this was of much length-the vile conclusion I now begin with grief and shame to utter: He would not, but by gift of my chaste body To his concupiscible intemperate lust, Release my brother; and, after much debatement, My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour, And I did yield to him. But the next morn betimes, His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant For my poor brother’s head.

DUKE. This is most likely!

ISABELLA. O that it were as like as it is true!

DUKE. By heaven, fond wretch, thou know’st not what thou speak’st, Or else thou art suborn’d against his honour In hateful practice. First, his integrity Stands without blemish; next, it imports no reason That with such vehemency he should pursue Faults proper to himself. If he had so offended, He would have weigh’d thy brother by himself, And not have cut him off. Some one hath set you on; Confess the truth, and say by whose advice Thou cam’st here to complain.

ISABELLA. And is this all?

Then, O you blessed ministers above,

Keep me in patience; and, with ripened time, Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up In countenance! Heaven shield your Grace from woe, As I, thus wrong’d, hence unbelieved go!

DUKE. I know you’d fain be gone. An officer!

To prison with her! Shall we thus permit A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall On him so near us? This needs must be a practice.

Who knew of your intent and coming hither?

ISABELLA. One that I would were here, Friar Lodowick.

DUKE. A ghostly father, belike. Who knows that Lodowick?

LUCIO. My lord, I know him; ‘tis a meddling friar.

I do not like the man; had he been lay, my lord, For certain words he spake against your Grace In your retirement, I had swing’d him soundly.

DUKE. Words against me? This’s a good friar, belike!

And to set on this wretched woman here Against our substitute! Let this friar be found.

LUCIO. But yesternight, my lord, she and that friar, I saw them at the prison; a saucy friar, A very scurvy fellow.

PETER. Blessed be your royal Grace!

I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard Your royal ear abus’d. First, hath this woman Most wrongfully accus’d your substitute; Who is as free from touch or soil with her As she from one ungot.

DUKE. We did believe no less.

Know you that Friar Lodowick that she speaks of?

PETER. I know him for a man divine and holy; Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler,

As he’s reported by this gentleman;

And, on my trust, a man that never yet Did, as he vouches, misreport your Grace.

LUCIO. My lord, most villainously; believe it.

PETER. Well, he in time may come to clear himself; But at this instant he is sick, my lord, Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request-Being come to knowledge that there was complaint Intended ‘gainst Lord Angelo-came I hither To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know Is true and false; and what he, with his oath And all probation, will make up full clear, Whensoever he’s convented. First, for this woman-To justify this worthy nobleman,

So vulgarly and personally accus’dHer shall you hear disproved to her eyes, Till she herself confess it.

DUKE. Good friar, let’s hear it. Exit ISABELLA guarded Do you not smile at this, Lord Angelo?

O heaven, the vanity of wretched fools!

Give us some seats. Come, cousin Angelo; In this I’ll be impartial; be you judge Of your own cause.

Enter MARIANA veiled Is this the witness, friar?

FIRST let her show her face, and after speak.

MARIANA. Pardon, my lord; I will not show my face Until my husband bid me.

DUKE. What, are you married?

MARIANA. No, my lord.

DUKE. Are you a maid?

MARIANA. No, my lord.

DUKE. A widow, then?

MARIANA. Neither, my lord.

DUKE. Why, you are nothing then; neither maid, widow, nor wife.

LUCIO. My lord, she may be a punk; for many of them are neither maid, widow, nor wife.

DUKE. Silence that fellow. I would he had some cause To prattle for himself.

LUCIO. Well, my lord.

MARIANA. My lord, I do confess I ne’er was married, And I confess, besides, I am no maid.

I have known my husband; yet my husband Knows not that ever he knew me.

LUCIO. He was drunk, then, my lord; it can be no better.

DUKE. For the benefit of silence, would thou wert so too!

LUCIO. Well, my lord.

DUKE. This is no witness for Lord Angelo.

MARIANA. Now I come to’t, my lord:

She that accuses him of fornication,

In selfsame manner doth accuse my husband; And charges him, my lord, with such a time When I’ll depose I had him in mine arms, With all th’ effect of love.

ANGELO. Charges she moe than me?

MARIANA. Not that I know.

DUKE. No? You say your husband.

MARIANA. Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo, Who thinks he knows that he ne’er knew my body, But knows he thinks that he knows Isabel’s.

ANGELO. This is a strange abuse. Let’s see thy face.

MARIANA. My husband bids me; now I will unmask.

[Unveiling]

This is that face, thou cruel Angelo, Which once thou swor’st was worth the looking on; This is the hand which, with a vow’d contract, Was fast belock’d in thine; this is the body That took away the match from Isabel, And did supply thee at thy garden-house In her imagin’d person.

DUKE. Know you this woman?

LUCIO. Carnally, she says.

DUKE. Sirrah, no more.

LUCIO. Enough, my lord.

ANGELO. My lord, I must confess I know this woman; And five years since there was some speech of marriage Betwixt myself and her; which was broke off, Partly for that her promised proportions Came short of composition; but in chief For that her reputation was disvalued In levity. Since which time of five years I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her, Upon my faith and honour.

MARIANA. Noble Prince,

As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue, I am affianc’d this man’s wife as strongly As words could make up vows. And, my good lord, But Tuesday night last gone, in’s garden-house, He knew me as a wife. As this is true, Let me in safety raise me from my knees, Or else for ever be confixed here,

A marble monument!

ANGELO. I did but smile till now.

Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice; My patience here is touch’d. I do perceive These poor informal women are no more But instruments of some more mightier member That sets them on. Let me have way, my lord, To find this practice out.

DUKE. Ay, with my heart;

And punish them to your height of pleasure.

Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman, Compact with her that’s gone, think’st thou thy oaths, Though they would swear down each particular saint, Were testimonies against his worth and credit, That’s seal’d in approbation? You, Lord