Measure for Measure

So then you hope of pardon from Lord Angelo?

The miserable have no other medicine

But only hope:

I’ve hope to live, and am prepared to die.

Be absolute for death; either death or life

Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life:

If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing

That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art,

Servile to all the skyey influences,

That dost this habitation, where thou keep’st,

Hourly afflict: merely, thou art death’s fool;

For him thou labour’st by thy flight to shun

And yet runn’st toward him still. Thou art not noble;

For all the accommodations that thou bear’st

Are nursed by baseness. Thou’rt by no means valiant;

For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork

Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep,

And that thou oft provokest; yet grossly fear’st

Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;

For thou exist’st on many a thousand grains

That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;

For what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get,

And what thou hast, forget’st. Thou art not certain;

For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,

After the moon. If thou art rich, thou’rt poor;

For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows,

Thou bear’s thy heavy riches but a journey,

And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none;

For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire,

The mere effusion of thy proper loins,

Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,

For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age,

But, as it were, an after-dinner’s sleep,

Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth

Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms

Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich,

Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,

To make thy riches pleasant. What’s yet in this

That bears the name of life? Yet in this life

Lie hid moe thousand deaths: yet death we fear,

That makes these odds all even.

I humbly thank you.

To sue to live, I find I seek to die;

And, seeking death, find life: let it come on.

(Within) What, ho! Peace here; grace and good company!

Who’s there? come in: the wish deserves a welcome.

Dear sir, ere long I’ll visit you again.

Most holy sir, I thank you.

My business is a word or two with Claudio.

And very welcome. Look, signior, here’s your sister.

Provost, a word with you.

As many as you please.

Bring me to hear them speak, where I may be concealed.

Now, sister, what’s the comfort?

Why,

As all comforts are; most good, most good indeed.

Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven,

Intends you for his swift ambassador,

Where you shall be an everlasting leiger:

Therefore your best appointment make with speed;

To-morrow you set on.

Is there no remedy?

None, but such remedy as, to save a head,

To cleave a heart in twain.

But is there any?

Yes, brother, you may live:

There is a devilish mercy in the judge,

If you’ll implore it, that will free your life,

But fetter you till death.

Perpetual durance?

Ay, just; perpetual durance, a restraint,

Though all the world’s vastidity you had,

To a determined scope.

But in what nature?

In such a one as, you consenting to’t,

Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear,

And leave you naked.

Let me know the point.

O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake,

Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain,

And six or seven winters more respect

Than a perpetual honour. Darest thou die?

The sense of death is most in apprehension;

And the poor beetle, that we tread upon,

In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great

As when a giant dies.

Why give you me this shame?

Think you I can a resolution fetch

From flowery tenderness? If I must die,

I will encounter darkness as a bride,

And hug it in mine arms.

There spake my brother; there my father’s grave

Did utter forth a voice. Yes, thou must die:

Thou art too noble to conserve a life

In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy,

Whose settled visage and deliberate word

Nips youth i’ the head and follies doth emmew

As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil

His filth within being cast, he would appear

A pond as deep as hell.

The prenzie Angelo!

O, ’tis the cunning livery of hell,

The damned’st body to invest and cover

In prenzie guards! Dost thou think, Claudio?

If I would yield him my virginity,

Thou mightst be freed.

O heavens! it cannot be.

Yes, he would give’t thee, from this rank offence,

So to offend him still. This night’s the time

That I should do what I abhor to name,

Or else thou diest to-morrow.

Thou shalt not do’t.

O, were it but my life,

I’ld throw it down for your deliverance

As frankly as a pin.

Thanks, dear Isabel.

Be ready, Claudio, for your death tomorrow.

Yes. Has he affections in him,

That thus can make him bite the law by the nose,

When he would force it? Sure, it is no sin,

Or of the deadly seven, it is the least.

Which is the least?

If it were damnable, he being so wise,

Why would he for the momentary trick

Be perdurably fined? O Isabel!

What says my brother?

Death is a fearful thing.

And shamed life a hateful.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;

To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;

This sensible warm motion to become

A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit

To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside

In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;

To be imprison’d in the viewless winds,

And blown with restless violence round about

The pendent world; or to be worse than worst

Of those that lawless and incertain thought

Imagine howling: ’tis too horrible!

The weariest and most loathed worldly life

That age, ache, penury and imprisonment

Can lay on nature is a paradise

To what we fear of death.

Alas, alas!

Sweet sister, let me live:

What sin you do to save a brother’s life,

Nature dispenses with the deed so far

That it becomes a virtue.

O you beast!

O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch!

Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice?

Is’t not a kind of incest, to take life

From thine own sister’s shame? What should I think?

Heaven shield my mother play’d my father fair!

For such a warped slip of wilderness

Ne’er issued from his blood. Take my defiance!

Die, perish! Might but my bending down

Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed:

I’ll pray a thousand prayers for thy death,

No word to save thee.

Nay, hear me, Isabel.

O, fie, fie, fie!

Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade.

Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd:

’Tis best thou diest quickly.

O hear me, Isabella!

Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one word.

What is your will?

Might you dispense with your leisure, I would by and

by have some speech with you: the satisfaction I

would require is likewise your own benefit.

I have no superfluous leisure; my stay must be

stolen out of other affairs; but I will attend you awhile.

Son, I have overheard what hath passed between you

and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to

corrupt her; only he hath made an essay of her

virtue to practise his judgment with the disposition

of natures: she, having the truth of honour in her,

hath made him that gracious denial which he is most

glad to receive. I am confessor to Angelo, and I

know this to be true; therefore prepare yourself to

death: do not satisfy your resolution with hopes

that are fallible: tomorrow you must die; go to

your knees and make ready.

Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so out of love

with life that I will sue to be rid of it.

Hold you there: farewell.

Provost, a word with you!

What’s your will, father(?)

That now you are come, you will be gone. Leave me

awhile with the maid: my mind promises with my

habit no loss shall touch her by my company.

In good time.

The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good:

the goodness that is cheap in beauty makes beauty

brief in goodness; but grace, being the soul of

your complexion, shall keep the body of it ever

fair. The assault that Angelo hath made to you,

fortune hath conveyed to my understanding; and, but

that frailty hath examples for his falling, I should

wonder at Angelo. How will you do to content this

substitute, and to save your brother?

I am now going to resolve him: I had rather my

brother die by the law than my son should be

unlawfully born. But, O, how much is the good duke

deceived in Angelo! If ever he return and I can

speak to him, I will open my lips in vain, or

discover his government.

That shall not be much ami Yet, as the matter

now stands, he will avoid your accusation; he made

trial of you only. Therefore fasten your ear on my

advisings: to the love I have in doing good a

remedy presents itself. I do make myself believe

that you may most uprighteously do a poor wronged

lady a merited benefit; redeem your brother from

the angry law; do no stain to your own gracious

person; and much please the absent duke, if

peradventure he shall ever return to have hearing of

this business.

Let me hear you speak farther. I have spirit to do

anything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit.

Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. Have

you not heard speak of Mariana, the sister of

Frederick the great soldier who miscarried at sea?

I have heard of the lady, and good words went with her name.

She should this Angelo have married; was affianced

to her by oath, and the nuptial appointed: between

which time of the contract and limit of the

solemnity, her brother Frederick was wrecked at sea,

having in that perished vessel the dowry of his

sister. But mark how heavily this befell to the

poor gentlewoman: there she lost a noble and

renowned brother, in his love toward her ever most

kind and natural; with him, the portion and sinew of

her fortune, her marriage-dowry; with both, her

combinate husband, this well-seeming Angelo.

Can this be so? did Angelo so leave her?

Left her in her tears, and dried not one of them

with his comfort; swallowed his vows whole,

pretending in her discoveries of dishonour: in few,

bestowed her on her own lamentation, which she yet

wears for his sake; and he, a marble to her tears,

is washed with them, but relents not.

What a merit were it in death to take this poor maid

from the world! What corruption in this life, that

it will let this man live! But how out of this can she avail?

It is a rupture that you may easily heal: and the

cure of it not only saves your brother, but keeps

you from dishonour in doing it.

Show me how, good father.

This forenamed maid hath yet in her the continuance

of her first affection: his unjust unkindness, that

in all reason should have quenched her love, hath,

like an impediment in the current, made it more

violent and unruly. Go you to Angelo; answer his

requiring with a plausible obedience; agree with

his demands to the point; only refer yourself to

this advantage, first, that your stay with him may

not be long; that the time may have all shadow and

silence in it; and the place answer to convenience.

This being granted in course,—and now follows

all,—we shall advise this wronged maid to stead up

your appointment, go in your place; if the encounter

acknowledge itself hereafter, it may compel him to

her recompense: and here, by this, is your brother

saved, your honour untainted, the poor Mariana

advantaged, and the corrupt deputy scaled. The maid

will I frame and make fit for his attempt. If you

think well to carry this as you may, the doubleness

of the benefit defends the deceit from reproof.

What think you of it?

The image of it gives me content already; and I

trust it will grow to a most prosperous perfection.

It lies much in your holding up. Haste you speedily

to Angelo: if for this night he entreat you to his

bed, give him promise of satisfaction. I will

presently to Saint Luke’s: there, at the moated

grange, resides this dejected Mariana. At that

place call upon me; and dispatch with Angelo, that

it may be quickly.

I thank you for this comfort. Fare you well, good father.