of it ever fair. The assault that Angelo hath made to you,
fortune hath convey'd 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?

ISABELLA. 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 deceiv'd in Angelo! If ever he return, and
I can speak to him, I will open my lips in vain, or discover his

government.
DUKE. That shall not be much amiss; 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.

ISABELLA. Let me hear you speak farther; I have spirit to do
anything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit.

DUKE. 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?
ISABELLA. I have heard of the lady, and good words went with her

name.
DUKE. 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

wreck'd 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.

ISABELLA. Can this be so? Did Angelo so leave her?
DUKE. 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, bestow'd 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.

ISABELLA. What a merit were it in death to take this poor maid from
the world! What corruption" target="_blank" title="n.腐化；贪污；贿赂">corruption in this life that it will let this man

live! But how out of this can she avail?
DUKE. 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.

ISABELLA. Show me how, good father.
DUKE. 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 encounteracknowledge 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 corruptdeputy 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?

ISABELLA. The image of it gives me content already; and I trust it
will grow to a most prosperous perfection.

DUKE. 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.

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

Scene II.
The street before the prison

Enter, on one side, DUKE disguised as before; on the other,
ELBOW, and OFFICERS with POMPEY

ELBOW. Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that you will needs
buy and sell men and women like beasts, we shall have all the

world drink brown and white bastard.
DUKE. O heavens! what stuff is here?

POMPEY. 'Twas never merry world since, of two usuries, the merriest
was put down, and the worser allow'd by order of law a furr'd

gown to keep him warm; and furr'd with fox on lamb-skins too, to
signify that craft, being richer than innocency, stands for the

facing.
ELBOW. Come your way, sir. Bless you, good father friar.

DUKE. And you, good brother father. What offence hath this man made
you, sir?

ELBOW. Marry, sir, he hath offended the law; and, sir, we take him
to be a thief too, sir, for we have found upon him, sir, a

strange picklock, which we have sent to the deputy.
DUKE. Fie, sirrah, a bawd, a wicked bawd!

The evil that thou causest to be done,
That is thy means to live. Do thou but think

What 'tis to cram a maw or clothe a back
From such a filthy vice; say to thyself

'From their abominable and beastly touches
I drink, I eat, array myself, and live.'

Canst thou believe thy living is a life,
So stinkingly depending? Go mend, go mend.

POMPEY. Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir; but yet, sir,
I would prove-

DUKE. Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs for sin,
Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer;

Correction and instruction must both work
Ere this rude beast will profit.

ELBOW. He must before the deputy, sir; he has given him warning.
The deputy cannot abide a whoremaster; if he be a whoremonger,

and comes before him, he were as good go a mile on his errand.
DUKE. That we were all, as some would seem to be,

From our faults, as his faults from seeming, free.
ELBOW. His neck will come to your waist- a cord, sir.

Enter LUCIO
POMPEY. I spy comfort; I cry bail. Here's a gentleman, and a friend

of mine.
LUCIO. How now, noble Pompey! What, at the wheels of Caesar? Art

thou led in triumph? What, is there none of Pygmalion's images,
newly made woman, to be had now for putting the hand in the

pocket and extracting it clutch'd? What reply, ha? What say'st
thou to this tune, matter, and method? Is't not drown'd i' th'

last rain, ha? What say'st thou, trot? Is the world as it was,
man? Which is the way? Is it sad, and few words? or how? The

trick of it?
DUKE. Still thus, and thus; still worse!

LUCIO. How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress? Procures she still,
ha?

POMPEY. Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, and she is
herself in the tub.