William Shakespeare - The Complete Works of William Shakespeare

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 it.

ISABELLA.

This gentleman told somewhat of my tale.

LUCIO.

Right.

DUKE.

It may be right; but you are in 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 ripen’d 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.

Bless’d 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’d,—

Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes,

Till she herself confess it.

DUKE.

Good friar, let’s hear it.

[ISABELLA is carried off, guarded; and MARIANA comes forward.]

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.—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 the effect of love.

ANGELO.

Charges she more 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 promis’d 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,