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Provost:
I would do more than that, if more were needful.
Look, here comes one: a gentlewoman of mine,
Who, falling in the flaws of her own youth,
Hath blister'd her report: she is with child;
And he that got it, sentenced; a young man
More fit to do another such offence
Than die for this.
DUKE VINCENTIO:
When must he die?
Provost:
As I do think, to-morrow.
I have provided for you: stay awhile,
And you shall be conducted.
DUKE VINCENTIO:
Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry?
JULIET:
I do; and bear the shame most patiently.
DUKE VINCENTIO:
I'll teach you how you shall arraign your conscience,
And try your penitence, if it be sound,
Or hollowly put on.
JULIET:
I'll gladly learn.
DUKE VINCENTIO:
Love you the man that wrong'd you?
JULIET:
Yes, as I love the woman that wrong'd him.
DUKE VINCENTIO:
So then it seems your most offenceful act
Was mutually committed?
JULIET:
Mutually.
DUKE VINCENTIO:
Then was your sin of heavier kind than his.
JULIET:
I do confess it, and repent it, father.
DUKE VINCENTIO:
'Tis meet so, daughter: but lest you do repent,
As that the sin hath brought you to this shame,
Which sorrow is always towards ourselves, not heaven,
Showing we would not spare heaven as we love it,
But as we stand in fear,--
JULIET:
I do repent me, as it is an evil,
And take the shame with joy.
DUKE VINCENTIO:
There rest.
Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow,
And I am going with instruction to him.
Grace go with you, Benedicite!
JULIET:
Must die to-morrow! O injurious love,
That respites me a life, whose very comfort
Is still a dying horror!
Provost:
'Tis pity of him.
ANGELO:
When I would pray and think, I think and pray
To several subjects. Heaven hath my empty words;
Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue,
Anchors on Isabel: Heaven in my mouth,
As if I did but only chew his name;
And in my heart the strong and swelling evil
Of my conception. The state, whereon I studied
Is like a good thing, being often read,
Grown fear'd and tedious; yea, my gravity,
Wherein--let no man hear me--I take pride,
Could I with boot change for an idle plume,
Which the air beats for vain. O place, O form,
How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit,
Wrench awe from fools and tie the wiser souls
To thy false seeming! Blood, thou art blood:
Let's write good angel on the devil's horn:
'Tis not the devil's crest.
How now! who's there?
Servant:
One Isabel, a sister, desires access to you.
ANGELO: