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Sirrah, here's a fellow will help you to-morrow in
your execution. If you think it meet, compound with
him by the year, and let him abide here with you; if
not, use him for the present and dismiss him. He
cannot plead his estimation with you; he hath been a bawd.
ABHORSON:
A bawd, sir? fie upon him! he will discredit our mystery.
Provost:
Go to, sir; you weigh equally; a feather will turn
the scale.
POMPEY:
Pray, sir, by your good favour,--for surely, sir, a
good favour you have, but that you have a hanging
look,--do you call, sir, your occupation a mystery?
ABHORSON:
Ay, sir; a mystery
POMPEY:
Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mystery; and
your whores, sir, being members of my occupation,
using painting, do prove my occupation a mystery:
but what mystery there should be in hanging, if I
should be hanged, I cannot imagine.
ABHORSON:
Sir, it is a mystery.
POMPEY:
Proof?
ABHORSON:
Every true man's apparel fits your thief: if it be
too little for your thief, your true man thinks it
big enough; if it be too big for your thief, your
thief thinks it little enough: so every true man's
apparel fits your thief.
Provost:
Are you agreed?
POMPEY:
Sir, I will serve him; for I do find your hangman is
a more penitent trade than your bawd; he doth
oftener ask forgiveness.
Provost:
You, sirrah, provide your block and your axe
to-morrow four o'clock.
ABHORSON:
Come on, bawd; I will instruct thee in my trade; follow.
POMPEY:
I do desire to learn, sir: and I hope, if you have
occasion to use me for your own turn, you shall find
me yare; for truly, sir, for your kindness I owe you
a good turn.
Provost:
Call hither Barnardine and Claudio:
The one has my pity; not a jot the other,
Being a murderer, though he were my brother.
Look, here's the warrant, Claudio, for thy death:
'Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow
Thou must be made immortal. Where's Barnardine?
CLAUDIO:
As fast lock'd up in sleep as guiltless labour
When it lies starkly in the traveller's bones:
He will not wake.
Provost:
Who can do good on him?
Well, go, prepare yourself.
But, hark, what noise?
Heaven give your spirits comfort!
By and by.
I hope it is some pardon or reprieve
For the most gentle Claudio.
Welcome father.
DUKE VINCENTIO:
The best and wholesomest spirts of the night
Envelope you, good Provost! Who call'd here of late?
Provost:
None, since the curfew rung.
DUKE VINCENTIO:
Not Isabel?
Provost:
No.
DUKE VINCENTIO:
They will, then, ere't be long.