O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint,
With saints dost bait thy hook ! Most dangerous
Is that temptation, that doth goad us on
To sin in loving virtue.

This virtuous maid
Subdues me quite:ever, till now,
When men were fond, I smild, and wonder'd how.

SCENE IV.

Isabella. O, pardon me, my lord ; it oft falls out, To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean : I something do excuse the thing I hate, For his advantage that I dearly love.

*

*

*

Angelo. Nay, women are frail too.

Isabella. Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves ; Which are as easy broke as they make forms. Women !-Help heaven ! men their creation mar In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail ; For we are soft as our complexions are, And credulous to false prints.

Isabella. 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. Dar'st 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.
Claudio.

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.
Isabella. 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 enmew
As falcon doth the fowl-is yet a devil;
His filth within being cast, he would appear
A pond as deep as hell.
Claudio.

The princely Angelo?
Isabella. 0, 'tis the cunning livery of hell,
The damned'st body to invest and cover
In priestly guards! Dost thou think, Claudio,-
If I would yield him my virginity,
Thou mightst be freed.

Duke. Nay, it is ten times strange.

Isabella. O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believ'st There is another comfort than this world, That thou neglect me not, with that opinion That I am touch'd with madness ! Make not impossible That which but seems unlike. 'Tis not impossible,

But one,

the wicked'st caitiff on the ground,
May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute
As Angelo; even so may Angelo,
In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms,
Be an arch-villain : believe it, royal prince :
If he be less, he's nothing; but he's more,
Had I more name for badness.
Duke.

By mine honesty,
If she be mad,—as I believe no other,
Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense,
Such a dependency of thing on thing,
As e'er I heard in madness.
Isabella.

O gracious duke,
Harp not on that; nor do not banish reason
For inequality ; but let your reason serve
To make the truth appear where it seems hid,
And hide the false seems true.

*

all my

Mariana. O my good lord ! Sweet Isabel, take my part: Lend me your knees, and, all my life to come, I'll lend you life to do

you service.
Duke. Against all sense you do importune her :
Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact,
Her brother's ghost his paved bed would break,
And take her hence in horror.
Mariana.

Isabel,
Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me:
Hold up your hands, say nothing, I'll speak all.
They say best men are moulded out of faults ;
And, for the most, become much more the better
For being a little bad : so may my husband.
O, Isabel ! will you not lend a knee?

Duke. He dies for Claudio's death.

Isabella.

Most bounteous sir, Look, if it please you, on this man condemn'd, As if my brother liv'd, I partly think, A due sincerity govern'd his deeds, Till he did look on me : since it is so, Let him not die. My brother had but justice, In that he did the thing for which he died : For Angelo, His act did not o'ertake his bad intent; And must be buried but as an intent That perish'd by the way: thoughts are no subjects; Intents but merely thoughts.

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU

WILL.17

ACT I. SCENE V.

Viola (disguised as a page).
IS beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid

on :

Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive,
If you will lead these graces to the grave,
And leave the world no copy.

Viola. I see you what you are : you are too proud ;
But, if you were the devil, you are fair.
My lord and master loves you ; 0, such love
Could be but recompens'd, though you were crown'd
The nonpareil of beauty !

Olivia. What is your parentage ? Above my fortunes, yet my state is well : I am a gentleman.”—I'll be sworn thou art, Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit, Do give thee five-fold blazon ;-Not too fast:-soft! soft !