Efcal. Hath fhe had any more than one husband?
Clown. Nine, fir: Over-don by the last.

Efcal. Nine? Come hither to me, master Froth: master Froth, I would not have you acquainted with tapfters; they will draw you, master Froth, and you will hang them. Get you gone, and let me hear no more of you.

Froth. I thank your worship; for mine own part, I never come into any room in a taphoufe, but I am drawn in.

Efcal. Well; no more of it, master Froth; farewel. [Exit Froth, SCENE IV.

Come you hither to me, master tapfter; what's your name, master tapster ?

Clown. Pompey.

Efcal. What else?

Clown. Bum, fir.

Efcal. Troth, and your bum is the greatest thing about you, fo that, in the beastliest sense, you are Pompey the great. Pompey, you are partly a bawd, Pompey; howfoever you colour it in being a tapiter; are you not? come, tell me true, it shall be the better for you.

Clown. Truly, fir, I am a poor fellow that would live.

Efcal. How would you live, Pompey? by being a bawd? what do you think of the trade, Pompey? is it a lawful trade? Clown. If the law will allow it, fir.

Escal. But the law will not allow it, Pompey, and it shall not be allowed in Vienna.

Clown. Does your worship mean to geld and splay all the youth in the city?

Efcal. No, Pompey.

Clown. Truly, fir, in my poor opinion, they will to't then. If your worship will take order for the drabs and knaves, you need not to fear the bawds.

Efcal. There are pretty orders beginning, I can tell is but heading and hanging.

you:

it

Clown.

Clown. If you head and hang all that offend that way but for ten years together, you'll be glad to give out a commission for more heads: if this law hold in Vienna ten years, I'll rent the fairest house in it after three pence a bay: if you live to see this come to pass, say, Pompey told you so.

Efcal. Thank you, good Pompey; and in requital of your prophecy, hark you, I advise you let me not find you before me again upon any complaint whatsoever; no, not for dwelling where you do: if I do, Pompey, I fhall beat you to your tent, and prove a fhrewd Cæfar to you: in plain dealing, Pompey, I fhall have you whip'd: fo for this time, Pompey, fare you well.

Clown. I thank your worship for your good counsel; but I fhall follow it, as the flesh and fortune fhall better determine. Whip me? no, no; let carman whip his jade; The valiant heart's not whip'd out of his trade.

SCENE V.
V.

[Exit.

Escal. Come hither to me, mafter Elbow; come hither, master conftable; how long have you been in this place of constable ? Elb. Seven year and an half, fir.

Efcal. I thought, by your readiness in the office, you had continued in it fome time: you fay, feven years together? Elb. And a half, fir.

Efcal. Alas! it hath been great pains to you: they do you wrong to put you so oft upon't: are there not men in your ward fufficient to ferve it?

Elb. 'Faith, fir, few of any wit in such matters; as they are chofen they are glad to choose me for them. I do it for some piece of money, and go through with all.

Efcal. Look you, bring me in the names of fome fix or seven, the most sufficient of your parish.

Elb. To your worship's house, fir?

Efcal. To my houfe; fare you well. What's o'clock, think

you?

[Exit Elbow.

Juft. Eleven, fir.

Rr 2

Efcal.

Efcal. I pray you, go home to dinner with me.
Just. I humbly thank you.

Efcal. It grieves me for the death of Claudio:
But there's no remedy.

Juft. Lord Angelo is fevere.

Efcal. It is but needful:

Mercy is not itself, that oft looks fo;
Pardon is ftill the nurse of second wo:

But yet, poor Claudio! there's no remedy.
Come, fir.

[Exeunt.

Serv. He's hearing of a cause; he will come straight:

I'll tell him of you.

Prov. Pray you, do; I'll know

His pleasure; may be, he'll relent; alas!

He hath but as offended in a dream:

All fects, all ages fmack o' th' vice; and he
To die for it!

Enter Angelo.

Ang. Now, what's the matter, provost?
Prov. Is it your will Claudio fhall die to-morrow?
Ang. Did not I tell thee, yea? hadft thou not order?
Why ask again?

Prov. Left I might be too rash.

Under your good correction, I have seen

When after execution judgment hath

Repented o'er his doom.

Ang. Let that be mine;

Do you your office, or give up your place,

And you fhall well be fpar'd.

Prov. I crave your pardon.

What shall be done, fir, with the groaning Juliet?
She's very near her hour.

Ang.

Ang. Difpofe of her

To fome more fitting place, and that with speed.
Serv. Here is the fifter of the man condemn'd,
Defires access to you.

Ang. Hath he a sister?

Prov. Ay, my good lord, a very virtuous maid, And to be shortly of a fifterhood,

your will?

Prov. 'Save your honour !

Ang. Stay yet a while. Y'are welcome; what's
Ifab. I am a woful fuitor to your honour,

Please but your honour hear me.

Ang. What's your fuit?

Ifab. There is a vice that most I do abhor,

And most defire should meet the blow of juftice,
For which I would not plead, but that I must;
For which I muft plead, albeit I am

At war 'twixt will, and will not.
Ang. Well; the matter?

Ifab. I have a brother is condemn'd to-day;
I do beseech you, let it be his fault,

And not my brother.

Prov. Heav'n give thee moving graces!

Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it?
Why, every fault's condemn'd ere it be done;
Mine were the very cipher of a function

To fine the faults, whofe fine ftar ds in record,
And let go by the actor..

Ifab. O juft, but severe law!

I had a brother then; heav'n keep your honour!

Lucio. Give't not o'er fo: to him again, entreat him, Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown;

You are too cold; if you should need a pin,
You could not with a more tame tongue defire it.
To him, I fay.

Ifab. Muft he needs die?

Ang. Maiden, no remedy.

Ifab. Yes; I do think that you might pardon him,
And neither heav'n nor man grieve at the mercy.
Ang. I will not do't.

Ifab. But can you if you would?

Ang. Look, what I will not, that I cannot do. Isab. But might you do't, and do the world no wrong, If fo your heart were touch'd with that remorse

As mine is to him?

Ang. He's fentenc'd; 'tis too late.

Lucio. You are too cold..

Ifab. Too late? why, no; I that do speak a word,

May call it back again: and believe this,

No ceremony that to great ones belongs,

Not the king's crown, nor the deputed fword,
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe,
Become them with one half fo good a grace
As mercy does: if he had been as you,
And you as he, you would have flip'd like him;
But he, like you, would not have been fo ftern.
Ang. Pray you, be gone.

Ifab. I would to heav'n I had your potency,
And you were Ifabel! fhould it then be thus?
No; I would tell what 'twere to be a judge,.
And what a prisoner.

Lucio. Ay, touch him; there's the vein. Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law, you but waste your words.

And