Measure for Measure Act III Scene 1

(Start)

Let me know the point.

Darest 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.

Why give you me this shame?

Think you I can a resolution fetch

From flowery greatness? If I must die,

I will encounter darkness as a bride,

And hug it in mine arms.

There spake my brother; there my father’ grave

Did utter forth a voice. Yes, thou must die:

This outward-sainted deputy is yet a devil

The prenzie Angelo!

O, ‘tis the cunning livery of hell,

Dost thou think Claudio?

If I would yield him my virginity,

Thou mightst be freed.

O heavens! It cannot be.

Yes, this night’s the time

That I should do what I abhor to name,

Or else thou diest to-morrow.

Thou shalt not do’t

O, were it but my life,

I’d throw down for your deliverance

As frankly as a pin.

Thanks, dear Isabel.

Be ready, Claudio, for your death tomorrow.

Yes. Has he affections in him,

That thus can make him bite the law by the nose,

When would he force it? Sure, it is no sin,

Or of the deadly seven, it is the least.

Which is the least?

If it were damnable, he being so wise,

Why would he for the momentary trick

Be perdurably fines? O Isabel!

What says my brother?

Death is a fearful thing.

And shamed life a hateful.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;

To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;

The weariest and most loathéd worldly life

That age, penury and imprisonment

Can lay on nature is a paradise

To what we fear of death.

Alas, alas!

Sweet sister, let me live;

What sin you do to save a brother’s life,

Nature dispenses with the deed so far

That it becomes a virtue.

O you beast!

O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch!

Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice?

Is’t not a kind of inc*st, to take life

From thine own sisters shame? What should I think?

Heaven shield my mother play’d my father fair!

For such a warped slip of wilderness

Ne’er issued from his blood. Take my defiance!

Die, perish!

I’ll pray a thousand prayers for thy death,

[attempt to cut off]

no word to save thee.

Nay, hear me Isabella!

O, fie, fie, fie!

Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade.

Mercy to thee would prove itself a baed:

‘Tis best thou diest quickly.

O hear me, Isabella!