pond as deep as hell. The prenzie Angelo! O, 'tis the cunning livery of hell, The damned'st body to invest and cover In prenzie guards! Dost thou think, Claudio? If I would yield him my virginity, Thou mightst be freed. O heavens! it cannot be. Yes, he would give't thee, from this rank offence, So to offend him still. 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'ld throw it 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 he would 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 fined? 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; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendent world; or to be worse than worst Of those that lawless and incertain thought Imagine howling: 'tis too horrible! The weariest and most loathed worldly life That age, ache, 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 incest, to take life From thine own sister's 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! Might but my bending down Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed: I'll pray a thousand prayers for thy death, No word to save thee. Nay, hear me, Isabel. O, fie, fie, fie! Thy sin's not accidental, but a trade. Mercy to thee