in the captain's but a choleric word,
Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.
Art avised o' that? more on 't.
Why do you put these sayings upon me?
Because authority, though it err like others,
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself,
That skins the vice o' the top. Go to your bosom;
Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know
That's like my brother's fault: if it confess
A natural guiltiness such as is his,
Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue
Against my brother's life.
She speaks, and 'tis
Such sense, that my sense breeds with it. Fare you well.
Gentle my lord, turn back.
I will bethink me: come again tomorrow.
Hark how I'll bribe you: good my lord, turn back.
How! bribe me?
Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you.
You had marr'd all else.
Not with fond shekels of the tested gold,
Or stones whose rates are either rich or poor
As fancy values them; but with true prayers
That shall be up at heaven and enter there
Ere sun-rise, prayers from preserved souls,
From fasting maids whose minds are dedicate
To nothing temporal.
Well; come to me to-morrow.
Go to; 'tis well; away!
Heaven keep your honour safe!
Amen:
For I am that way going to temptation,
Where prayers cross.
At what hour to-morrow
Shall I attend your lordship?
At any time 'fore noon.
'Save your honour!
From thee, even from thy virtue!
What's this, what's this? Is this her fault or mine?
The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?
Ha!
Not she: nor doth she tempt: but it is I
That, lying by the violet in the sun,
Do as the carrion does, not as the flower,
Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be
That modesty may more betray our sense
Than woman's lightness? Having waste ground enough,
Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary
And pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie!
What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo?
Dost thou desire her foully for those things
That make her good? O, let her brother live!
Thieves for their robbery have authority
When judges steal themselves. What, do I love her,
That I desire to hear her speak again,
And feast upon her eyes? What is't I dream on?
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: never could the strumpet,