MEASURE FOR MEASURE. William Shakespeare

ELBOW.

       His neck will come to your waist, a cord, sir.

       CLOWN. I spy comfort; I cry bail! Here’s a gentleman, and a friend of mine.

       [Enter LUCIO.]

       LUCIO. How now, noble Pompey? What, at the wheels of Caesar! Art thou led in triumph? What, is there none of Pygmalion’s images, newly made woman, to be had now, for putting the hand in the pocket and extracting it clutched? What reply, ha? What say’st thou to this tune, matter, and method? Is’t not drowned i’ the last rain, ha? What say’st thou to’t? Is the world as it was, man? Which is the way? Is it sad, and few words? or how? The trick of it?

       DUKE.

       Still thus, and thus! still worse!

       LUCIO.

       How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress? Procures she still, ha?

       CLOWN. Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, and she is herself in the tub.

       LUCIO. Why, ‘tis good: it is the right of it: it must be so: ever your fresh whore and your powdered bawd—an unshunned consequence:; it must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey?

       CLOWN.

       Yes, faith, sir.

       LUCIO. Why, ‘tis not amiss, Pompey. Farewell; go, say I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey? or how?

       ELBOW.

       For being a bawd, for being a bawd.

       LUCIO. Well, then, imprison him: if imprisonment be the due of a bawd, why, ‘tis his right: bawd is he doubtless, and of antiquity, too: bawd-born. Farewell, good Pompey. Commend me to the prison, Pompey. You will turn good husband now, Pompey; you will keep the house.

       CLOWN.

       I hope, sir, your good worship will be my bail.

       LUCIO. No, indeed, will I not, Pompey; it is not the wear. I will pray, Pompey, to increase your bondage: if you take it not patiently, why, your mettle is the more. Adieu, trusty Pompey.—Bless you, friar.

       DUKE.

       And you.

       LUCIO.

       Does Bridget paint still, Pompey, ha?

       ELBOW.

       Come your ways, sir; come.

       CLOWN.

       You will not bail me then, sir?

       LUCIO.

       Then, Pompey, nor now.—What news abroad, friar? what news?

       ELBOW.

       Come your ways, sir; come.

       LUCIO.

       Go,—to kennel, Pompey, go:

       [Exeunt ELBOW, CLOWN, and Officers.]

       What news, friar, of the duke?

       DUKE.

       I know none. Can you tell me of any?

       LUCIO.

       Some say he is with the Emperor of Russia; other some, he is in

       Rome: but where is he, think you?

       DUKE.

       I know not where; but wheresoever, I wish him well.

       LUCIO. It was a mad fantastical trick of him to steal from the state and usurp the beggary he was never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it well in his absence; he puts transgression to’t.

       DUKE.

       He does well in’t.

       LUCIO. A little more lenity to lechery would do no harm in him: something too crabbed that way, friar.

       DUKE.

       It is too general a vice, and severity must cure it.

       LUCIO. Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a great kindred; it is well allied: but it is impossible to extirp it quite, friar, till eating and drinking be put down. They say this Angelo was not made by man and woman after this downright way of creation: is it true, think you?

       DUKE.

       How should he be made, then?

       LUCIO. Some report a sea-maid spawned him; some, that he was begot between two stock-fishes.—But it is certain that when he makes water, his urine is congealed ice; that I know to be true. And he is a motion ungenerative; that’s infallible.

       DUKE.

       You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace.

       LUCIO. Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him, for the rebellion of a codpiece to take away the life of a man! Would the duke that is absent have done this? Ere he would have hanged a man for the getting a hundred bastards, he would have paid for the nursing a thousand. He had some feeling of the sport; he knew the service, and that instructed him to mercy.

       DUKE. I never heard the absent duke much detected for women; he was not inclined that way.

       LUCIO.

       O, sir, you are deceived.

       DUKE.

       ‘Tis not possible.

       LUCIO.

       Who, not the duke? yes, your beggar of fifty;—and his use was to

       put a ducat in her clack-dish: the duke had crotchets in him.

       He would be drunk too: that let me inform you.

       DUKE.

       You do him wrong, surely.

       LUCIO. Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy fellow was the duke: and I believe I know the cause of his withdrawing.

       DUKE.

       What, I pr’ythee, might be the cause?

       LUCIO. No,—pardon;—‘tis a secret must be locked within the teeth and the lips: but this I can let you understand,—the greater file of the subject held the duke to be wise.

       DUKE.

       Wise? why, no question but he was.

       LUCIO.

       A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow.

       DUKE. Either this is envy in you, folly, or mistaking; the very stream of his life, and the business he hath helmed, must, upon a warranted need, give him a better proclamation. Let him be but testimonied in his own bringings forth, and he shall appear to the envious a scholar, a statesman, and a soldier. Therefore you speak unskilfully; or, if your knowledge be more, it is much darkened in your malice.

       LUCIO.

       Sir, I know him, and I love him.

       DUKE.

       Love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge with dearer love.

       LUCIO.

       Come, sir, I know what I know.

       DUKE. I can hardly believe that, since you know not what you speak. But, if ever the duke return,—as our prayers are he may,— let me desire you to make your answer before him. If it be honest you have spoke, you have courage to maintain it: I am bound to call upon you; and, I pray you, your name?

       LUCIO.

       Sir, my name is Lucio; well known to the duke.

       DUKE.

       He shall know you better, sir, if I may live to report you.

       LUCIO.

       I fear you not.

       DUKE. O, you hope the duke will return no more; or you imagine me too unhurtful an opposite. But, indeed, I can do you little harm: you’ll forswear this again.

       LUCIO. I’ll be hanged first! thou art deceived in me, friar. But no more of this. Canst thou tell if Claudio die tomorrow or no?

       DUKE.

       Why should he die, sir?

       LUCIO. Why? for filling a bottle with a tun-dish.