MEASURE FOR MEASURE. William Shakespeare

One word, good friend.—Lucio, a word with you.

       [Takes him aside.]

       LUCIO. A hundred, if they’ll do you any good. Is lechery so lookeed after?

       CLAUDIO.

       Thus stands it with me:—Upon a true contract

       I got possession of Julietta’s bed:

       You know the lady; she is fast my wife,

       Save that we do the denunciation lack

       Of outward order;: this we came not to

       Only for propagation of a dower

       Remaining in the coffer of her friends;

       From whom we thought it meet to hide our love

       Till time had made them for us. But it chances

       The stealth of our most mutual entertainment,

       With character too gross, is writ on Juliet.

       LUCIO.

       With child, perhaps?

       CLAUDIO.

       Unhappily, even so.

       And the new deputy now for the duke,—

       Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness,

       Or whether that the body public be

       A horse whereon the governor doth ride,

       Who, newly in the seat, that it may know

       He can command, lets it straight feel the spur:

       Whether the tyranny be in his place,

       Or in his eminence that fills it up,

       I stagger in.—But this new governor

       Awakes me all the enrolled penalties

       Which have, like unscour’d armour, hung by the wall

       So long that nineteen zodiacs have gone round

       And none of them been worn; and, for a name,

       Now puts the drowsy and neglected act

       Freshly on me; ‘tis surely for a name.

       LUCIO. I warrant it is: and thy head stands so tickle on thy shoulders that a milkmaid, if she be in love, may sigh it off. Send after the duke, and appeal to him.

       CLAUDIO.

       I have done so, but he’s not to be found.

       I pr’ythee, Lucio, do me this kind service:

       This day my sister should the cloister enter,

       And there receive her approbation:

       Acquaint her with the danger of my state;

       Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends

       To the strict deputy; bid herself assay him;

       I have great hope in that: for in her youth

       There is a prone and speechless dialect

       Such as moves men; beside, she hath prosperous art

       When she will play with reason and discourse,

       And well she can persuade.

       LUCIO. I pray she may; as well for the encouragement of the like, which else would stand under grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I’ll to her.

       CLAUDIO.

       I thank you, good friend Lucio.

       LUCIO.

       Within two hours,—

       CLAUDIO.

       Come, officer, away.

       [Exeunt.]

      SCENE IV. A Monastery.

       [Enter DUKE and FRIAR THOMAS.]

       DUKE.

       No; holy father; throw away that thought;

       Believe not that the dribbling dart of love

       Can pierce a complete bosom: why I desire thee

       To give me secret harbour hath a purpose

       More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends

       Of burning youth.

       FRIAR.

       May your grace speak of it?

       DUKE.

       My holy sir, none better knows than you

       How I have ever lov’d the life remov’d,

       And held in idle price to haunt assemblies

       Where youth, and cost, a witless bravery keeps.

       I have deliver’d to Lord Angelo,—

       A man of stricture and firm abstinence,—

       My absolute power and place here in Vienna,

       And he supposes me travell’d to Poland;

       For so I have strew’d it in the common ear,

       And so it is received. Now, pious sir,

       You will demand of me why I do this?

       FRIAR.

       Gladly, my lord.

       DUKE.

       We have strict statutes and most biting laws,—

       The needful bits and curbs to headstrong steeds,—

       Which for this fourteen years we have let sleep,

       Even like an o’ergrown lion in a cave,

       That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers,

       Having bound up the threat’ning twigs of birch,

       Only to stick it in their children’s sight

       For terror, not to use, in time the rod

       Becomes more mock’d than fear’d; so our decrees,

       Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead;

       And liberty plucks justice by the nose;

       The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart

       Goes all decorum.

       FRIAR.

       It rested in your grace

       To unloose this tied-up justice when you pleas’d;

       And it in you more dreadful would have seem’d

       Than in Lord Angelo.

       DUKE.

       I do fear, too dreadful:

       Sith ‘twas my fault to give the people scope,

       ‘Twould be my tyranny to strike and gall them

       For what I bid them do: for we bid this be done

       When evil deeds have their permissive pass

       And not the punishment. Therefore, indeed, my father,

       I have on Angelo impos’d the office;

       Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home,

       And yet my nature never in the fight

       To do in slander. And to behold his sway,

       I will, as ‘twere a brother of your order,

       Visit both prince and people: therefore, I pr’ythee,

       Supply me with the habit, and instruct me

       How I may formally in person bear me

       Like a true friar. Moe reasons for this action

       At our more leisure shall I render you;

       Only, this one:—Lord Angelo is precise;

       Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses