Being a murderer, though he were my brother.
[Enter Claudio.]
Look, here’s the warrant, Claudio, for thy death:
’Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow
60 Thou must be made immortal. Where’s Barnardine?
Claud. As fast lock’d up in sleep as guiltless labour
When it lies starkly in the traveller’s bones:
Prov.
Who can do good on him?