435 Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me;
Hold up your hands, say nothing,—I’ll speak all.
They say, best men are moulded out of faults;
And, for the most, become much more the better
For being a little bad: so may my husband.
440 O Isabel, will you not lend a knee?
Duke. He dies for Claudio’s death.
Isab.
Most bounteous sir, [Kneeling.]
Look, if it please you, on this man condemn’d,