ISABELLA.
O, pardon me, my lord. It oft falls out,
To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean.
I something do excuse the thing I hate
For his advantage that I dearly love.
ANGELO.
We are all frail.
ISABELLA.
Else let my brother die,
If not a feodary but only he
Owe and succeed by weakness.
ANGELO.
Nay, women are frail too.
ISABELLA.
Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves,
Which are as easy broke as they make forms.
Women?—Help, heaven! Men their creation mar
In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail;
For we are soft as our complexions are,
And credulous to false prints.
ANGELO.
I think it well.
And from this testimony of your own sex,
Since I suppose we are made to be no stronger
Than faults may shake our frames, let me be bold.
I do arrest your words. Be that you are,
That is, a woman. If you be more, you’re none.
If you be one, as you are well expressed
By all external warrants, show it now
By putting on the destined livery.
ISABELLA.
I have no tongue but one. Gentle my lord,
Let me intreat you speak the former language.
ANGELO.
Plainly conceive, I love you.
ISABELLA.
My brother did love Juliet,
And you tell me that he shall die for ’t.
ANGELO.
He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love.