ANGELO.
Well, what’s your suit?
ISABELLA.
There is a vice that most I do abhor,
And most desire should meet the blow of justice;
For which I would not plead, but that I must;
For which I must not plead, but that I am
At war ’twixt will and will not.
ANGELO.
Well, the matter?
ISABELLA.
I have a brother is condemned to die;
I do beseech you, let it be his fault,
And not my brother.
PROVOST.
Heaven give thee moving graces.
ANGELO.
Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it?
Why, every fault’s condemned ere it be done.
Mine were the very cipher of a function
To find the faults whose fine stands in record,
And let go by the actor.
ISABELLA.
O just but severe law!
I had a brother, then. Heaven keep your honour!
[Going.]
LUCIO.
[To Isabella.] Give’t not o’er so. To him again, entreat him,
Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown;
You are too cold. If you should need a pin,
You could not with more tame a tongue desire it.
To him, I say.
ISABELLA.
Must he needs die?