A Room in a Prison. |
| |
Enter DUKE, disguised as a friar, and PROVOST. |
| Duke. Hail to you, provost! so I think you are. |
| Prov. I am the provost. What's your will, good friar? |
| Duke. Bound by my charity and my bless'd order, |
| I come to visit the afflicted spirits |
| Here in the prison: do me the common right |
| To let me see them and to make me know |
| The nature of their crimes, that I may minister |
| To them accordingly. |
| Prov. I would do more than that, if more were needful. |
| Look, here comes one: a gentlewoman of mine, |
| Who, falling in the flaws of her own youth, |
| Hath blister'd her report. She is with child, |
| And he that got it, sentenc'd; a young man |
| More fit to do another such offence, |
| Than die for this. |
| |
Enter JULIET. |
| Duke. When must he die? |
| Prov. As I do think, to-morrow. |
| [To JULIET.] I have provided for you: stay a while, |
| And you shall be conducted. |
| Duke. Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry? |
| Juliet. I do, and bear the shame most patiently. |
| Duke. I'll teach you how you shall arraign your conscience, |
| And try your penitence, if it be sound, |
| Or hollowly put on. |
| Juliet. I'll gladly learn. |
| Duke. Love you the man that wrong'd you? |
| Juliet. Yes, as I love the woman that wrong'd him. |
| Duke. So then it seems your most offenceful act |
| Was mutually committed? |
| Juliet. Mutually. |
| Duke. Then was your sin of heavier kind than his. |
| Juliet. I do confess it, and repent it, father. |
| Duke. 'Tis meet so, daughter: but lest you do repent, |
| As that the sin hath brought you to this shame, |
| Which sorrow is always toward ourselves, not heaven, |
| Showing we would not spare heaven as we love it, |
| But as we stand in fear,— |
| Juliet. I do repent me, as it is an evil, |
| And take the shame with joy. |
| Duke. There rest. |
| Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow, |
| And I am going with instruction to him. |
| God's grace go with you! Benedicite! [Exit. |
| Juliet. Must die to-morrow! O injurious love, |
| That respites me a life, whose very comfort |
| Is still a dying horror! |
| Prov. 'Tis pity of him. [Exeunt. |
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