Pray heaven she win him! 125

_Isab._ We cannot weigh our brother with ourself:
Great men may jest with saints; 'tis wit in them.
But in the less foul profanation.

_Lucio._ Thou'rt i' the right, girl; more o' that.

_Isab._ That in the captain's but a choleric word, 130
Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

_Lucio._ [_Aside to Isab._] Art avised o' that? more on't.

_Ang._ Why do you put these sayings upon me?

_Isab._ Because authority, though it err like others.
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, 135
That skins the vice o' the top. Go to your bosom;
Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know
That's like my brother's fault: if it confess
A natural guiltiness such as is his,
Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 140
Against my brother's life.

_Ang._ [_Aside_] She speaks, and 'tis
Such sense, that my sense breeds with it. Fare you well.

_Isab._ Gentle my lord, turn back.

_Ang._ I will bethink me: come again to-morrow.

_Isab._ Hark how I'll bribe you: good my lord, turn back. 145

_Ang._ How? bribe me?

_Isab._ Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you.

_Lucio._ [_Aside to Isab._] Yon had marr'd all else.

_Isab._ Not with fond shekels of the tested gold,
Or stones whose rates are either rich or poor 150
As fancy values them; but with true prayers
That shall be up at heaven and enter there
Ere sun-rise, prayers from preserved souls,
From fasting maids whose minds are dedicate
To nothing temporal.

_Ang._ Well; come to me to-morrow. 155

_Lucio._ [_Aside to Isab._] Go to; 'tis well; away!

_Isab._ Heaven keep your honour safe!

_Ang._ [_Aside_] Amen:
For I am that way going to temptation,
Where prayers cross.

_Isab._ At what hour to-morrow
Shall I attend your lordship?

_Ang._ At any time 'fore noon. 160

_Isab._ 'Save your honour!

[_Exeunt Isabella, Lucio, and Provost._

_Ang._ From thee,--even from thy virtue!
What's this, what's this? Is this her fault or mine?
The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?
Ha!
Not she; nor doth she tempt: but it is I 165
That, lying by the violet in the sun,
Do as the carrion does, not as the flower,
Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be
That modesty may more betray our