_Isab._ As much for my poor brother as myself: That is, were I under the terms of death, 100 The impression of keen whips I'ld wear as rubies, And strip myself to death, as to a bed That longing have been sick for, ere I'ld yield My body up to shame. _Ang._ Then must your brother die. _Isab._ And 'twere the cheaper way: 105 Better it were a brother died at once, Than that a sister, by redeeming him, Should die for ever. _Ang._ Were not you, then, as cruel as the sentence That you have slander'd so? 110 _Isab._ Ignomy in ransom and free pardon Are of two houses: lawful mercy Is nothing kin to foul redemption. _Ang._ You seem'd of late to make the law a tyrant; And rather proved the sliding of your brother 115 A merriment than a vice. _Isab._ 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. 120 _Ang._ We are all frail. _Isab._ Else let my brother die, If not a feodary, but only he Owe and succeed thy weakness. _Ang._ Nay, women are frail too. _Isab._ Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves; 125 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. _Ang._ I think it well: 130 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; 135 If you be one,--as you are well express'd By all external warrants,--show it now, By putting on the destined livery. _Isab._ I have no tongue but one: gentle my lord, Let me entreat you speak the former language. 140 _Ang._ Plainly conceive, I love you. _Isab._ My brother did love Juliet, And you tell me that he shall die for it. _Ang._ He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love. _Isab._ I know your virtue hath a license in't, 145 Which seems a little fouler than it is, To pluck on others. _Ang._ Believe me, on mine honour, My words express my purpose. _Isab._ Ha! little honour to be much believed, And most pernicious purpose!--Seeming, seeming!-- 150 I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for't: Sign me a present pardon for my brother, Or with an outstretch'd throat I'll tell the world aloud What man thou art.