_Duch._ My gracious lord, I pray be merciful: Although his trespass far exceed his years, Think him to be your own, as I am yours; Call him not son-in-law: the law, I fear, Will fall too soon upon his name and him: Temper his fault with pity. _Lus._ Good my lord, Then 'twill not taste so bitter and unpleasant Upon the judges' palate; for offences, Gilt o'er with mercy, show like fairest women, Good only for their beauties, which washed off, No sin is uglier. _Amb._ I beseech your grace, Be soft and mild; let not relentless law Look with an iron forehead on our brother. _Spu._ He yields small comfort yet; hope he shall die; And if a bastard's wish might stand in force, Would all the court were turned into a corse! [_Aside._ _Duch._ No pity yet? must I rise fruitless then? A wonder in a woman! are my knees Of such low metal, that without respect-- _Judge._ Let the offender stand forth: 'Tis the duke's pleasure that impartial doom Shall take fast hold of his unclean attempt. A rape! why 'tis the very core of lust-- Double adultery. _Y. Son._ So, sir. _2nd Judge._ And which was worse, Committed on the Lord Antonio's wife, That general-honest lady. Confess, my lord, What moved you to't? _Y. Son._ Why, flesh and blood, my lord; What should move men unto a woman else? _Lus._ O, do not jest thy doom! trust not an axe Or sword too far: the law is a wise serpent, And quickly can beguile thee of thy life. Though marriage only has made thee my brother, I love thee so far: play not with thy death. _Y. Son._ I thank you, troth; good admonitions, faith, If I'd the grace now to make use of them. _1st Judge._ That lady's name has spread such a fair wing Over all Italy, that if our tongues Were sparing toward the fact, judgment itself Would be condemned, and suffer in men's thoughts. _Y. Son._ Well then, 'tis done; and it would please me well, Were it to do again: sure, she's a goddess, For I'd no power to see her, and to live. It falls out true in this, for I must die; Her beauty was ordained to be my scaffold. And yet, methinks, I might be easier 'sessed: My fault being sport, let me but die in jest. _1st Judge._ This be the sentence-- _Duch._ O, keep't upon your tongue; let it not slip; Death too soon steals out of a lawyer's lip. Be not so cruel-wise! _1st Judge._ Your grace must pardon us; 'Tis but the justice of the law. _Duch._ The law Is grown more subtle than a woman should be. _Spu._ Now, now he dies! rid 'em away. [_Aside._ _Duch._ O, what it is to have an old cool duke, To be as slack in tongue as in performance! [_Aside._ _1st Judge._ Confirmed, this be the doom irrevocable. _Duch._ O! _1st Judge._ To-morrow early-- _Duch._ Pray be abed, my lord. _1st Judge._ Your grace much wrongs yourself. _Amb._ No, 'tis that tongue: Your too much right does do us too much wrong.