Enter Claudio.
Looke, here's the Warrant Claudio, for thy death,
'Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to morrow
Thou must be made immortall. Where's Barnardine?
Cla. As fast lock'd vp in sleepe, as guiltlesse labour,
When it lies starkely in the Trauellers bones,
He will not wake
Pro. Who can do good on him?
Well, go, prepare your selfe. But harke, what noise?
Heauen giue your spirits comfort: by, and by,
I hope it is some pardon, or repreeue
For the most gentle Claudio. Welcome Father.
Enter Duke.
Duke. The best, and wholsomst spirits of the night,
Inuellop you, good Prouost: who call'd heere of late?
Pro. None since the Curphew rung
Duke. Not Isabell?
Pro. No
Duke. They will then er't be long
Pro. What comfort is for Claudio?
Duke. There's some in hope
Pro. It is a bitter Deputie
Duke. Not so, not so: his life is paralel'd
Euen with the stroke and line of his great Iustice:
He doth with holie abstinence subdue
That in himselfe, which he spurres on his powre
To qualifie in others: were he meal'd with that
Which he corrects, then were he tirrannous,
But this being so, he's iust. Now are they come.
This is a gentle Prouost, sildome when
The steeled Gaoler is the friend of men:
How now? what noise? That spirit's possest with hast,
That wounds th' vnsisting Posterne with these strokes
Pro. There he must stay vntil the Officer
Arise to let him in: he is call'd vp
Duke.
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