It is the law, not I, condemns your brother:
Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son,
It should be thus with him;--he must die to-morrow.

ISABELLA.
To-morrow! O, that's sudden! Spare him, spare him!
He's not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens
We kill the fowl of season: shall we serve heaven
With less respect than we do minister
To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you:
Who is it that hath died for this offence?
There's many have committed it.

LUCIO.
Ay, well said.

ANGELO.
The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept:
Those many had not dared to do that evil
If the first that did the edict infringe
Had answer'd for his deed: now 'tis awake;
Takes note of what is done; and, like a prophet,
Looks in a glass that shows what future evils,--
Either now, or by remissness new conceiv'd,
And so in progress to be hatch'd and born,--
Are now to have no successive degrees,
But, where they live, to end.

ISABELLA.
Yet show some pity.