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Angelo, There is a kind of character in thy life, That to the observer doth thy historyFully unfold. Thyself and thy belongingsAre not thine own so proper as to wasteThyself upon thy virtues, they on thee.Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, Not light them for themselves; for if our virtuesDid not go forth of us, 'twere all alikeAs if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'dBut to fine issues, nor Nature never lendsThe smallest scruple of her excellenceBut, like a thrifty goddess, she determinesHerself the glory of a creditor, Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speechTo one that can my part in him advertise;Hold therefore, Angelo: -In our remove be thou at full ourself;Mortality and mercy in ViennaLive in thy tongue and heart: old Escalus, Though first in question, is thy seco

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