A monologue from the play by William ShakespeareANGELO: What’s this? what’s this? is this her fault or mine?The tempter, or the tempted, who sins most?Ha! Not she, nor doth she tempt; but it is IThat, lying by the violet in the sun,Do as the carrion does, not as the flower,Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it beThat modesty may more betray our senseThan woman’s lightness? Having wasteground enough,Shall we desire to raze the sanctuaryAnd pitch our evils there? O fie, fie, fie!What dost thou? or what are thou, Angelo?Dost thou desire her foully for those thingsThat make her good? O, let her brother live:Thieves for their robbery have authorityWhen judges steal themselves.
What, do I love her,That I desire to hear her speak again,And feast upon her eyes? what is’t I dream on?O cunning enemy that, to catch a saint,With saints dost bait thy hook: most dangerousIs that temptation that doth goad us onTo sin in loving virtue. Never could the strumpetWith all her double vigor, art and nature,Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maidSubdues me quite. Ever till now,When men were fond, I smiled and wondered how.