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Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them

For true substantial bodies.
Bos. Why do you do this?
Ferd. To bring her to despair.
Bos. Faith, end here;

And go no further in your cruelty.
Send her a penitential garment to put on
Next to her delicate skin, and furnish her

With beads and prayer-books.
Ferd. Damn her; that body of hers,

While that my blood ran pure in 't, was more worth
Than that, which thou wouldst comfort, call’d a soul.
I'll send her masques of common courtezans,
Have her meat served up by bawds and ruffians,
And ('cause she 'll need be mad) I am resolved
To remove forth the common hospital
All the mad folk, and place them near her lodging:
There let them practise together, sing, and dance,

And act their gambols to the full of the moon.
She is kept waking with noises of Madmen : and, at last, is strangled by

common Executioners.

Duch. What hideous noise was that?
Car. 'Tis the wild consort

Of madmen, lady; which your tyrant brother
Hath placed about your lodging: this tyranny
I think was never practised

till this hour.
Duch. Indeed I thank him; nothing but noise and folly

Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason
And silence make me stark mad; sit down,

Discourse to me some dismal tragedy.
Car. O, 'twill increase your melancholy.
Duch. Thou art deceived.

To hear of greater grief would lessen mine.

This is a prison ?
Car. Yes: but thou shalt live

To shake this durance off.
Duch. Thou art a fool.

The robin-redbreast and the nightingale

Never live long in cages. Car. Pray, dry your eyes.

What think you of, madam ?

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Duch. Of nothing :

When I muse thus, I sleep.
Car. Like a madman, with your eyes open ?
Duch. Dost thou think we shall know one another

In the other world ?
Car. Yes, out of question.
Duch. O that it were possible we might

But hold some two days' conference with the dead !
From them I should learn somewhat I am sure
I never shall know here. I'll tell thee a miracle ;
I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow.
The heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass,
The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad;
I am acquainted with sad misery,
As the tann’d galley-slave is with his oar;
Necessity makes me suffer constantly,

And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now? Car. Like to your picture in the gallery :

A deal of life in show, but none in practice :
Or rather, like some reverend monument

Whose ruins are ev'n pitied.
Duch. Very proper:

And Fortune seems only to have her eyesight,
To behold my tragedy: how now,
What noise is that?

A Servant enters.
Serv. I am come to tell

you, Your brother hath intended you some sport. A great physician, when the Pope was sick Of a deep melancholy, presented him With several sorts of madmen, which wild object (Being full of change and sport) forced him to laugh, And so the imposthume broke: the selfsame cure

The duke intends on you.
Duch. Let them come in.
Here follows a Dance of sundry sorts of Madmen, with music answer.

able thereto: after which BOSOLA (like an old man) enters.
Duch. Is he mad too?
Bos. I am come to make thy tomb.
Duch. Ha! my tomb ?

Thou speak’st as if I lay upon my deathbed,
Gasping for breath: dost thou perceive me sick ?

Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sickness is

insensible. Duch. Thou art not mad sure: dost know me ? Bos. Yes. Duch. Who am I? Bos. Thou art a box of wormseed; at best but a salvatory of

green mummy. What's this flesh ? a little crudded milk, fantastical puff-paste. Our bodies are weaker than those paper-prisons boys use to keep flies in, more contemptible; since ours is to preserve earthworms. Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage? Such is the soul in the body: this world is like her little turf of grass ; and the heaven o'er our heads, like her looking-glass, only gives us a miserable know

ledge of the small compass of our prison. Duch. Am not I thy duchess ? Bos. Thou art some great woman sure, for riot begins to sit

on thy forehead (clad in grey hairs) twenty years sooner than on a merry milk-maid's. Thou sleepest worse, than if a mouse should be forced to take up her lodging in a cat's ear: a little infant that breeds its teeth, should it lie with thee, would cry out, as

if thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow. Duch.

I am Duchess of Malfy still.
Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken:

Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright;

But, look’d too near, have neither heat nor light.
Duch. Thou art very plain.
Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living.

I am a tomb-maker.
Duch. And thou comest to make


tomb ? Bos. Yes. Duch. Let me be a little

Of what stuff wilt thou make it?
Bos. Nay, resolve me first; of what fashion ?
Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical in our death-bed ?

Do we affect fashion in the grave ?
Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do

not lie as they were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven; but with their hands under their cheeks (as if they died of the tooth-ache): they are not carved with their eyes fixed upon the stars; but, as

their minds were wholly bent upon the world, the

selfsame way they seem to turn their faces. Duch. Let me know fully therefore the effect

Of this thy dismal preparation,

This talk, fit for a charnel.
Bos. Now I shall. [A coffin, cords, and a bell, produced.

Here is a present from your princely brothers;
And may it arrive welcome, for it brings

Last benefit, last sorrow.
Duch. Let me see it.

I have so much obedience in my blood,

I wish it in their veins to do them good.
Bos. This is your last presence-chamber.
Car. O my sweet lady!
Duch. Peace, it affrights not me.
Bos. I am the common bellman,

That usually is sent to condemn’d persons

The night before they suffer.
Duch. Even now thou saidst,

Thou wast a tomb-maker.
Bos. 'Twas to bring you
By degrees to mortification. Listen.

Hark, now everything is still ;
This screech-ow), and the whistler shrill,
Call upon our dame aloud,
Ard bid her quickly d'on her shroud.
Much you had of land and rent;
Your length in clay 's now competent.
A long war disturb'd your mind;
Here your perfect peace is sign'd.
Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping ?
Sin, their conception; their birth, weeping:
Their life, a general mist of error;
Their death, a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
D'on clean linen, bathe your feet:
And (the foul fiend more to check)
A crucifix let bless your neck.
'Tis Low full tide 'tween night and day:
End your groan, and come away,

Car. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers : alas!

What will you do with my lady? Call for help. Duch. To whom; to our next neighbours ? They are mad Farewell, Cariola.

[folks. I pray thee look thou givest my little boy Some

syrup for his cold; and let the girl
Say her prayers ere she sleep.-Now what you please;

W hat death?
Bos. Strangling. Here are your executioners.
Duch. I forgive them.

The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough of the lungs,

Would do as much as they do. Bos. Doth not death fright you ? Duch. Who would be afraid on 't,

Knowing to meet such excellent corupany

In the other world ? Bos. Yet methinks,

The manner of your death should much afflict you ;

This cord should terrify you.
Duch. Not a whit.

What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut
With diamonds ? or to be smother'd
With cassia ? or to be shot to death with pearls ?
I know, death hath ten thousand several doors
For men to take their exits : and 'tis found
They go on such strange geometrical hinges,

them both ways; any way: (for heaven's
So I were out cf your whispering: tell my brothers,
That I perceive, death (now I'm well awake)
Best gift is, they can give or I can take.
I would fain put off my last woman's fault;
I'd not be tedious to you.
Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength
Must pull down heaven upon me.
Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arch'd
As princes' palaces; they that enter there

go upon their knees. Come, violent death,
Serve for Mandragora to make me sleep
Go tell my brothers; when I am laid out,
They then may feed in quiet.

[They strangle her, kneeling.

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