Ferdinand enters. Fer. Excellent, as I would wish: she's plagued in art. These presentations are but fram'd in wax, By the curious master in that quality Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them Bos. Why do you do this? Ferd. To bring her to despair. And go no further in your cruelty. Send her a penitential garment to put on Ferd. Damn her; that body of her's, While that my blood ran pure in't, was more worth All the mad folk, and place them near her lodging: She is kept waking with noises of Madmen: and, at last, strangled by common Executioners. DUCHESS. CARIOLA. Duch. What hideous noise was that? Car. Tis the wild consort Of madmen, Lady; which your tyrant brother I think was never practis'd 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. P2 Duch. Duch. Thou art deceived. To hear of greater grief would lessen mine. Car. Yes: but thou shalt live To shake this durance off. Duch. Thou art a fool. The Robin-red-breast and the Nightingale Never live long in cages. Car. Pray, dry your eyes. What think you of, Madam? Duch. Of nothing: When I muse thus, I sleep. Car. Like a madman, with your eyes open? 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, I never shall know here. I'll tell thee a miracle; I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow. Th' heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass, 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 Duch. Very proper: And Fortune seems only to have her eyesight, What noise is that? A Servant enters. Serv. I am come to tell you, Your brother hath intended you some sport. A A great physician, when the Pope was sick With several sorts of madmen, which wild object The duke intends on yon. Duch. Let them come in. Here follows a Dance of sundry sorts of Madmen, with Music answerable 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? 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 knowledge 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 milkmaid'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 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 to near, have neither heat nor light. Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living. I am a tomb-maker. Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb? Bos. Yes. Duch. Let me be a little merry. 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 self same 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. Duch. Let me see it : I have so much obedience in my blood, Duch. Peace, it affrights not me. Bos. Bos. I am the common bell-man, That usually is sent to condemn'd persons Duch. Even now thou saidst, Thou wast a tomb-maker. Bos. Twas to bring you By degrees to mortification: Listen. Dirge. Hark, now every thing is still; The screech-owl, and the whistler shrill, Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly d'on her shroud. Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping? Their death, a hideous storm of terror. 'Tis now 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 folks. Farewell, Cariola. I pray thee look thou giv'st my little boy Some syrop for his cold; and let the girl Say her pray'rs ere she sleep.-Now, what you please; Bos. Strangling. Here are your executioners. The |