University of Virginia Library

ACTVS IIII.

SCENA. I.

Ferdinand, Bosola, Dutchesse, Cariola, Seruants.
Ferd.
How doth our sister Dutchesse beare her selfe
In her imprisonment?

Bos.
Nobly : I'll describe her:
She's sad, as one long vs'd to't: and she seemes
Rather to welcome the end of misery
Then shun it: a behauiour so noble,
As giues a maiestie to aduersitie:
You may discerne the shape of louelinesse
More perfect, in her teares, then in her smiles;
She will muse foure houres together: and her silence,
(Me thinkes) expresseth more, then if she spake.

Ferd.
Her mellancholly seemes to be fortifide
With a strange disdaine.

Bos.
'Tis so: and this restraint
(Like English Mastiffes, that grow feirce with tying)
Makes her too passionately apprehend
Those pleasures she's kept from.

Ferd.
Curse vpon her:
I will no longer study in the booke
Of anothers heart: informe her what I told you.

Exit.
Bos.
All comfort to your Grace;

Dutch.
I will haue none:
'Pray-thee, why do'st thou wrap thy poysond Pilles
In Gold, and Sugar?

Bos.
Your elder brother the Lord Ferdinand
Is come to visite you: and sends you word
'Cause once he rashly made a solemne vowe
Neuer to see you more; he comes i'th' night:
And prayes you (gently) neither Torch, nor Taper
Shine in your Chamber: he will kisse your hand:
And reconcile himselfe: but, for his vowe,
He dares not see you:

Duch.
At his pleasure:
Take hence the lights: he's come.

Ferd.
Where are you?

Dutch.
Here sir:

Ferd.
This darkenes suites you well.

Dutch.
I would aske you pardon:

Ferd.
You haue it;
For I account it, the honorabl'st reuenge
Where I may kill, to pardon: where are your Cubbs?

Duch.
Whom?

Ferd.
Call them your children;
For though our nationall law, distinguish Bastards
From true legitimate issue: compassionate nature
Makes them all equall.

Duch.
Doe you visit me for this?
You violate a Sacrament o'th' Church
Shall make you howle in hell for't.

Ferd.
It had bin well,
Could you haue liu'd thus alwayes: for indeed
You were too much i'th' light: But no more,
I come to seale my peace with you: here's a hand,
giues her a dead mans hand.
To which you haue vow'd much loue: the Ring vpon't
You gaue.

Duch.
I affectionately kisse it:

Ferd.
'Pray doe: and bury the print of it in your heart:
I will leaue this Ring with you, for a Loue-token:
And the hand, as sure as the ring: and doe not doubt
But you shall haue the heart too: when you need a friend
Send it to him, that ow'de it: you shall see
Whether he can ayd you.

Dutch.
You are very cold.
I feare you are not well after your trauell:
Hah? lights: oh horrible:

Ferd.
Let her haue lights enough

Exit.
Dutch.
What witch-craft doth he practise, that he hath left
A dead-mans hand here?—

Here is discouer'd, (behind a Trauers;) the artificiall figures of Antonio, and his children; appearing as if they were dead.
Bos.
Looke you: here's the peece, from which 'twas ta'ne;
He doth present you this sad spectacle,
That now you know directly they are dead,
Hereafter you may (wisely) cease to grieue
For that which cannot be recouered.

Duch.
There is not betweene heauen, and earth one wish
I stay for after this: it wastes me more,
Then were't my picture, fashion'd out of wax,
Stucke with a magicall needle, and then buried
In some fowle dung-hill: and yond's an excellent property
For a tyrant, which I would account mercy,

Bos.
What's that?

Dutch.
If they would bind me to that liueles truncke,
And let me freeze to death.

Bos.
Come, you must liue.

Dutch.
That's the greatest torture soules feele in hell,
In hell: that they must liue, and cannot die:
Portia, I'll new kindle thy Coales againe,
And reuiue the rare, and almost dead example
Of a louing wife.

Bos.
O fye: despaire? remember
You are a Christian.

Dutch.
The Church enioynes fasting:
I'll starue my selfe to death.

Bos.
Leaue this vaine sorrow;
Things being at the worst, begin to mend:
The Bee when he hath shot his sting into your hand
May then play with your eye-lyd.

Dutch.
Good comfortable fellow
Perswade a wretch that's broke vpon the wheele
To haue all his bones new set: entreate him liue,
To be executed againe: who must dispatch me?
I account this world a tedious Theatre,
For I doe play a part in't 'gainst my will.

Bos.
Come, be of comfort, I will saue your life.

Dutch.
Indeed I haue not leysure to tend so small a busines.

Bos.
Now, by my life, I pitty you.

Dutch.
Thou art a foole then,
To wast thy pitty on a thing so wretch'd
As cannot pitty it: I am full of daggers:
Puffe: let me blow these vipers from me.
What are you?

Ser.
One that wishes you long life.

Duch.
I would thou wert hang'd for the horrible curse
Thou hast giuen me: I shall shortly grow one
Of the miracles of pitty: I'll goe pray: No,
I'll goe curse:

Bos.
Oh fye:

Dutch.
I could curse the Starres.

Bos.
Oh fearefull:

Dutch.
And those three smyling seasons of the yeere
Into a Russian winter: nay the world
To its first Chaos.

Bos.
Looke you, the Starres shine still:

Dutch.
Oh, but you must remember, my curse hath a great way to goe:
Plagues, (that make lanes through largest families)
Consume them:

Bos.
Fye Lady:

Dutch.
Let them like tyrants
Neuer be remembred, but for the ill they haue done:
Let all the zealous prayers of mortefied
Church-men forget them,

Bos.
O vncharitable:

Dutch.
Let heauen, a little while, cease crowning Martirs
To punish them: Goe, howle them this: and say I long to bleed
”It is some mercy, when men kill with speed.

Exit.
Ferd.
Excellent; as I would wish: she's plagu'd in Art.
These presentations are but fram'd in wax.
By the curious Master in that Qualitie,
Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them
For true sub stantiall Bodies.

Bos.
Why doe you doe this?

Ferd.
To bring her to despaire.

Bos.
'Faith, end here;
And go no farther in your cruelty,
Send her a penetentiall garment, to put on,
Next to her delicate skinne, and furnish her
With beades, and prayer bookes.

Ferd.
Damne her, that body of hers,
While that my blood ran pure in't, was more worth
Then, that which thou wouldst comfort, (call'd a soule)
I will send her masques of common Curtizans,
Haue her meate seru'd vp by baudes, and ruffians,
And ('cause she'll needes be mad) I am resolu'd
To remoue forth the common Hospitall,
All the mad-folke, and place them neere her lodging:
There let them practise together, sing, and daunce,
And act their gambols to the full o'th'moone:
If she can sleepe the better for it, let her,
Your worke is almost ended.

Bos.
Must I see her againe?

Ferd.
Yes.

Bos.
Neuer.

Ferd.
You must.

Bos.
Neuer in mine owne shape,
That's forfeited, by my intelligence,
And this last cruell lie: when you send me next,
The businesse shalbe comfort.

Ferd.
Very likely,
Thy pity is nothing of kin to thee: Antonio,
Lurkes about Millaine, thou shalt shortly thither,
To feede a fire, as great as my reuenge,
Which neu'r will slacke, till it haue spent his fuell,
“Intemperate agues, make Physitians cruell.

Exeunt.

SCENA II.

Duchesse, Cariola, Seruant, Mad-men, Bosola, Executioners, Ferdinand.
Duch.
What hideous noyse was that?

Cari.
'Tis the wild consort
Of Mad-men (Lady) which your Tyrant brother
Hath plac'd about your lodging: This tyranny,
I thinke was neuer practis'd till this howre.

Duch.
Indeed I thanke him: nothing but noyce, and folly
Can keepe me in my right wits, whereas reason
And silence, make me starke mad: Sit downe,
Discourse to me some dismall Tragedy.

Cari.
O 'twill encrease your mellancholly.

Duch.
Thou art deceiu'd,
To heare of greater griefe, would lessen mine,
This is a prison?

Cari.
Yes, but you shall liue
To shake this durance off.

Duch.
Thou art a foole,
The Robin red-brest, and the Nightingale,
Neuer liue long in cages.

Cari.
Pray drie your eyes.
What thinke you of Madam?

Duch.
Of nothing:
When I muse thus, I sleepe.

Cari.
Like a mad-man, with your eyes open?

Duch.
Do'st thou thinke we shall know one an other,
In th'other world?

Cari.
Yes, out of question.

Duch.
O that it were possible we might
But hold some two dayes conference with the dead,
From them, I should learne somewhat, I am sure
I neuer shall know here: I'll tell thee a miracle,
I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow.
Th'heauen ore my head, seemes made of molton brasse,
The earth of flaming sulphure, yet I am not mad:
I am acquainted with sad misery,
As the tan'd galley-slaue, is with his Oare,
Necessity makes me suffer constantly,
And custome makes it easie, who do I looke like now?

Cari.
Like to your picture in the gallery,
A deale of life in shew, but none in practise:
Or rather like some reuerend monument
Whose ruines, are euen pittied.

Duch.
Very proper:
And Fortune seemes onely to haue her eie-sight,
To behold my Tragedy: How now,
What noyce is that?

Seruant.
I am come to tell you,
Your brother hath entended you some sport:
A great Physitian, when the Pope was sicke
Of a deepe mellancholly, presented him
With seuerall sorts of mad-men, which wilde obiect
(Being full of change, and sport,) forc'd him to laugh,
And so th'impost-hume broke: the selfe same cure,
The Duke intends on you.

Duch.
Let them come in.

Ser.
There's a mad Lawyer, and a secular Priest,
A Doctor that hath forfeited his wits
By iealousie: an Astrologian,
That in his workes, sayd such a day o'th'moneth,
Should be the day of doome; and fayling of't,
Ran mad: an English Taylor, crais'd i'th'braine,
With the studdy of new fashion: a gentleman vsher
Quite beside himselfe, with care to keepe in minde,
The number of his Ladies salutations;
Or how do you, she employ'd him in each morning:
A Farmer too, (an excellent knaue in graine)
Mad, 'cause he was hindred transportation,
And let one Broaker, (that's mad) loose to these,
Youl'd thinke the diuell were among them.

Duch.

Here (by a Mad-man) this song is sung, to a dismall kind of Musique.
O let vs howle, some heauy note,
some deadly-dogged howle,
Sounding, as from the threatning throat,
of beastes, and fatall fowle.
As Rauens, Schrich-owles, Bulls, and Beares,
We'll bill, and bawle our parts,
Till yerk-some noyce, haue cloy'd your eares,
and corasiu'd your hearts.
At last when as our quire wants breath,
our bodies being blest,
We'll sing like Swans, to welcome death,
and die in loue and rest.

1. Mad-man.

Doomes-day not come yet? I'll draw it neerer by a
perspectiue, or make a glasse, that shall set all the world on fire
vpon an instant: I cannot sleepe, my pillow is stuff't with a littour
of Porcupines.

2. Mad.

Hell is a meere glasse-house, where the diuells are
continually blowing vp womens soules, on hollow yrons, and
the fire neuer goes out.

3. Mad.
I will lie with euery woman in my parish the tenth night:
I will tithe them ouer, like hay-cockes.

4. Mad.
Shall my Pothecary out-go me, because I am a
Cuck-old? I haue found out his roguery: he makes allom
Of his wiues vrin, and sells it to Puritaines, that haue sore
Throates with ouer-strayning.

1. Mad.
I haue skill in Harroldry.

2.
Hast?

1.
You do giue for your creast, a wood-cockes head, with the
Braines pickt out on't, you are a very ancient Gentleman.

3.
Greeke is turn'd Turke, we are onely to be sau'd by the
Heluetian translation.

1.
Come on Sir, I will lay the law to you.

2.
Oh, rather lay a coraziue, the law will eate to the bone.

3.
He that drinkes but to satisfie nature is damn'd.

4.
If I had my glasse here, I would shew a sight should make
All the women here, call me mad Doctor.

1.
What's he, a rope-maker?

2.
No, no, no, a snufling knaue, that while he shewes the
Tombes, will haue his hand in a wenches placket.

3.
Woe, to the Caroach, that brought home my wife from
The Masque, at three a clocke in the morning, it had a large
Feather-bed in it.

4.
I haue paired the diuells nayles forty times, roasted them
In Rauens egges, and cur'd agues with them.

3.
Get me three hundred milch bats, to make possets,
To procure sleepe.

4.
All the Colledge may throw their caps at me, I haue made a
Soape-boyler costiue, it was my master-peece:—

Here the Daunce consisting of 8. Mad-men, with musicke answerable thereunto, after which, Bosola (like an old man) enters.
Duch.
Is he mad to?

Ser.
'Pray question him: I'll leaue you.

Bos.
I am come to make thy tombe.

Duch.
Hah, my tombe?
Thou speak'st, as if I lay vpon my death bed,
Gasping for breath: do'st thou perceiue me sicke?

Bos.
Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sicknesse is insensible.

Duch.
Thou art not mad sure, do'st know me?

Bos.
Yes.

Duch.
Who am I?

Bos.
Thou art a box of worme-seede, at best, but a saluatory
Of greene mummey: what's this flesh? a little cruded milke,
Phantasticall puffe-paste: our bodies are weaker then those
Paper prisons boyes vse to keepe flies in: more contemptible:
Since ours is to preserue earth-wormes: didst thou euer see
A Larke in a cage? such is the soule in the body: this world
Is like her little turfe of grasse, and the Heauen ore our heades,
Like her looking glasse, onely giues vs a miserable knowledge
Of the small compasse of our prison.

Duch.
Am not I, thy Duchesse?

Bos.
Thou art some great woman sure, for riot begins to sit on thy
Fore-head (clad in gray haires) twenty yeares sooner, then on a
Merry milke maydes. Thou sleep'st worse, then if a mouse
Should be forc'd to take vp her lodging in a cats eare:
A little infant, that breedes it's teeth, should it lie with thee, would
Crie out, as if thou wert the more vnquiet bed-fellow.

Duch.
I am Duchesse of Malfy still.

Bos.
That makes thy sleepes so broken:
“Glories (like glowe-wormes) a farre off, shine bright,
But look'd to neere, haue neither heate, nor light.

Duch.
Thou art very plaine.

Bos.
My trade is to flatter the dead, not the liuing
I am a tombe-maker.

Duch.
And thou com'st to make my tombe?

Bos.
Yes.

Duch.
Let me be a little merry,
Of what stuffe wilt thou make it?

Bos.
Nay, resolue me first, of what fashion?

Duch.
Why, do we grow phantasticall in our death-bed?
Do we affect fashion in the graue?

Bos.
Most ambitiously: Princes images on their tombes,
Do not lie, as they were wont, seeming to pray,
Vp to heauen: but with their hands vnder their cheekes,
(As if they died of the tooth-ache) they are not carued
With their eies, fix'd vpon the starres; but as their
Mindes were wholy bent vpon the world,
The selfe-same way they seeme to turne their faces.

Duch.
Let me know fully therefore the effect
Of this thy dismall preparation,
This talke, fit for a charnell?

Bos.
Now, I shall,
Here is a present from your Princely brothers,
A Coffin, Cords, and a Bell.
And may it arriue wel-come, for it brings
Last benefit, last sorrow.

Duch.
Let me see it,
I haue so much obedience, in my blood,
I wish it in ther veines, to do them good.

Bos.
This is your last presence Chamber.

Cari.
O my sweete Lady.

Duch.
Peace, it affrights not me.

Bos.
I am the common Bell-man,
That vsually is sent to condemn'd persons.
The night before they suffer:

Duch
Euen now thou said'st,
Thou wast a tombe-maker?

Bos.

Cari.
Hence villaines, tyrants, murderers: alas!
What will you do with my Lady? call for helpe.

Duch.
To whom, to our next neighbours? they are mad-folkes.

Bos.
Remooue that noyse.

Duch.
Farwell Cariola,
In my last will, I haue not much to giue
A many hungry guests, haue fed vpon me,
Thine will be a poore reuersion.

Cari.
I will die with her.

Duch.
I pray-thee looke thou giu'st my little boy
Some sirrop, for his cold, and let the girle
Say her prayers, ere she sleepe. Now what you please,
What death?

Bos.
Strangling, here are your Executioners.

Duch.
I forgiue them:
The apoplexie, cathar, or cough o'th'loongs,
Would do as much as they do.

Bos.
Doth not death fright you?

Duch.
Who would be afraid on't?
Knowing to meete such excellent company
In th'other world.

Bos.
Yet, me thinkes,
The manner of your death should much afflict you,
This cord should terrifie you?

Duch.
Not a whit,
What would it pleasure me, to haue my throate cut
With diamonds? or to be smothered
With Cassia? or to be shot to death, with pearles?
I know death hath ten thousand seuerall doores
For men, to take their Exits: and 'tis found
They go on such strange geometricall hinges,
You may open them both wayes: any way, (for heauen sake)
So I were out of your whispering: Tell my brothers,
That I perceiue death, (now I am well a wake)
Best guift is, they can giue, or I can take,
I would faine put off my last womans-fault,
I'l'd not be tedious to you.

Exec.
We are ready.

Duch.
Dispose my breath, how please you, but my body
Bestow vpon my women, will you?

Exec.
Yes.

Duch.
Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength,
Must pull downe heauen vpon me:
Yet stay, heauen gates are not so highly arch'd
As Princes pallaces, they that enter there
Must go vpon their knees: Come violent death,
Serue for Mandragora, to make me sleepe;
Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out,
They strangle her.
They then may feede in quiet.

Bos.
Where's the waiting woman?
Fetch her: Some other strangle the children:
Looke you, there sleepes your mistris.

Cari.
Oh you are damn'd
Perpetually for this: My turne is next,
Is't not so ordered?

Bos.
Yes, and I am glad
You are so well prepar'd for't.

Cari.
You are deceiu'd Sir,
I am not prepar'd for't, I will not die,
I will first come to my answere; and know
How I haue offended.

Bos.
Come, dispatch her:
You kept her counsell, now you shall keepe ours.

Cari.
I will not die, I must not, I am contracted
To a young Gentle-man.

Exec.
Here's your wedding Ring.

Car.
Let me but speake with the Duke: I'll discouer
Treason to his person.

Bos.
Delayes: throttle-her.

Exec.
She bites: and scratches:

Car.
If you kill me now
I am damn'd: I haue not bin at Confession
This two yeeres:

Bos.
When.

Car.
I am quicke with child.

Bos.
Why then,
Your credit's sau'd: beare her in toth' next roome:
Let this lie still.

Ferd.
Is she dead?

Bos.
Shee is what
You'll'd haue her: But here begin your pitty,
Shewes the children strangled.
Alas, how haue these offended?

Ferd.
The death
Of young Wolffes, is neuer to be pittied.

Bos.
Fix your eye here:

Ferd.
Constantly.

Bos.
Doe you not weepe?
Other sinnes, onely speake; Murther shreikes out:
The Element of water, moistens the Earth,
But blood flies vpwards, and bedewes the Heauens.

Ferd.
Couer her face: Mine eyes dazell: she di'd yong.

Bos.
I thinke not so: her infelicitie
Seem'd to haue yeeres too many.

Ferd.
She, and I were Twinnes:
And should I die this instant, I had liu'd
Her Time to a Mynute.

Bos.
It seemes she was borne first:
You haue bloodely approu'd the auncient truth,
That kindred commonly doe worse agree
Then remote strangers.

Ferd.
Let me see her face againe;
Why didst not thou pitty her: what an excellent
Honest man, might'st thou haue bin
If thou hadst borne her to some Sanctuary?
Or (bold in a good cause) oppos'd thy selfe
With thy aduanced sword aboue thy head,
Betweene her Innocence, and my Reuenge?
I bad thee, when I was distracted of my wits,
Goe kill my dearest friend, and thou hast don't.
For let me but examine well the cause;
What was the meanenes of her match to me?
Onely I must confesse, I had a hope
(Had she continu'd widow) to haue gain'd
An infinite masse of Treasure by her death:
And that was the mayne cause; her Marriage,
That drew a streame of gall, quite through my heart;
For thee, (as we obserue in Tragedies
That a good Actor many times is curss'd
For playing a villaines part) I hate thee for't:
And (for my sake) say thou hast done much ill, well:

Bos.
Let me quicken your memory: for I perceiue
You are falling into ingratitude: I challenge
The reward due to my seruice.

Ferd.
I'll tell thee,
What I'll giue thee,

Bos.
Doe:

Ferd.
I'll giue thee a pardon
For this murther:

Bos.
Hah?

Ferd.
Yes: and 'tis
The largest bounty I can studie to doe thee.
By what authority did'st thou execute
This bloody sentence?

Bos.
By yours

Ferd.
Mine? was I her Iudge?
Did any ceremoniall forme of Law,
Doombe her to not-Being? did a compleat Iury
Deliuer her conuiction vp i'th Court?
Where shalt thou find this ludgement registerd
Vnlesse in hell? See: like a bloody foole
Th'hast forfeyted thy life, and thou shalt die for't.

Bos.
The Office of Iustice is peruerted quite
When one Thiefe hangs another: who shall dare
To reueale this:

Ferd.
Oh, I'll tell thee:
The Wolfe shall finde her Graue, and scrape it vp:
Not to deuoure the corpes, but to discouer
The horrid murther.

Bos.
You; not I shall quake for't.

Ferd.
Leaue me:

Bos.
I will first receiue my Pention.

Ferd.
You are a villaine:

Bos.
When your Ingratitude
Is Iudge, I am so;

Ferd.
O horror!
That not the feare of him, which bindes the diuels
Can prescribe man obedience.
Neuer looke vpon me more.

Bos.
Why fare thee well:
Your brother, and your selfe, are worthy men;
You haue a paire of hearts, are hollow Graues,
Rotten, and rotting others: and your vengeance,
(Like two-chain'd bullets) still goes arme in arme,
You may be Brothers: for treason, like the plague,
Doth take much in a blood: I stand like one
That long hath ta'ne a sweet, and golden dreame.
I am angry with my selfe, now that I wake.

Ferd.
Get thee into some vnknowne part o'th' world
That I may neuer see thee.

Bos.
Let me know
Wherefore I should be thus neglected? sir,
I seru'd your tyranny: and rather stroue,
To satisfie your selfe, then all the world;
And though I loath'd the euill, yet I lou'd
You that did councell it: and rather sought
To appeare a true seruant, then an honest man.

Ferd.
I'll goe hunt the Badger, by Owle-light:
'Tis a deed of darkenesse.

Exit.
Bos.
He's much distracted: Off my painted honour,
While with vaine hopes, our faculties we tyre,
We seeme to sweate in yce, and freeze in fire;
What would I doe, wete this to doe againe?
I would not change my peace of conscience
For all the wealth of Europe: She stirres; here's life:
Returne (faire soule) from darkenes, and lead mine
Out of this sencible Hell: She's warme, she breathes:
Vpon thy pale lips I will melt my heart
To store them with fresh colour: who's there?
Some cordiall drinke: Alas! I dare not call:
So pitty, would destroy pitty: her Eye opes,
And heauen in it, seemes to ope, (that late was shut)
To take me vp to merry.

Dutch.
Antonio.

Bos.
Yes (Madam) he is liuing,
The dead bodies you saw, were but faign'd statues;
He's reconcil'd to your brothers: the Pope hath wrought
The attonement.

Dutch.
Mercy.

she dies,
Bos.
Oh, she's gone againe: there the cords of life broake:
Oh sacred Innocence, that sweetely sleepes
On Turtles feathers: whil'st a guilty conscience
Is a blacke Register, wherein is writ
All our good deedes, and bad: a Perspectiue
That showes vs hell; that we cannot be suffer'd
To doe good when we haue a mind to it?
This is manly sorrow:
These teares, I am very certaine, neuer grew
In my Mothers Milke. My estate is suncke
Below the degree of feare: where were
These penitent fountaines, while she was liuing?
Oh, they were frozen vp: here is a sight
As direfull to my soule, as is the sword
Vnto a wretch hath slaine his father: Come, I'll beare thee hence.
And execute thy last will; that's deliuer
Thy body to the reuerend dispose
Of some good women: that the cruell tyrant
Shall not denie me: Then I'll poast to Millaine,
Where somewhat I will speedily enact
Worth my deiection.

Exit.