# The Tragedy of the Dutchesse of Malfy/Act IV, scene ii

SCENA II.
Duchesse, Cariola, Servant, 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 never 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 deceiv'd, To heare of greater griefe, would lessen mine, This is a prison?
Cari. Yes, but you shall live To shake this durance off.
Duch. Thou art a foole, The Robin red-brest, and the Nightingale, Never live 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 never shall know here: I'll tell thee a miracle, I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow. Th'heaven 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-slave, 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 reverend monument Whose ruines, are even pittied.
Duch. Very proper: And Fortune seemes onely to have her eie-sight, To behold my Tragedy: How now, What noyce is that?
Servant. 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 severall sorts of mad-men, which wilde object (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 jealousie: 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 usher 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 knave in graine) Mad, 'cause he was hindred transportation, And let one Broaker, (that's mad) loose to these, Youl'd thinke the divell were among them.
Duch. Sit Cariola: let them loose when you please, For I am chain'd to endure all your tyranny.
Here (by a Mad-man) this song is sung, to a dismall
kind of Musique.
O let us howle, some heavy note, some deadly-dogged howle,
Sounding, as from the threatning throat, of beastes, and fatall fowle. As Ravens, Schrich-owles, Bulls, and Beares, We'll bill, and bawle our parts, Till yerk some noyce have cloy'd your eares, and corasiv'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 love and rest.
1.Mad-man.
Doomes-day not come yet! I'll draw it neerer by a perspective, or make a glasse, that shall set all the world on fire upon 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 divells are continually blowing up womens soules, on hollow yrons, and the fire never goes out.
3.Mad.
I will lie with every woman in my parish the tenth night: I will tithe them over, like hay-cockes.
4.Mad.
Shall my Pothecary out-go me, because I am a
Cuck-old? I have found out his roguery: he makes allom
Of his wives urin, and sells it to Puritaines, that have sore
Throates with over-strayning.
1.Mad.
I have skill in Harroldry.
2.
Hast?
1. You do give 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 sav'd by the
Helvetian translation.
1. Come on Sir, I will lay the law to you.
2. Oh, rather lay a corazive, 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 knave, that while he shewes the
Tombes, will have 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 have paired the divells nayles forty times, roasted them
In Ravens 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 have made a Soape-boyler costive, 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 leave you.
Bos. I am come to make thy tombe.
Duch. Hah, my tombe? Thou speak'st, as if I lay upon my death bed, Gasping for breath: do'st thou perceive 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 salvatory Of greene mummey: what's this flesh? a little cruded milke, Phantasticall puffe-paste: our bodies are weaker then those Paper prisons boyes use to keepe flies in: more contemptible: Since ours is to preserve earth-wormes: didst thou ever see A Larke in a cage? such is the soule in the body: this world Is like her little turfe of grasse, and the Heaven ore our heades, Like her looking glasse, onely gives us 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 milkemaydes. Thou sleep'st worse, then if a mouse Should be forc'd to take up 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 unquiet 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, have neither heate, nor light.
Duch. Thou art very plaine.
Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living 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, resolve me first, of what fashion?
Duch. Why, do we grow phantasticall in our death-bed? Do we affect fashion in the grave?
Bos. Most ambitiously: Princes images on their tombes, Do not lie, as they were wont, seeming to pray, Up to heaven: but with their hands under their cheekes, (As if they died of the tooth-ache) they are not carved With their eies, fix'd upon the starres; but as their Mindes were wholy bent upon 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 arrive wel-come, for it brings Last benefit, last sorrow.
Duch. Let me see it, I have 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 usually is sent to condemn'd persons. The night before they suffer:
Duch Even now thou said'st, Thou wast a tombe-maker?
Bos. 'Twas to bring you By degrees to mortification: Listen. Hearke, now every thing is still, The Schritch-Owle, and the whistler shrill, Call upon our Dame, aloud, And bid her quickly don her shrowd:
Much you had of Land and rent, Your length in clay's now competent. A long war, disturb'd your minde, Here your perfect peace is sign'd, Of what is't, fooles make such vaine keeping? Sin their conception, their birth, weeping: Their life, a generall mist of error, Their death, a hideous storme of terror, Strew your haire, with powders sweete: D'on cleane linnen, bath your feete, And (the foule feend more to checke) A crucifixe let blesse your necke, 'Tis now full tide, 'tweene night, and day, End your groane, and come away.
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. Remoove that noyse.
Duch. Farwell Cariola, In my last will, I have not much to give A many hungry guests, have fed upon me, Thine will be a poore reversion.
Cari. I will die with her.
Duch. I pray-thee looke thou giv'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 forgive 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 have 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 severall 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 heaven sake) So I were out of your whispering: Tell my brothers, That I perceive death, (now I am well a wake) Best guift is, they can give, or I can take, I would faine put off my last womans-fault, Il'd not be tedious to you.
Exec. We are ready.
Duch. Dispose my breath, how please you, but my body Bestow upon my women, will you?
Exec. Yes.
Duch. Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength, Must pull downe heaven upon me: Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arch'd As Princes pallaces, they that enter there Must go upon their knees: Come violent death, Serve for Mandragora, to make me sleepe; Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out,
They then may feede in quiet.They strangle her.
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 deceiv'd Sir, I am not prepar'd for't, I will not die, I will first come to my answere; and know How I have 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 discover Treason to his person.
Bos. Delayes: throttle-her.
Exec. She bites: and scratches:
Car. If you kill me now I am damn'd: I have not bin at Confession This two yeeres:
Bos. When.
Car. I am quicke with child.
Bos. Why then, Your credit's sav'd: beare her in toth' next roome: Let this lie still.
Ferd. Is she dead?
Bos. Shee is what You'll'd have her: But here begin your pitty, Shewes the children strangled. Alas, how have these offended?
Ferd. The death Of young Wolffes, is never 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 upwards, and bedewes the Heavens.
Ferd. Cover her face: Mine eyes dazell she di'd yong.
Bos. I thinke not so: her infelicitie Seem'd to have yeeres too many.
Ferd. She, and I were Twinnes: And should I die this instant, I had liv'd Her Time to a Mynute.
Bos. It seemes she was borne first: You have bloodely approv'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 have bin If thou hadst borne her to some Sanctuary?
Or (bold in a good cause) oppos'd thy selfe With thy advanced sword above thy head, Betweene her Innocence, and my Revenge? 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 have 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 observe 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 perceive You are falling into ingratitude: I challenge The reward due to my service.
Ferd. I'll tell thee, What I'll give thee,
Bos. Doe:
Ferd. I'll give 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 Judge? Did any ceremoniall forme of Law, Doombe her to not-Being? did a compleat Jury Deliver her conviction up i'th Court? Where shalt thou find this Judgement registerd Unlesse in hell? See: like a bloody foole Th'hast forfeyted thy life, and thou shalt die for't.
Bos. The Office of Justice is perverted quite When one Thiefe hangs another: who shall dare To reveale this:
Ferd. Oh, I'll tell thee:
The Wolfe shall finde her Grave, and scrape it up: Not to devoure the corpes, but to discover The horrid murther.
Bos. You; not I shall quake for't.
Ferd. Leave me:
Bos. I will first receive my Pention.
Ferd. You are a villaine:
Bos. When your Ingratitude Is Judge, I am so;
Ferd. O horror! That not the feare of him, which bindes the divels Can prescribe man obedience. Never looke upon me more.
Bos. Why fare thee well: Your brother, and your selfe, are worthy men; You have a paire of hearts, are hollow Graves, 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 unknowne part o'th' world That I may never see thee.
Bos. Let me know Wherefore I should be thus neglected? sir, I serv'd your tyranny: and rather strove, To satisfie your selfe, then all the world; And though I loath'd the evill, yet I lov'd You that did councell it: and rather sought To appeare a true servant, 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, were 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:
Upon 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 heaven in it, seemes to ope, (that late was shut) To take me up to merry.
Dutch. Antonio.
Bos. Yes (Madam) he is living, 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 Perspective That showes us hell; that we cannot be suffer'd To doe good when we have a mind to it? This is manly sorrow: These teares, I am very certaine, never grew In my Mothers Milke. My estate is suncke Below the degree of feare: where were These penitent fountaines, while she was living? Oh, they were frozen up: here is a sight As direfull to my soule, as is the sword Unto a wretch hath slaine his father: Come, I'll beare thee hence. And execute thy last will; that's deliver Thy body to the reverend dispose Of some good women: that the cruell tyrant Shall not denie me: Then I'll poast to Millaine, Where some what I will speedily enact Worth my dejection.Exit.
Layout 2