# The Tragedy of the Dutchesse of Malfy/Act II, scene i

ACTUS II. SCENA I.
Bosola, Castruchio, an Old Lady, Antonio, Delio, Duchesse, Rodorico, Grisolan.
Bos.
You say, you would faine be taken, for an eminent Courtier?
Cast.
'Tis the very main of my ambition.
Bos.
Let me see: you have a reasonable good face for't already, And your night-cap expresses your eares sufficient largely, I would have you learne to twirle the strings of your band with a
Good grace; and in a set speech, (at th'end of every sentence,) To hum, three, or foure times, or blow your nose (till it smart againe,) To recover your memory, when you come to be a president in Criminall causes, if you smile upon a prisoner, hang him, but if You frowne upon him, and threaten him, let him be sure to scape The Gallowes.
Cast.
I would be a very merrie president.
Bos.
Do not sup a nights, 'twill beget you an admirable wit.
Cast.
Rather it would make me have a good stomake to quarrel, For they say, your roaring-boyes eate meat seldome, And that makes them so valiant: But how shall I know whether the people take me
For an eminent fellow.
Bos. I will teach a tricke to know it, Give out you lie a dying, and if you Heare the common people curse you, Be sure you are taken for one of the prime night-caps, You come from painting now?
Old Lady. From what?
Bos. Why, from your scurvy face-physicke, To behold thee not painted enclines somewhat neere A miracle: These in thy face here, were deepe rutts, And foule sloughes the last progresse: There was a Lady in France, that having had the small pockes, Flead the skinne off her face, to make it more levell; And whereas before she look'd like a Nutmeg-grater, After she resembled an abortive hedge-hog.
Old Lady. Doe you call this painting?
Bos. No, no but you call carreening of an old Morphew'd Lady, to make her disembogue againe, There's rough-cast phrase to your plastique.
Old Lady. It seemes you are well acquainted with my closset?
Bos. One would suspect it for a shop of witch-craft, To finde in it the fat of Serpents; spawne of Snakes, Jewes spittle, And their yong children ordures, and all these for the face: I would sooner eate a dead pidgeon, taken from the soles of the feete Of one sicke of the plague, then kisse one of you fasting: Here are two of you, whose sin of your youth, is the very Patrimony of the Physition, makes him renew his Foote-cloth with the Spring, and change his High-priz'd curtezan with the fall of the leafe: I do wonder you doe not loath your selves, Observe my meditation now: What thing is in this outward forme of man To be belov'd? we account it ominous, If Nature doe produce a Colt, or Lambe, A Fawne, or Goate, in any limbe resembling A Man; and flye from't as a prodegy. Man stands amaz'd to see his deformity,
In any other Creature but himselfe. But in our owne flesh, though we beare diseases Which have their true names, onely tane from beasts, As the most ulcerous Woolfe, and swinish Meazeall; Though we are eaten up of lice, and wormes, And though continually we beare about us A rotten and dead body, we delight To hide it in rich tissew all our feare, (Nay all our terrour) is, least our Phisition Should put us in the ground, to be made sweete. Your wife's gone to Rome: you two cople, and get you To the wels at Leuca, to recover your aches. I have other worke on foote: I observe our Duchesse Is sicke a dayes, she puykes, her stomacke seethes, The fins of her eie-lids, looke most teeming blew, She waines i'th'cheeke, and waxes fat i'th'flanke; And (contrary to our Italian fashion,) Weares a loose-bodied Gowne, there's somewhat in't, I have a tricke, may chance discover it (A pretty one) I have bought some Apricocks, The first our Spring yeelds.
Del. And so long since married? You amaze me.
Ant. Let me seale your lipps for ever, For did I thinke, that any thing but th'ayre, Could carry these words from you, I should wish You had no breath at all: Now Sir, in your contemplation? You are studdying to become a great wise fellow?
Bos. Oh Sir, the opinion of wisedome, is a foule tettor, That runs all over a mans body: if simplicity Direct us to have no evill, it directs us to a happy Being: For the subtlest folly proceedes from the Subtlest wisedome: Let me be simply honest.
Ant. I do understand your in-side.
Bos. Do you so?
Ant. Because you would not seeme to appeare to th'world Puff'd up with your preferment: You continue
This out off shashion mellancholly, leave it, leave it.
Bos. Give me leave to be honest in any phrase, in any Complement whatsoever, shall I confesse my selfe to you? I looke no higher then I can reach: They are the gods, that must ride on winged horses, A Lawyers mule of a slow pace, will both surt My disposition, and businesse: For (marke me) When a mans mind rides faster then his horse can gallop, They quickly both tyre.
Ant. You would looke up to Heaven, but I thinke The Divell, that rules i'th'aire, stands in your light.
Bos. Oh (Sir) you are Lord of the ascendant, Chiefe man with the Duchesse, a Duke was your Cosen German, remov'd: Say you were lineally Descended from King Pippin, or he himselfe, What of this? search the heads of the greatest rivers in The World, you shall finde them but bubles of water: Some would thinke the soules of Princes were brought Forth by some more weighty cause, then those of meaner persons, They are deceiv'd, there's the same hand to them: The like passions sway them, the same reason, that makes A Vicar goe to Law for a tithe-pig, And undoe his neighbours, makes them spoile A whole Province, and batter downe goodly Cities, with the Cannon.
Duch. Your arme Antonio, do I not grow fat? I am exceeding short-winded: Bosola, I would have you (Sir) provide for me a Littor, Such a one, as the Duchesse of Florence roade in.
Bos. The Duchesse us'd one, when she was great with childe.
Duch. I thinke she did: come hether, mend my ruffe, Here, when? thou art such a tedious Lady; and Thy breath smells of Lymmon pils, would thou hadst done, Shall I sound under thy fingers? I am So troubled with the mother.
Bos. I feare to much.
Duch. I have heard you say, that the French Courries
Weare their hats on fore the King.
Ant. I have seene it.
Duch. In the Presence?
Ant. Yes: Why should not we bring up that fashion? 'Tis ceremony more then duty, that consists In the remooving of a peece of felt: Be you the example to the rest o'th' Court, Put on your hat first.
Ant. You must pardon me: I have seene, in colder countries, then in France, Nobles stand bare to th'Prince; and the distinction My thought show'd reverently.
Bos. I have a present for your Grace.
Duch. For me sir?
Bos. Apricocks (Madam.)
Duch. O sir, where are they? I have heard of none to yeare.
Bos. Good, her colour rises.
Duch. Indeed I thanke you: they are wondrous faire ones: What an unskilfull fellow is our Gardiner? We shall have none this moneth.
Bos. Will not your Grace pare them?
Duch. No, they tast of muske (me thinkes) indeed they doe:
Bos. I know not: yet I wish your Grace had parde'em:
Duch. Why?
Bos. I forgot to tell you the knave Gardner, (Onely to raise his profit by them the sooner) Did ripen them in horse-doung.
Duch, O you jest: You shall judge: pray tast one.
Ant. Indeed Madam, I doe not love the fruit.
Duch. Sir, you are loath To rob us of our dainties: 'tis a delicate fruit, They say they are restorative?
Bos. 'Tis a pretty
Art: this grafting.
Duch. 'Tis so: a bettring of nature.
Bos. To make a pippin grow upon a crab, A dampson on a black thorne: how greedily she eats them? A whirlewinde strike off these bawd-farthingalls, For, but for that, and the loose-bodied gowne, I should have discover'd apparently The young spring-hall cutting a caper in her belly.
Duch. I thanke you (Bosola:) they were right good ones, If they doe not make me sicke.
Ant. How now Madame?
Duch. This greene fruit: and my stomake are not friends How they swell me?
Bos. Nay, you are too much swell'd already.
Duch. Oh, I am in an extreame cold sweat.
Bos. I am very sorry:
Duch. Lights to my chamber: O, good Antonio, I feare I am undone. Exit Duchesse.
Del. Lights there, lights.
Ant. O my most trusty Delio, we are lost: I feare she's falne in labour: and ther's left No time for her remove.
Del. Have you prepar'd Those Ladies to attend her? and procur'd That politique safe conveyance for the Mid-wife Your Dutchesse plotted.
Ant. I have:
Del. Make use then of this forc'd occasion: Give out that Bosola hath poyson'd her, With these Apricocks: that will give some colour For her keeping close.
Ant. Fye, fie, the Physitians Will then flocke to her.
Del. For that you may pretend She'll use some prepar'd Antidote of her owne, Least the Physitians should repoyson her.
Ant. I am lost in amazement: I know not what to think on't.Ex.
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