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

ACTUS III. SCENA I.
Antonio, and Delio, Duchesse, Ferdinand, Bosola.
Ant. Our noble friend (my most beloved Delio) Oh, you have bin a stranger long at Court, Came you along with the Lord Ferdinand?
Del. I did Sir, and how faires your noble Duchesse?
Ant. Right fortunately well: She's an excellent Feeder of pedegrees: since you last saw her, She hath had two children more, a sonne, and daughter.
Del. Me thinkes 'twas yester-day: Let me but wincke, And not behold your face, which to mine eye Is somewhat leaner, verily I should dreame It were within this halfe houre.
Ant. You have not bin in Law, (friend Delio) Nor in prison, nor a Suitor at the Court Nor beg'd the reversion of some great mans place, Nor troubled with an old wife, which doth make Your time so inseucibly hasten.
Del. 'Pray Sir tell me, Hath not this newes arriv'd yet to the eare, Of the Lord Cardinall?
Ant. I feare it hath, The Lord Ferdinand, (that's newly come to Court,) Doth beare himselfe right dangerously.
Del. Pray why?
Ant. He is so quiet, that he seemes to sleepe The tempest out (as Dormise do in Winter,) Those houses, that are haunted, are most still,
Till the divell be up.
Del. What say the common people.
Ant. The common-rable, do directly say She is a Strumpet.
Del. And your graver heades, (Which would he pollitique) what censure they?
Ant. They do observe, I grow to infinite purchase The least-hand way, and all suppose the Duchesse Would amend it, if she could: For, say they Great Princes, though they grudge their Officers Should have such large, and unconfined meanes To get wealth under them, will not complaine Least thereby they should make them odious Unto the people, for other obligation Of love, or marriage, betweene her and me, They never dreame off.
Del. The Lord Ferdinand Is going to bed.
Ferd. I'll instantly to bed, For I am weary: I am to be be-speake A husband for you.
Duch. For me (Sir?) 'pray who is't?
Ferd. The great Count Malateste.
Duch. Fie upon him, A Count? he's a meere sticke of sugar-candy, (You may looke quite thorough him) when I choose A husband, I will marry for your honour.
Ferd. You shall do well in't: How is't (worthy Antonio?)
Duch. But (Sir) I am to have private conference with you, About a scandalous report, is spread Touching mine honour.
Ferd. Let me be ever deafe to't: One of Pasquils paper-bullets, court calumney, A pestilent ayre, which Princes pallaces Are seldome purg'd off: Yet, say that it were true, I powre it in your bosome, my fix'd love, Would strongly excuse, extenuate, nay deny
Faults where they apparant in you: Goe be safe In your owne innocency.
Duch. Oh bless'd comfort, This deadly aire is purg'd. Exeunt.
Ferd. Her guilt treads on Hot burning cultures: Now Bosola, How thrives our intelligence?
Bos. (Sir) uncertainly, 'Tis rumour'd she hath had three bastards, but By whom, we may go read i'th'Starres.
Ferd. Why some Hold opinion, all things are written there.
Bos. Yes, if we could find Spectacles to read them, I do suspect, there hath bin some Sorcery Us'd on the Duchesse.
Ferd. Sorcery, to what purpose?
Bos. To make her doate on some desertles fellow, She shames to acknowledge.
Ferd. Can your faith, give way To thinke there's powre in potions, or in Charmes, To make us love, whether we will or no?
Bos. Most certainely.
Ferd. Away, these are meere gullcries, horred things Invented by some cheating mounte-banckes To abuse us: Do you thinke that hearbes, or charmes Can force the will? Some trialls have bin made In this foolish practise; but the ingredients Were lenative poysons, such as are of force To make the patient mad; and straight the witch Sweares (by equivocation, they are in love. The witch-craft lies in her rancke bood: this night I will force confession from her: You told me You had got (within these two dayes) a false key Into her Bed-chamber.
Bos. I have.
Ferd. As I would wish.
Bos. What doe you intend to doe?
Ferd. Can you ghesse?
Bos. No:
Ferd. Doe not aske then: He that can compasse me, and know my drifts, May say he hath put a girdle 'bout the world, And sounded all her quick-sands.
Bos. I doe not Thinke so.
Ferd. What doe you thinke then? pray?
Bos. That you are Your owne Chronicle too much: and grosly Flatter your selfe.
Ferd. Give me thy hand, I thanke thee: I never gave Pention but to flatterers, Till I entertained thee: farewell, That Friend a Great mans ruine strongely checks, Who railes into his beliefe, all his defects. Exeunt.
Layout 2