Enter Duchess and Cariola
Duchess.
What hideous noise was that?
Cariola.
'Tis the wild consort
Of madmen, lady, which your tyrant brother
Hath plac'd about your lodging. This tyranny,
I think, was never practis'd till this hour.
Duchess.
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.
Cariola.
O, 'twill increase your melancholy!
Duchess.
Thou art deceiv'd:
To hear of greater grief would lessen mine.
This is a prison?
Cariola.
Yes, but you shall live
To shake this durance off.
Duchess.
Thou art a fool:
The robin-red-breast and the nightingale
Never live long in cages.
Cariola.
Pray, dry your eyes.
What think you of, madam?
Duchess.
Of nothing;
When I muse thus, I sleep.
Cariola.
Like a madman, with your eyes open?
Duchess.
Dost thou think we shall know one another
In th' other world?
Cariola.
Yes, out of question.
Duchess.
O, that it were possible we might
But hold some two days' conference with the dead!
]From them I should learn 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 o'er my head seems made of molten bra**,
The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad.
I am acquainted with sad misery
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?
Cariola.
Like to your picture in the gallery,
A deal of life in show, but none in practice;
Or rather like some reverend monument
Whose ruins are even pitied.
Duchess.
Very proper;
And Fortune seems only to have her eye-sight
To behold my tragedy.—How now!
What noise is that?
Enter Servant
Servants.
I am come to tell you
Your brother hath intended you some sport.
A great physician, when the Pope was sick
Of a deep melancholy, presented him
With several sorts[106] of madmen, which wild object
Being full of change and sport, forc'd him to laugh,
And so the imposthume[107] broke: the self-same cure
The duke intends on you.
Duchess.
Let them come in.
Servants.
There 's a mad lawyer; and a secular priest;
A doctor that hath forfeited his wits
By jealousy; an astrologian
That in his works said such a day o' the month
Should be the day of doom, and, failing of 't,
Ran mad; an English tailor craz'd i' the brain
With the study of new fashions; a gentleman-usher
Quite beside himself with care to keep in mind
The number of his lady's salutations
Or 'How do you,' she employ'd him in each morning;
A farmer, too, an excellent knave in grain,[108]
Mad 'cause he was hind'red transportation:[109]
And let one broker that 's mad loose to these,
You'd think the devil were among them.
Duchess.
Sit, Cariola.—Let them loose when you please,
For I am chain'd to endure all your tyranny.
Enter Madman
Here by a Madman this song is sung to a dismal kind of music
O, let us howl some heavy note,
Some deadly dogged howl,
Sounding as from the threatening throat
Of beasts and fatal fowl!
As ravens, screech-owls, bulls, and bears,
We 'll bell, and bawl our parts,
Till irksome noise have cloy'd your ears
And corrosiv'd your hearts.
At last, whenas our choir wants breath,
Our bodies being blest,
We 'll sing, like swans, to welcome d**h,
And die in love and rest.
First Madman.
Doom's-day not come yet! I 'll draw it nearer by
a perspective, or make a gla** that shall set all the world
on fire upon an instant. I cannot sleep; my pillow is stuffed
with a litter of porcupines.
Second Madman.
Hell is a mere gla**-house, where the devils
are continually blowing up women's souls on hollow irons,
and the fire never goes out.
First Madman.
I have sk** in heraldry.
Second Madman.
Hast?
First Madman.
You do give for your crest a woodco*k's head
with the brains picked out on 't; you are a very ancient gentleman.
Third Madman.
Greek is turned Turk: we are only to be saved by
the Helvetian translation
First Madman.
Come on, sir, I will lay the law to you.
Second Madman.
O, rather lay a corrosive: the law will eat
to the bone.
Third Madman.
He that drinks but to satisfy nature is damn'd.
Fourth Madman.
If I had my gla** here, I would show a sight should
make all the women here call me mad doctor.
First Madman.
What 's he? a rope-maker?
Second Madman.
No, no, no, a snuffling knave that, while he shows
the tombs, will have his hand in a wench's placket.
Third Madman.
Woe to the caroche[113] that brought home my wife
from the masque at three o'clock in the morning! It had a large
feather-bed in it.
Fourth Madman.
I have pared the devil's nails forty times, roasted
them in raven's eggs, and cured agues with them.
Third Madman.
Get me three hundred milch-bats, to make possets
to procure sleep.
Fourth Madman.
All the college may throw their caps at me:
I have made a soap-boiler costive; it was my masterpiece. Here the dance, consisting of Eight Madmen, with music
answerable thereunto; after which, Bosola, like an old man,
enters. Duchess.
Is he mad too?
Servant.
Pray, question him. I 'll leave you.
Exeunt Servant and Madmen.
Bosola. I am come to make thy tomb.
Duchess.
Ha! my tomb!
Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my d**h-bed,
Gasping for breath. Dost thou perceive me sick?
Bosola.
Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sickness is insensible.
Duchess.
Thou art not mad, sure: dost know me?
Bosola.
Yes.
Duchess.
Who am I?
Bosola.
Thou art a box of worm-seed, 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 earth-worms. Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage?
Such is the soul in the body: this world is like her little turf
of gra**, and the heaven o'er our heads like her looking-gla**, only
gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compa** of our prison.
Duchess.
Am not I thy duchess?
Bosola.
Thou art some great woman, sure, for riot begins to sit
on thy forehead (clad in gray hairs) twenty years sooner than on
a merry milk-maid'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 cry out, as if thou
wert the more unquiet bedfellow.
Duchess.
I am Duchess of Malfi still.
Bosola.
That makes thy sleep so broken:
Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright,
But, look'd to near, have neither heat nor light.
Duchess.
Thou art very plain.
Bosola.
My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living;
I am a tomb-maker.
Duchess.
And thou comest to make my tomb?
Bosola.
Yes.
Duchess.
Let me be a little merry:—of what stuff wilt thou make it?
Bosola.
Nay, resolve me first, of what fashion?
Duchess.
Why, do we grow fantastical on our d**hbed?
Do we affect fashion in the grave?
Bosola.
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 fix'd upon the stars, but as their
minds were wholly bent upon the world, the selfsame way they seem
to turn their faces.
Duchess.
Let me know fully therefore the effect
Of this thy dismal preparation,
This talk fit for a charnel.
Bosola.
Now I shall:—
Enter Executioners, with a coffin, cords, and a bell
Here is a present from your princely brothers;
And may it arrive welcome, for it brings
Last benefit, last sorrow.
Duchess.
Let me see it:
I have so much obedience in my blood,
I wish it in their veins to do them good.
Bosola.
This is your last presence-chamber.
Cariola.
O my sweet lady!
Duchess.
Peace; it affrights not me.
Bosola.
I am the common bellman
That usually is sent to condemn'd persons
The night before they suffer.
Duchess.
Even now thou said'st
Thou wast a tomb-maker.
Bosola.
'Twas to bring you
By degrees to mortification. Listen.
Hark, now everything is still,
The screech-owl and the whistler shrill
Call upon our dame aloud,
And bid her quickly don her shroud!
Much you had of land and rent;
Your length in clay 's now competent:
A long war disturb'd your mind;
Here your perfect peace is sign'd.
Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping,
Their life a general mist of error,
Their d**h a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet,
And (the foul fiend more to check)
A crucifix let bless your neck.
'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day;
End your groan, and come away.
Cariola.
Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers! Alas!
What will you do with my lady?—Call for help!
Duchess.
To whom? To our next neighbours? They are mad-folks.
Bosola.
Remove that noise.
Duchess.
Farewell, Cariola.
In my last will I have not much to give:
A many hungry guests have fed upon me;
Thine will be a poor reversion.
Cariola.
I will die with her.
Duchess.
I pray thee, look thou giv'st my little boy
Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl
Say her prayers ere she sleep.
Cariola is forced out by the Executioners.
Now what you please:
What d**h?
Bosola.
Strangling; here are your executioners.
Duchess.
I forgive them:
The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' th' lungs,
Would do as much as they do.
Bosola.
Doth not d**h fright you?
Duchess.
Who would be afraid on 't,
Knowing to meet such excellent company
In th' other world?
Bosola.
Yet, methinks,
The manner of your d**h should much afflict you:
This cord should terrify you.
Duchess.
Not a whit:
What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut
With diamonds? or to be smothered
With ca**ia? or to be shot to d**h with pearls?
I know d**h hath ten thousand several doors
For men to take their exits; and 'tis found
They go on such strange geometrical hinges,
You may open them both ways: any way, for heaven-sake,
So I were out of your whispering. Tell my brothers
That I perceive d**h, now I am well awake,
Best gift is they can give or I can take.
I would fain put off my last woman's-fault,
I 'd not be tedious to you.
First Executioner.
We are ready.
Duchess.
Dispose my breath how please you; but my body
Bestow upon my women, will you?
First Executioner.
Yes.
Duchess.
Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength
Must pull down heaven upon me:—
Yet stay; heaven-gates are not so highly arch'd
As princes' palaces; they that enter there
Must go upon their knees [Kneels].—Come, violent d**h,
Serve for mandragora to make me sleep!—
Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out,
They then may feed in quiet.
They strangle her.
Bosola.
Where 's the waiting-woman??
Fetch her: some other strangle the children.
Enter Cariola
Look you, there sleeps your mistress.
Cariola.
O, you are damn'd
Perpetually for this! My turn is next;
Is 't not so ordered?
Bosola.
Yes, and I am glad
You are so well prepar'd for 't.
Cariola.
You are deceiv'd, sir,
I am not prepar'd for 't, I will not die;
I will first come to my answer, and know
How I have offended.
Bosola.
Come, despatch her.—
You kept her counsel; now you shall keep ours.
Cariola.
I will not die, I must not; I am contracted
To a young gentleman.
First Executioner.
Here 's your wedding-ring.
Cariola.
Let me but speak with the duke. I 'll discover
Treason to his person.
Bosola.
Delays:—throttle her.
First Executioner.
She bites and scratches.
Cariola.
If you k** me now,
I am damn'd; I have not been at confession
This two years.
Bosola. To Executioners. When?
Cariola.
I am quick with child.
Bosola.
Why, then,
Your credit 's saved.
Executioners strangle Cariola.
Bear her into the next room;
Let these lie still.
Exeunt the Executioners with the body of Cariola.
Enter Ferdinand
Ferdinand.
Is she dead?
Bosola.
She is what
You 'd have her. But here begin your pity:
Shows the Children strangled.
Alas, how have these offended?
Ferdinand.
The d**h
Of young wolves is never to be pitied.
Bosola.
Fix your eye here.
Ferdinand.
Constantly.
Bosola.
Do you not weep?
Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out.
The element of water moistens the earth,
But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens.
Ferdinand.
Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle: she died young.
Bosola.
I think not so; her infelicity
Seem'd to have years too many.
Ferdinand.
She and I were twins;
And should I die this instant, I had liv'd
Her time to a minute.
Bosola.
It seems she was born first:
You have bloodily approv'd the ancient truth,
That kindred commonly do worse agree
Than remote strangers.
Ferdinand.
Let me see her face
Again. Why didst thou not pity her? What
An excellent honest man mightst thou have been,
If thou hadst borne her to some sanctuary!
Or, bold in a good cause, oppos'd thyself,
With thy advanced sword above thy head,
Between her innocence and my revenge!
I bade thee, when I was distracted of my wits,
Go k** my dearest friend, and thou hast done 't.
For let me but examine well the cause:
What was the meanness of her match to me?
Only I must confess I had a hope,
Had she continu'd widow, to have gain'd
An infinite ma** of treasure by her d**h:
And that was the main cause,—her marriage,
That drew a stream of gall quite through my heart.
For thee, as we observe in tragedies
That a good actor many times is curs'd
For playing a villain's part, I hate thee for 't,
And, for my sake, say, thou hast done much ill well.
Bosola.
Let me quicken your memory, for I perceive
You are falling into ingratitude: I challenge
The reward due to my service.
Ferdinand.
I 'll tell thee
What I 'll give thee.
Bosola.
Do.
Ferdinand.
I 'll give thee a pardon
For this murder.
Bosola.
Ha!
Ferdinand.
Yes, and 'tis
The largest bounty I can study to do thee.
By what authority didst thou execute
This bloody sentence?
Bosola.
By yours.
Ferdinand.
Mine! was I her judge?
Did any ceremonial form of law
Doom her to not-being? Did a complete jury
Deliver her conviction up i' the court?
Where shalt thou find this judgment register'd,
Unless in hell? See, like a bloody fool,
Thou 'st forfeited thy life, and thou shalt die for 't.
Bosola.
The office of justice is perverted quite
When one thief hangs another. Who shall dare
To reveal this?
Ferdinand.
O, I 'll tell thee;
The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape it up,
Not to devour the corpse, but to discover
The horrid murder.
Bosola.
You, not I, shall quake for 't.
Ferdinand.
Leave me.
Bosola.
I will first receive my pension.
Ferdinand.
You are a villain.
Bosola.
When your ingratitude
Is judge, I am so.
Ferdinand.
O horror,
That not the fear of him which binds the devils
Can prescribe man obedience!—
Never look upon me more.
Bosola.
Why, fare thee well.
Your brother and yourself are worthy men!
You have a pair of hearts are hollow graves,
Rotten, and rotting others; and your vengeance,
Like two chain'd-bullets, still goes arm in arm:
You may be brothers; for treason, like the plague,
Doth take much in a blood. I stand like one
That long hath ta'en a sweet and golden dream:
I am angry with myself, now that I wake.
Ferdinand.
Get thee into some unknown part o' the world,
That I may never see thee.
Bosola.
Let me know
Wherefore I should be thus neglected. Sir,
I serv'd your tyranny, and rather strove
To satisfy yourself than all the world:
And though I loath'd the evil, yet I lov'd
You that did counsel it; and rather sought
To appear a true servant than an honest man.
Ferdinand.
I 'll go hunt the badger by owl-light:
'Tis a deed of darkness.
Exit.
Bosola.
He 's much distracted. Off, my painted honour!
While with vain hopes our faculties we tire,
We seem to sweat in ice and freeze in fire.
What would I do, were this to do again?
I would not change my peace of conscience
For all the wealth of Europe.—She stirs; here 's life:—
Return, fair soul, from darkness, and lead mine
Out of this sensible hell:—she 's warm, she breathes:—
Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart,
To store them with fresh colour.—Who 's there?
Some cordial drink!—Alas! I dare not call:
So pity would destroy pity.—Her eye opes,
And heaven in it seems to ope, that late was shut,
To take me up to mercy.
Duchess.
Antonio!
Bosola.
Yes, madam, he is living;
The dead bodies you saw were but feign'd statues.
He 's reconcil'd to your brothers; the Pope hath wrought
The atonement.
Duchess.
Mercy!
Dies.
Bosola.
O, she 's gone again! there the cords of life broke.
O sacred innocence, that sweetly sleeps
On turtles' feathers, whilst a guilty conscience
Is a black register wherein is writ
All our good deeds and bad, a perspective
That shows us hell! That we cannot be suffer'd
To do good when we have a mind to it!
This is manly sorrow;
These tears, I am very certain, never grew
In my mother's milk. My estate is sunk
Below the degree of fear: where were
These penitent fountains while she was living?
O, they were frozen up! Here is a sight
As direful to my soul as is the sword
Unto a wretch hath slain his father.
Come, I 'll bear thee hence,
And execute thy last will; that 's deliver
Thy body to the reverend dispose
Of some good women: that the cruel tyrant
Shall not deny me. Then I 'll post to Milan,
Where somewhat I will speedily enact
Worth my dejection.
Exit [with the body].