4

Bos. Thou art a box of worm-seed, at best but a salvatory of green mummy.3 What's this flesh? a little crudded milk, fantastical puffpaste. Our bodies are weaker than those paperprisons 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 grass, and the heaven o'er our heads like her looking-glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of our prison. Duch. Am not I thy duchess?

Bos., Thou art some great woman, sure, for riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad in grey hairs) twenty years sooner than on a merry milkmaid'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.

Duch. I am Duchess of Malfi still. Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken: Glories, like glowworms, afar off shine bright, But, look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. Duch. Thou art very plain.

Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living; I am a tomb-maker.

Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb?
Bos. Yes.

Duch. Let me be a little merry:-of what stuff wilt thou make it?

Bos. Nay, resolve me first, of what fashion? Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical in our deathbed? do we affect fashion in the grave?

Bos. 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 toothache: they are not carved with their eyes fixed upon the stars; but as their minds were wholly bent upon the world, the selfsame way they seem to turn their faces.

Duch. Let me know fully therefore the effect Of this thy dismal preparation, This talk fit for a charnel.

I have so much obedience in my blood,
I wish it in their veins to do them good.
Bos. This is your last presence-chamber.
Cari. Oh, my sweet lady!

Duch. Peace; it affrights not me.
Bos. I am the common bellman,
That usually is sent to condemn'd persons
The night before they suffer.

Duch. Even now thou said'st
Thou wast a tomb-maker.
Bos. 'Twas to bring you
By degrees to mortification. Listen.

Hark, now every thing 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:
Along 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 death 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.

Cari. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers! alas! What will you do with my lady?-Call for help. Duch. To whom? to our next neighbours?

they are mad-folks.

Bos. Remove that noise.

Duch. 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.

Cari. I will die with her.

Duch. 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 death?

Bos. Strangling; here are your executioners.
Duch. I forgive them:
The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs,
Would do as much as they do.

Bos. Doth not death fright you?
Duch. Who would be afraid on't,
Knowing to meet such excellent company
In the other world?

With diamonds? or to be smothered

With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls? I know death 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 death, 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.

1 Execut. We are ready.

Y

Duch. 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 death,

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. Bos. Where's the waiting-woman? Fetch her. Some other strangle the children. [CARIOLA and Children are brought in by the Executioners, who presently strangle the Children.

Look you, there sleeps your mistress.
Cari. Oh, you are damn'd
Perpetually for this!

Is't not so order'd?

My turn is next;

Bos. It seems she was born first. You have bloodily approv'd the ancient truth, That kindred commonly do worse agree Than remote strangers.

Ferd. Let me see her face

Again. Why didst not thou pity her? what
An excellent, honest man might'st 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 kill 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 mass of treasure by her death.
And what 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.

The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape it up,
Not to devour the corpse, but to discover
The horrid murder.

Bos. You, not I, shall quake for't.
Ferd. Leave me.

Bos. I will first receive my pension.

Ferd. You are a villain.

Bos. When your ingratitude

Is judge, I am so.

Ferd. O horror,

That not the fear of him which binds the devils Can prescribe man obedience!

Never look upon me more.

Bos. 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.
Ferd. Get thee into some unknown part o' the
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 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.
Ferd. I'll go hunt the badger by owl-light;
'Tis a deed of darkness.

[Exit. Bos. 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.

Duch. Antonio!1

Bos. 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 The atonement.2

Duch. Mercy!

[wrought [Dies. Bos. Oh, 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?
Oh, 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.

ACT V.-SCENE I.

Enter ANTONIO and DELIO.

[Exit.

Much 'gainst his noble nature hath been mov'd
To seize those lands; and some of his dependents
Are at this instant making it their suit
To be invested in your revenues.

I cannot think they mean well to your life
That do deprive you of your means of life,
Your living.

Ant. You are still an heretic
To any safety I can shape myself.

Del. Here comes the Marquis; I will make myself

Petitioner for some part of your land,
To know whither it is flying.
Ant. I pray, do.

Enter PESCARA.

Del. Sir, I have a suit to you.
Pes. To me?

Del. An easy one;

There is the Citadel of Saint Bennet,

With some demesnes, of late in the possession
Of Antonio Bologna,-please you bestow them on

me.

Pes. You are my friend; but this is such a suit, Nor fit for me to give, nor you to take. Del. No, sir?

Pes. I will give you ample reason for't Soon in private:-here's the cardinal's mistress. Enter JULIA.

Julia. My lord, I am grown your poor petitioner,

And should be an ill beggar, had I not
A great man's letter here, the cardinal's,
To court you in my favour.

Pes. He entreats for you

The Citadel of Saint Bennet, that belong'd
To the banish'd Bologna.

Julia. Yes.

To such a creature.

Pes. Do you know what it was?

It was Antonio's land; not forfeited

By course of law, but ravish'd from his throat

By the cardinal's entreaty; it were not fit

I should bestow so main a piece of wrong

Upon my friend; 'tis a gratification
Only due to a strumpet, for it is injustice.
Shall I sprinkle the pure blood of innocents
To make those followers I call my friends
Look ruddier upon me? I am glad

This land, ta'en from the owner by such wrong,
Returns again unto so foul an use

As salary for his lust. Learn, good Delio,
To ask noble things of me, and you shall find
I'll be a noble giver.

Del. You instruct me well.

Ant. Why, here's a man now would fright impudence

From sauciest beggars.

Pes. Prince Ferdinand's come to Milan, Sick, as they give out, of an apoplexy; But some say 'tis a frenzy: I am going To visit him.

[Exit.

Ant. "Tis a noble old fellow.
Del. What course do you mean to take,
Antonio?

Ant. This night I mean to venture all my fortune,

Which is no more than a poor lingering life,
To the cardinal's worst of malice. I have got
Private access to his chamber; and intend
To visit him about the mid of night,
As once his brother did our noble duchess.
It may be that the sudden apprehension

Of danger, for I'll go in mine own shape,-
When he shall see it fraight with love and duty,
May draw the poison out of him, and work
A friendly reconcilement: if it fail,
Yet it shall rid me of this infamous calling;
For better fall once than be ever falling.

Del. I'll second you in all danger; and, howe'er,

My life keeps rank with yours.

Ant. You are still my lov'd and best friend.

ACT V.-SCENE II.

Enter PESCARA and DOCTOR.

[Exeunt.

Pes. What's that?

I need a dictionary to't.

Doc. I'll tell you.

In those that are possess'd with't there o'erflows
Such melancholy humour they imagine
Themselves to be transformèd into wolves;
Steal forth to churchyards in the dead of night,
And dig dead bodies up: as, two nights since,
One met the duke 'bout midnight in a lane
Behind Saint Mark's church, with the leg of a man
Upon his shoulder; and he howl'd fearfully;
Said he was a wolf, only the difference
Was, a wolf's skin was hairy on the outside,
His on the inside; bade them take their swords,
Rip up his flesh, and try: straight I was sent for,
And, having minister'd to him, found his grace
Very well recover'd.

Pes. I am glad on't.

Doc. Yet not without some fear

Of a relapse. If he grow to his fit again,
I'll go a nearer way to work with him
Than ever Paracelsus dream'd of; if

They'll give me leave, I'll buffet his madness out of him.

Mal. Impossible, if you move and the sun Ferd. I will throttle it. [shine.

[Throws himself down on his shadow. Mal. Oh, my lord, you are angry with nothing. Ferd. You are a fool: how is't possible I should catch my shadow, unless I fall upon't? When I go to hell, I mean to carry a bribe; for, look you, good gifts evermore make way for the worst persons.

Pes. Rise, good my lord.

Ferd. I am studying the art of patience.
Pes. 'Tis a noble virtue.

Ferd. To drive six snails before me from this town to Moscow; neither use goad nor whip to them, but let them take their own time;-the patient'st man i' the world match me for an experiment; and I'll crawl after like a sheep-biter. Card. Force him up.

Ferd. Use me well, you were best. What I have done, I have done; I'll confess nothing. Doc. Now let me come to him.-Are you mad, my lord? are you out of your princely wits? Ferd. What's he?

Pes. Your doctor.

Ferd. Let me have his beard sawed off, and his eyebrows filed more civil.

Doc. I must do mad tricks with him, for that's the only way on't.-I have brought your grace a salamander's skin to keep you from sun-burning. Ferd. I have cruel sore eyes.

Doc. The white of a cockatrix's egg is present remedy.

Ferd. Let it be a new-laid one, you were best. -Hide me from him: physicians are like kings, they brook no contradiction.

Doc. Now he begins to fear me now let me alone with him.

Card. How now! put off your gown!!

Doc. Let me have some forty urinals filled with rose-water: he and I'll go pelt one another with them.-Now he begins to fear me.-Can you fetch a frisk, sir?-Let him go, let him go, upon my peril: I find by his eye he stands in awe of me; I'll make him as tame as a dormouse

Ferd. Can you fetch your frisks, sir!-I will stamp him into a cullis, flay off his skin, to cover one of the anatomies this rogue hath set i' the cold yonder in Barber-Chirurgeon's hall.— Hence, hence! you are all of you like beasts for sacrifice: there's nothing left of you but tongue and belly, flattery and lechery.// [Exit

Pes. Doctor, ho did not fear you throughly. Doc. True; I was somewhat too forward. Bos. Mercy upon me, what a fatal judgment Hath fall'n upon this Ferdinand!

Pes. Knows your grace

What accident hath brought unto the prince This strange distraction?

Card. [aside.] I must feign somewhat. they say it grew:

Thus

You have heard it rumour'd, for these many years
None of our family dies but there is seen
The shape of an old woman, which is given
By tradition to us to have been murder'd
By her nephews for her riches. Such a figure
One night, as the prince sat up late at's book,
Appear'd to him; when crying out for help,
The gentlemen of's chamber found his grace
All on a cold sweat, alter'd much in face
And language: since which apparition,

He hath grown worse and worse, and I much fear
He cannot live.

Bos. Sir, I would speak with you.
Pes. We'll leave your grace,
Wishing to the sick prince, our noble lord,
All health of mind and body.

Card. You are most welcome.

[Exeunt PESCARA, MALATESTI, and Doctor. Are you come? so.-[Aside.] This fellow must not know

By any means I had intelligence

In our duchess' death; for, though I counsell'd it,
The full of all the engagement seem'd to grow
From Ferdinand.-Now, sir, how fares our sister?
I do not think but sorrow makes her look
Like to an oft-dy'd garment: she shall now
Taste comfort from me. Why do you look so
wildly?

Oh, the fortune of your master here the prince
Dejects you; but be you of happy comfort:
If you'll do one thing for me I'll entreat,
Though he had a cold tombstone o'er his bones,
I'd make you what you would be.

Bos. Anything;

Give it me in a breath, and let me fly to't:
They that think long small expedition win,
For musing much o' the end cannot begin.
Enter JULIA.

Julia. Sir, will you come in to supper?
Card. I am busy; leave me.
Julia. [aside.] What an excellent shape hath
that fellow!

[Exit.

Card. 'Tis thus. Antonio lurks here in Milan : Inquire him out, and kill him. While he lives, Our sister cannot marry! and I have thought Of an excellent match for her. Do this and style Thy advancement. [me

Bos. By what means shall I find him out? Card. There is a gentleman call'd Delio Here in the camp, that hath been long approv'd His loyal friend. Set eye upon that fellow; Follow him to mass; may be Antonio, Although he do account religion

But a school-name, for fashion of the world May accompany him; or else go inquire out Delio's confessor, and see if you can bribe Him to reveal it. There are a thousand ways A man might find to trace him; as to know What fellows hunt the Jews to take

Great sums of money, for sure he's in want; Or else to go to the picture-makers, and learn Who bought her picture lately: some of these Happily may take.

Bos. Well, I'll not freeze i' the business: I would see that wretched thing, Antonio, Above all sights i' the world.

Card. Do, and be happy.

[Exit.

Bos. This fellow doth breed basilisks in's eyes, He's nothing else but murder; yet he seems Not to have notice of the duchess' death. 'Tis his cunning: I must follow his example; There cannot be a surer way to trace Than that of an old fox.

Why should I fall in love with such a face else?
I have already suffer'd for thee so much pain,
The only remedy to do me good
Is to kill my longing.

Bos. Sure your pistol holds
Nothing but perfumes or kissing-comfits.1
Excellent lady!

You have a pretty way on't to discover
Your longing. Come, come, I'll disarm you,
And arm you thus: yet this is wondrous strange.
Julia. Compare thy form and my eyes together,
You'll find my love no such great miracle.
Now you'll say

I am wanton: this nice modesty in ladies
Is but a troublesome familiar
That haunts them.

Bos. Know you me, I am a blunt soldier.
Julia. The better:

Sure, there wants fire where there are no lively sparks

Of roughness.

Bos. And I want compliment.

Julia. Why, ignorance

In courtship cannot make you do amiss,

If you have a heart to do well.

Bos. You are very fair.

Julia. Nay, if you lay beauty to my charge,

I must plead unguilty.

Bos. Your bright eyes

Carry a quiver of darts in them sharper
Than sunbeams.

Julia. You will mar me with commendation, Put yourself to the charge of courting me, Whereas now I woo you.

Bos. [Aside.] I have it, I will work upon this

creature.

Let us grow most amorously familiar:

If the great cardinal now should see me thus,
Would he not count me a villain?

Julia. No; he might count me a wanton,
Not lay a scruple of offence on you;
For if I see and steal a diamond,

The fault is not i' the stone, but in me the thief
That purloins it. I am sudden with you:
We that are great women of pleasure use to cut
off

These uncertain wishes and unquiet longings,
And in an instant join the sweet delight

And the pretty excuse together. Had you been i' the street,

Under my chamber window, even there
I should have courted you.

Bos. Oh, you are an excellent lady!

Julia. Bid me do somewhat for you presently To express I love you.

Bos. I will; and if you love me,

Fail not to effect it.

The cardinal is grown wondrous melancholy; Demand the cause, let him not put you off

With feign'd excuse; discover the main ground

on't.

Julia. Why would you know this?
Bos. I have depended on him,

And I hear that he is fall'n in some disgrace
With the emperor: if he be, like the mice
That forsake falling houses, I would shift
To other dependance.

Julia. You shall not need

Follow the wars: I'll be your maintenance.

Bos. And I your loyal servant: but I cannot Leave my calling.

Julia. Not leave an ungrateful

General for the love of a sweet lady!

1 kissing-comfits-perfumed sugar-plums, to sweeten the breath.-DYCE.