The Duchess of Malfi

Scene II¹⁰⁴

[Enter] DUCHESS and CARIOLA

 
  DUCHESS.  What hideous noise was that?
  CARIOLA.                                'Tis the wild consort¹⁰⁵
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 brass,
  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]

 
  SERVANT.             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 sorts¹⁰⁶ of madmen, which wild object
  Being full of change and sport, forc'd him to laugh,
  And so the imposthume¹⁰⁷ broke:  the self-same cure
  The duke intends on you.
  DUCHESS.                  Let them come in.
  SERVANT.  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 death,
    And die in love and rest.
FIRST MADMAN. Doom's-day not come yet! I 'll draw it nearer by
a perspective,¹¹⁰ or make a glass 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 glass-house, where the devils
are continually blowing up women's souls on hollow irons,
and the fire never goes out.
  FIRST MADMAN.  I have skill in heraldry.
  SECOND MADMAN.  Hast?
FIRST MADMAN. You do give for your crest a woodcock'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.¹¹¹
  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 glass 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.¹¹²
THIRD MADMAN. Woe to the caroche¹¹³ 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 possets¹¹⁴ 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 death-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 salvatory¹¹⁵ of green mummy.¹¹⁶ What 's this flesh? a little crudded¹¹⁷ 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 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.
  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 deathbed?
  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 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.
  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 death?
  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 death 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 death 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 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.
  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 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.
  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,¹¹⁸ 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 kill me now,
  I am damn'd; I have not been at confession
  This two years.
  BOSOLA.  [To Executioners.] When?¹¹⁹
  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 death
  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 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 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].

Act V

Scene I¹²⁰

[Enter] ANTONIO and DELIO

 
  ANTONIO.  What think you of my hope of reconcilement
  To the Arragonian brethren?
  DELIO.                       I misdoubt it;
  For though they have sent their letters of safe-conduct
  For your repair to Milan, they appear
  But nets to entrap you.  The Marquis of Pescara,
  Under whom you hold certain land in cheat,¹²¹
Much 'gainst his noble nature hath been mov'd
  To seize those lands; and some of his dependants
  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.
  ANTONIO.      You are still an heretic¹²²
To any safety I can shape myself.
  DELIO.  Here comes the marquis:  I will make myself
  Petitioner for some part of your land,
  To know whither it is flying.
  ANTONIO.                       I pray, do.
       [Withdraws.]
 

[Enter PESCARA]

 
  DELIO.  Sir, I have a suit to you.
  PESCARA.                            To me?
  DELIO.                                      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.
  PESCARA.  You are my friend; but this is such a suit,
  Nor fit for me to give, nor you to take.
  DELIO.  No, sir?
  PESCARA.          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.
       [Gives a letter.]
  PESCARA.                    He entreats for you
  The Citadel of Saint Bennet, that belong'd
  To the banish'd Bologna.
  JULIA.                    Yes.
  PESCARA.  I could not have thought of a friend I could rather
  Pleasure with it:  'tis yours.
  JULIA.                          Sir, I thank you;
  And he shall know how doubly I am engag'd
  Both in your gift, and speediness of giving
  Which makes your grant the greater.
 

Exit.

 
  ANTONIO.                             How they fortify
  Themselves with my ruin!
  DELIO.                    Sir, I am
  Little bound to you.
  PESCARA.              Why?
  DELIO.  Because you deni'd this suit to me, and gave 't
  To such a creature.
  PESCARA.             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.
  DELIO.                   You instruct me well.
  ANTONIO.  Why, here 's a man now would fright impudence
  ]From sauciest beggars.
  PESCARA.                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.

 
  ANTONIO.       'Tis a noble old fellow.
  DELIO.  What course do you mean to take, Antonio?
  ANTONIO.  This night I mean to venture all my fortune,
  Which is no more than a poor ling'ring 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 fraight¹²³ 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.
  DELIO.  I 'll second you in all danger; and howe'er,
  My life keeps rank with yours.
  ANTONIO.  You are still my lov'd and best friend.
 

Exeunt.