Page:The Tragedy of the Duchesse of Malfy (1623).pdf/28

 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.

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.