Page:The Tragedy of the Duchesse of Malfy (1623).pdf/39

 Card. You flie beyond your reason.

Ferd. Goe to (Mistris.) 'Tis not your whores milke, that shall quench my wild-fire, But your whores blood.

Card. How idlely shewes this rage? Which carries you, as men convai'd by witches, through the ayre, On violent whirle-windes, this intemperate noyce, Fitly resembles deafe-mens shrill discourse, Who talke aloud, thinking all other men To have their imperfection.

Ferd. Have not you, My palsey?

Card. Yes, I can be angry Without this rupture, there is not in nature A thing, that makes man so deform'd, so beastly, As doth intemperate anger: chide your selfe, You have divers men, who never yet exprest Their strong desire of rest, but by unrest, By vexing of themselves: Come, put your selfe In tune.

Ferd. So, I will onely study to seeme The thing I am not: I could kill her now, In you, or in my selfe, for I do thinke It is some sinne in us, Heaven doth revenge By her.

Card. Are you starke mad?

Ferd. I would have their bodies Burn't in a coale-pit, with the ventage stop'd, That their curs'd smoake might not ascend to Heaven: Or dippe the sheetes they lie in, in pitch or sulphure, Wrap them in't, and then light them like a match: Or else to boile their Bastard to a cullisse, And give't his leacherous father, to renew The sinne of his backe.

Card. I'll leave you.

Ferd. Nay, I have done, I am confident, had I bin damn'd in hell,