Page:The Tragedy of the Duchesse of Malfy (1623).pdf/68

 Of Mad-men (Lady) which your Tyrant brother Hath plac'd about your lodging: This tyranny, I thinke was never practis'd till this howre.

Duch. Indeed I thanke him: nothing but noyce, and folly Can keepe me in my right wits, whereas reason And silence, make me starke mad: Sit downe, Discourse to me some dismall Tragedy.

Cari. O 'twill encrease your mellancholly.

Duch. Thou art deceiv'd, To heare of greater griefe, would lessen mine, This is a prison?

Cari. Yes, but you shall live To shake this durance off.

Duch. Thou art a foole, The Robin red-brest, and the Nightingale, Never live long in cages.

Cari. Pray drie your eyes. What thinke you of Madam?

Duch. Of nothing: When I muse thus, I sleepe.

Cari. Like a mad-man, with your eyes open?

Duch. Do'st thou thinke we shall know one an other, In th'other world?

Cari. Yes, out of question.

Duch. O that it were possible we might But hold some two dayes conference with the dead. From them, I should learne 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 ore my head, seemes made of molton brasse. The earth of flaming sulphure, yet I am not mad: I am acquainted with sad misery, As the tan'd galley-slave, is with his Oare, Necessity makes me suffer constantly, And custome makes it easie, who do I looke like now?

Cari. Like to your picture in the gallery, A deale of life in shew, but none in practise: Or rather like some reverend monument Whose ruines, are even pittied.

Duch. Very proper: And Fortune seemes onely to have her eie-sight, To behold my Tragedy: How now, What noyce is that?

Servant. I am come to tell you,