Page:The Tragedy of the Duchesse of Malfy (1623).pdf/72



Duch. And thou com'st to make my tombe?

Bos. Yes.

Duch. Let me be a little merry, Of what stuffe wilt thou make it?

Bos. Nay, resolve me first, of what fashion?

Duch. Why, do we grow phantasticall in our death-bed? Do we affect fashion in the grave?

Bos. Most ambitiously: Princes images on their tombes, Do not lie, as they were wont, seeming to pray, Up to heaven: but with their hands under their cheekes, (As if they died of the tooth-ache) they are not carved With their eies, fix'd upon the starres; but as their Mindes were wholy bent upon the world, The selfe-same way they seeme to turne their faces.

Duch. Let me know fully therefore the effect Of this thy dismall preparation, This talke, fit for a charnell?

Bos. Now, I shall, Here is a present from your Princely brothers, And may it arrive wel-come, for it brings Last benefit, last sorrow.

Duch. Let me see it, I have so much obedience, in my blood, I wish it in ther veines, to do them good.

Bos. This is your last presence Chamber.

Cari. O my sweete Lady.

Duch. Peace, it affrights not me.

Bos. I am the common Bell-man, That usually is sent to condemn'd persons. The night before they suffer:

Duch Even now thou said'st, Thou wast a tombe-maker?

Bos. 'Twas to bring you By degrees to mortification: Listen. Hearke, now every thing is still, The Schritch-Owle, and the whistler shrill, Call upon our Dame, aloud, And bid her quickly don her shrowd: