Page:The Tragedy of the Duchesse of Malfy (1623).pdf/73

 Much you had of Land and rent, Your length in clay's now competent. A long war, disturb'd your minde, Here your perfect peace is sign'd, Of what is't, fooles make such vaine keeping? Sin their conception, their birth, weeping: Their life, a generall mist of error, Their death, a hideous storme of terror, Strew your haire, with powders sweete: D'on cleane linnen, bath your feete, And (the foule feend more to checke) A crucifixe let blesse your necke, 'Tis now full tide, 'tweene night, and day, End your groane, and come away.

Cari. Hence villaines, tyrants, murderers: alas! What will you do with my Lady? call for helpe.

Duch. To whom, to our next neighbours? they are mad-folkes.

Bos. Remoove that noyse.

Duch. Farwell Cariola, In my last will, I have not much to give A many hungry guests, have fed upon me, Thine will be a poore reversion.

Cari. I will die with her.

Duch. I pray-thee looke thou giv'st my little boy Some sirrop, for his cold, and let the girle Say her prayers, ere she sleepe. Now what you please, What death?

Bos. Strangling, here are your Executioners.

Duch. I forgive them: The apoplexie, cathar, or cough o'th'loongs, Would do as much as they do.

Bos. Doth not death fright you?

Duch. Who would be afraid on't? Knowing to meete such excellent company In th'other world.

Bos. Yet, me thinkes, The manner of your death should much afflict you,