Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 002.djvu/684
Could you have lived thus always, for indeed
You were too much i' the light: but no more,
I come to seal my peace with you, Here's a hand, [Gives her a dead man's hand.
To which you have vow'd much love. The ring upon't
You gave.
Duch. I affectionately kiss it.
Fer. Pray do, and wear the print of't in your heart.
I will leave this ring with you for a love-token.
Duch. You are very cold:
I fear you are not well after your travel.
Ha! lights! O horrible!
Fer. Let her have lights enough. [Exit.
Duch. What withcraft doth he practice, that he hath left
A dead man's hand here?
(Here is discovered the body of Antonio and his children, appearing as if they were dead.)
The villain Bosola is present to torment her; and her grief, agony, and rage against her cruel brothers, are painted with prodigious power of passion. Ferdinand now contrives a still more hideous and dreadful punishment.
While that my blood ran pure in't, was more worth
Than that which thou wouldst comfort, called a soul.
I will send her masks of common courtezans,
Have her meat serv'd up with bawds and ruffians;
And, cause she'll needs be mad, I am resolv'd
To remove forth the common Hospital
All the mad folk, and place them near her lodging;
There let them practise together, sing and dance,
And act their gambolds to the full o' the moon.
If she can sleep, the better for't—let her,
Your work is almost ended.
This horrid fancy is carried into execution. What effect it would produce on the stage in these unimaginative days of ours it is not difficult to conjecture; but we know that this wild scene of insanity powerfully moved our ancestors. Thomas Middleton says,
That could get off under a bleeding eye."
And Ford, speaking of this play, writes thus:
Transcend in all theirs for a master-piece."
The dreadful revelry of the lunatics is thus ushered in:
Cari. 'Tis the wild consort
Of madmen, Lady, which your Tyrant brother,
Hath placed about your lodging. This tyranny
I think was never practised till this hour.
Duch. Indeed I thank him, nothing but noise and folly
Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason
And silence make me stark mad: sit down,
Discourse to me some dismal Tragedy.
Cari. O, 'twill increase your melancholy,
Duch. Thou art deceived.
To hear of greater grief will lessen mine.
This is a prison?
Cari. Yes; but you shall live
To shake this durance off.
Duch. Thou art a fool;
The robin-red-breast and the nightingale
Never live long in cages.
Cari. Pray, dry your eyes!
What think ye of, madam?
Duch. Of nothing!
When I muse thus I sleep.
Cari. Like a madman, with your eyes open.
Duch. Dost thou think we shall know one another
In the other world?
Cari. Yes; out of question.
Duch. O that it were possible we might
But hold some two days conference with the dead;
From them I should learn 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.
The heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass,
The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad.
I am acquainted with sad misery,
As the tam'd gally-slave is with his oar.
Necessity makes me suffer constantly,
And custom makes it easy—who do I look like now?
Cari. Like to your picture in the gallery.
A deal of life in shew, but none in practice:
Or rather like some reverend monument,
Whose ruins even are pitied!
Here a servant enters, to inform the Duchess that the dance of madmen is about to commence, and that it is a design of her brother's to cure her melancholy.
O let us howl some heavy note
Some deadly dogged howl;
Sounding as from the threatening throat
Of beasts and fatal fowl.
As ravens, scritch-owls, bulls, and bears,
We'll bill and bawl our parts,
Till yerksome noise have cloy'd your ears,
And corasived your hearts.
At last, when as our quire wants breath,
Our bodies being blest,
We'll sing like swans to welcome death,
And die in love and rest.
At the close of this choral song, the madmen converse together for a while, and then ensues "a dance of eight