Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 002.djvu/685
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1818.]
On the Early English Dramatists.
661
madmen, with musick answerable thereto." Bosola then enters, disguised like an old man.
Duch. Is he mad too?
Servant. Pray question him; I'll leave you.
Bos. I am come to make thy tomb.
Duch. Ha! my tomb?
Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death-bed,
Gasping for breath? dost thou perceive me such?
Bos. Yes!
Duch. Thou art not mad! Dost know me?
Bos. Yes!
Duch. Who am I?
Bos. Thou art a box of wormseed, &c.
Duch. Am not I thy Duchess?
Bos. That makes thy sleep so broken:
Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright,
But look'd to near, have neither heat nor light.
Duch. Thou art very plain.
Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living.
I am a tomb-maker.
Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb?
Bos. Yes!
Duch. Let me be a little merry:
Of what stuff wilt thou make it?
Bos. Nay, resolve me first: Of what fashion?
Duch. Why, do we grow phantastical in our death-bed?
Do we affect fashion in the grave?
Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on the tombs
Do not lie as they were wont, seeming to pray
Up to heaven; but with their hands under their cheek,
As if they died of the tooth-ache! They are not carved
With their eyes fixed upon the stars; but as
Their minds were wholly bent upon the world,
The self-same way they seem to turn their faces.
Duch. Let me know fully, therefore, the effect
Of this thy dismal preparation,
This talk fit for a charnel?
Bos. Now I shall. (A coffin, cords, and a bell.)
Here is a present from your princely brothers.
And may it arrive welcome, for it brings
Last benefit, last sorrow.
Duch. Let me see it.
Bos. This is your last presence-chamber.
Duch. Peace! it affrights not me.
Bos. I am the common Bellman,
That usually is sent to condemned persons
The night before they suffer.
Duch. Even now thou saidst
Thou was a tomb-maker.
Bos. 'Twas to bring you
By degrees to mortification. Listen.
Dirge.
Hark! now every thing is still!
The scritch owl, and the whistler shrill
Call upon our Dame aloud,
And bid her quickly don her shroud.
Much you had of Land and Rent,
Your length in clay's now competent.
A long war disturb'd your mind,
Here your perfect peace is sign'd.
Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping!
Their life, a general mist of error,
Their death, a hideous storm of terror!
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet,
And (the foul fiend more to check)
A crucifix let bless your neck.
'Tis now full tide, 'tween night and day,
End your groan, and come away.
Cari. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers, alas!
What will ye do with my Lady? Cry for help!
Duch. To whom? to our next neighbours? these are mad-folks.
I pray thee, look thou givest my little boy
Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl
Say her prayers ere she sleep. Now what you please?
What death?
Bos. Strangling—here are your executioners.
Exe. We are ready.
Duch. Dispose my breath how please you; but my body
Bestow upon my women. Will you?
Exe. Yes!
Duch. Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength
Must pull down Heaven upon me.
Yet stay! Heaven's gates are not so highly arch'd
As Princes' palaces! They that enter there
Must go upon their knees. Come violent death,
Serve for mandragora to make me sleep!
Go, tell my brothers, when I am laid out,
They then may sleep in quiet. [They strangle her.
Servant. Pray question him; I'll leave you.
Bos. I am come to make thy tomb.
Duch. Ha! my tomb?
Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death-bed,
Gasping for breath? dost thou perceive me such?
Bos. Yes!
Duch. Thou art not mad! Dost know me?
Bos. Yes!
Duch. Who am I?
Bos. Thou art a box of wormseed, &c.
Duch. Am not I thy Duchess?
Bos. That makes thy sleep so broken:
Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright,
But look'd to near, have neither heat nor light.
Duch. Thou art very plain.
Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living.
I am a tomb-maker.
Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb?
Bos. Yes!
Duch. Let me be a little merry:
Of what stuff wilt thou make it?
Bos. Nay, resolve me first: Of what fashion?
Duch. Why, do we grow phantastical in our death-bed?
Do we affect fashion in the grave?
Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on the tombs
Do not lie as they were wont, seeming to pray
Up to heaven; but with their hands under their cheek,
As if they died of the tooth-ache! They are not carved
With their eyes fixed upon the stars; but as
Their minds were wholly bent upon the world,
The self-same way they seem to turn their faces.
Duch. Let me know fully, therefore, the effect
Of this thy dismal preparation,
This talk fit for a charnel?
Bos. Now I shall. (A coffin, cords, and a bell.)
Here is a present from your princely brothers.
And may it arrive welcome, for it brings
Last benefit, last sorrow.
Duch. Let me see it.
Bos. This is your last presence-chamber.
Duch. Peace! it affrights not me.
Bos. I am the common Bellman,
That usually is sent to condemned persons
The night before they suffer.
Duch. Even now thou saidst
Thou was a tomb-maker.
Bos. 'Twas to bring you
By degrees to mortification. Listen.
Dirge.
Hark! now every thing is still!
The scritch owl, and the whistler shrill
Call upon our Dame aloud,
And bid her quickly don her shroud.
Much you had of Land and Rent,
Your length in clay's now competent.
A long war disturb'd your mind,
Here your perfect peace is sign'd.
Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping!
Their life, a general mist of error,
Their death, a hideous storm of terror!
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet,
And (the foul fiend more to check)
A crucifix let bless your neck.
'Tis now full tide, 'tween night and day,
End your groan, and come away.
Cari. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers, alas!
What will ye do with my Lady? Cry for help!
Duch. To whom? to our next neighbours? these are mad-folks.
I pray thee, look thou givest my little boy
Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl
Say her prayers ere she sleep. Now what you please?
What death?
Bos. Strangling—here are your executioners.
Exe. We are ready.
Duch. Dispose my breath how please you; but my body
Bestow upon my women. Will you?
Exe. Yes!
Duch. Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength
Must pull down Heaven upon me.
Yet stay! Heaven's gates are not so highly arch'd
As Princes' palaces! They that enter there
Must go upon their knees. Come violent death,
Serve for mandragora to make me sleep!
Go, tell my brothers, when I am laid out,
They then may sleep in quiet. [They strangle her.
After this horrid murder, Bosola shews to Ferdinand, who comes upon the stage, the little children also strangled.
Fer. The death
Of young wolves is never to be pitied.
Bos. Do you not weep?
Other sins only speak; murther shrieks out!
The element of water moistens the earth,
But blood flies upwards, and bedews the Heavens.
Fer. Cover her face, mine eyes dazzle," &c.
Of young wolves is never to be pitied.
Bos. Do you not weep?
Other sins only speak; murther shrieks out!
The element of water moistens the earth,
But blood flies upwards, and bedews the Heavens.
Fer. Cover her face, mine eyes dazzle," &c.
Here Ferdinand is struck with agony and remorse, and threatens vengeance against the wretch whom he had hired to perpetrate the murders. And there occurs an incident of horror, evidently borrowed from Desdemona in Othello.
Bos. She stirs! here's life!
Return fair soul! from darkness, and lead mine
Out of this sensible Hell. She's warm—she breathes!
Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart
To store them with fresh colour. Who's there?
Some cordial drink! alas! I dare not call!
So pity would destroy pity! her eye opens,
Return fair soul! from darkness, and lead mine
Out of this sensible Hell. She's warm—she breathes!
Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart
To store them with fresh colour. Who's there?
Some cordial drink! alas! I dare not call!
So pity would destroy pity! her eye opens,