the Dutchesse of Malfy.
Card.
You flie beyond your reason.
Ferd.
Goe to (Mistris.)
'Tis not your whores milke, that shall quench my wild-fire,
But your whores blood.
Card.
How idlely shewes this rage?
Which carries you, as men convai'd by witches, through the ayre,
On violent whirle-windes, this intemperate noyce,
Fitly resembles deafe-mens shrill discourse,
Who talke aloud, thinking all other men
To have their imperfection.
Ferd.
Have not you,
My palsey?
Card.
Yes, I can be angry
Without this rupture, there is not in nature
A thing, that makes man so deform'd, so beastly,
As doth intemperate anger: chide your selfe,
You have divers men, who never yet exprest
Their strong desire of rest, but by unrest,
By vexing of themselves: Come, put your selfe
In tune.
Ferd.
So, I will onely study to seeme
The thing I am not: I could kill her now,
In you, or in my selfe, for I do thinke
It is some sinne in us, Heaven doth revenge
By her.
Card.
Are you starke mad?
Ferd.
I would have their bodies
Burn't in a coale-pit, with the ventage stop'd,
That their curs'd smoake might not ascend to Heaven:
Or dippe the sheetes they lie in, in pitch or sulphure,
Wrap them in't, and then light them like a match:
Or else to boile their Bastard to a cullisse,
And give't his leacherous father, to renew
The sinne of his backe.
Card.
I'll leave you.
Ferd.
Nay, I have done,
I am confident, had I bin damn'd in hell,
And
