The Tragedy of
Of Mad-men (Lady) which your Tyrant brother
Hath plac'd about your lodging: This tyranny,
I thinke was never practis'd till this howre.
Duch.
Indeed I thanke him: nothing but noyce, and folly
Can keepe me in my right wits, whereas reason
And silence, make me starke mad: Sit downe,
Discourse to me some dismall Tragedy.
Cari.
O 'twill encrease your mellancholly.
Duch.
Thou art deceiv'd,
To heare of greater griefe, would lessen mine,
This is a prison?
Cari.
Yes, but you shall live
To shake this durance off.
Duch.
Thou art a foole,
The Robin red-brest, and the Nightingale,
Never live long in cages.
Cari.
Pray drie your eyes.
What thinke you of Madam?
Duch.
Of nothing:
When I muse thus, I sleepe.
Cari.
Like a mad-man, with your eyes open?
Duch.
Do'st thou thinke we shall know one an other,
In th'other world?
Cari.
Yes, out of question.
Duch.
O that it were possible we might
But hold some two dayes conference with the dead.
From them, I should learne 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.
Th'heaven ore my head, seemes made of molton brasse.
The earth of flaming sulphure, yet I am not mad:
I am acquainted with sad misery,
As the tan'd galley-slave, is with his Oare,
Necessity makes me suffer constantly,
And custome makes it easie, who do I looke like now?
Cari.
Like to your picture in the gallery,
A deale of life in shew, but none in practise:
Or rather like some reverend monument
Whose ruines, are even pittied.
Duch.
Very proper:
And Fortune seemes onely to have her eie-sight,
To behold my Tragedy: How now,
What noyce is that?
Servant.
I am come to tell you,
Your
