The Tragedy of the Dutchesse of Malfy/Act V, scene iii
SCENA. III.
Antonio, Delio, Eccho, (from the Dutchesse Grave.)
Del.
Yond's the Cardinall's window: This fortification
Grew from the ruines of an auncient Abbey:
And to yond side o'th' river, lies a wall
(Peecə of a Cloyster) which in my opinion
Gives the best Eccho, that you ever heard;
So hollow, and so dismall, and withall
So plaine in the destinction of our words,
That many have supposde it is a Spirit
That answeres.
Ant.
I doe love these auncient ruynes:
We never tread upon them, but we set
Our foote upon some reverend History,
And questionles, here in this open Court
(Which now lies naked to the injuries
Of stormy weather) some men lye Enterr'd
Lov'd the Church so well, and gave so largely to't,
They thought it should have canopide their Bones
Till Doombes-day: But all things have their end:
Churches, and Citties (which have diseases like to men)
Must have like death that we have.
Eccho.
Like death that we have.
Del.
Now the Eccho hath caught you:
Ant.
It groan'd (me thought) and gave
A very deadly Accent?
Eccho.
Deadly Accent.
Del.
I told you 'twas a pretty one: You may make it
A Huntes-man, or a Faulconer, a Musitian,
Or a Thing of Sorrow.
Eccho.
A Thing of Sorrow.
Ant.
I sure: that suites it best.
Eccho.
That suites it best.
Ant.
'Tis very like my wives voyce.
Eccho.
I, wifes-voyce.
Del.
Come: let's us walk farther from't.
I Would not have you go toth' Cardinalls to night:
Doe not.
Eccho.
Doe not.
Del.
Wisdome doth not more moderate, wasting Sorrow
Then time: take time for't: be mindfull of thy safety.
Eccho.
Be mindfull of the safety.
Ant.
Necessitie compells me:
Make scruteny throughout the passes
Of your owne life; you'll find it impossible
To flye your fate.
O flye your fate.
Del.
Harke: the dead stones seeme to have pitty on you
And give you good counsell.
Ant.
Eccho, I will not talk with thee;
For thou art a dead Thing.
Eccho.
Thou art a dead Thing.
Ant.
My Dutchess is asleepe now,
And her litle-Ones, I hope sweetly: oh Heaven
Shall I never see her more?
Eccho.
Never see her more:
Ant.
I mark'd not one repetition of the Eccho
But that; and on the sudden, a cleare light
Presented me a face folded in sorrow.
Del.
Your fancy; meerely.
Ant.
Come, I'll be out of this Ague;
For to live thus, is not indeed to live:
It is a mockery and abuse of life,
I will not henceforth save my selfe by halves,
Loose all, or nothing.
Del.
Your owne vertue save you:
I'll fetch your eldest sonne; and second you:
It may be that the sight of his owne blood
Spred in so sweet a figure, may beget
The more compassion.
How ever, fare you well:
Though in our miseries, Fortune have a part,
Yet, in our noble suffrings, she hath none,
Contempt of paine, that we may call our owne.Exe.