The Tragedy of
Art: this grafting.
Duch.
'Tis so: a bettring of nature.
Bos.
To make a pippin grow upon a crab,
A dampson on a black thorne: how greedily she eats them?
A whirlewinde strike off these bawd-farthingalls,
For, but for that, and the loose-bodied gowne,
I should have discover'd apparently
The young spring-hall cutting a caper in her belly.
Duch.
I thanke you (Bosola:) they were right good ones,
If they doe not make me sicke.
Ant.
How now Madame?
Duch.
This greene fruit: and my stomake are not friends
How they swell me?
Bos.
Nay, you are too much swell'd already.
Duch.
Oh, I am in an extreame cold sweat.
Bos.
I am very sorry:
Duch.
Lights to my chamber: O, good Antonio,
I feare I am undone. Exit Duchesse.
Del.
Lights there, lights.
Ant.
O my most trusty Delio, we are lost:
I feare she's falne in labour: and ther's left
No time for her remove.
Del.
Have you prepar'd
Those Ladies to attend her? and procur'd
That politique safe conveyance for the Mid-wife
Your Dutchesse plotted.
Ant.
I have:
Del.
Make use then of this forc'd occasion:
Give out that Bosola hath poyson'd her,
With these Apricocks: that will give some colour
For her keeping close.
Ant.
Fye, fie, the Physitians
Will then flocke to her.
Del.
For that you may pretend
She'll use some prepar'd Antidote of her owne,
Least the Physitians should repoyson her.
Ant.
I am lost in amazement: I know not what to think on't.Ex.
SCEN.
