The Tragedy of
Duch.
And thou com'st to make my tombe?
Bos.
Yes.
Duch.
Let me be a little merry,
Of what stuffe wilt thou make it?
Bos.
Nay, resolve me first, of what fashion?
Duch.
Why, do we grow phantasticall in our death-bed?
Do we affect fashion in the grave?
Bos.
Most ambitiously: Princes images on their tombes,
Do not lie, as they were wont, seeming to pray,
Up to heaven: but with their hands under their cheekes,
(As if they died of the tooth-ache) they are not carved
With their eies, fix'd upon the starres; but as their
Mindes were wholy bent upon the world,
The selfe-same way they seeme to turne their faces.
Duch.
Let me know fully therefore the effect
Of this thy dismall preparation,
This talke, fit for a charnell?
Bos.
Now, I shall,
Here is a present from your Princely brothers, A Coffin, Cords, and a Bell.
And may it arrive wel-come, for it brings
Last benefit, last sorrow.
Duch.
Let me see it,
I have so much obedience, in my blood,
I wish it in ther veines, to do them good.
Bos.
This is your last presence Chamber.
Cari.
O my sweete Lady.
Duch.
Peace, it affrights not me.
Bos.
I am the common Bell-man,
That usually is sent to condemn'd persons.
The night before they suffer:
Duch
Even now thou said'st,
Thou wast a tombe-maker?
Bos.
'Twas to bring you
By degrees to mortification: Listen.
Hearke, now every thing is still,
The Schritch-Owle, and the whistler shrill,
Call upon our Dame, aloud,
And bid her quickly don her shrowd:
Much
