Scene II

Now, doctor, may I visit your patient?

If’t please your lordship; but he’s instantly
To take the air here in the gallery
By my direction.

Pray thee, what’s his disease?

A very pestilent disease, my lord,
They call lycanthropiathe belief that one has become a wolf, as the Doctor describes it here.

What’s that?
I need a dictionary to’t.

I’ll tell you.
In those that are possess’d with’t there o’erflows
Such melancholy humour they imagine
Themselves to be transformed into wolves;
Steal forth to churchyards in the dead of night,
And dig dead bodies up: as two nights since
One met the duke ’bout midnight in a lane
Behind Saint Mark’s church, with the leg of a man
Upon his shoulder; and he howl’d fearfully;
Said he was a wolf, only the difference
Was, a wolf’s skin was hairy on the outside,
His on the inside; bade them take their swords,
Rip up his flesh, and try. Straight I was sent for,
And, having minister’d to him, found his grace
Very well recover’d.

I am glad on’t.

Yet not without some fear
Of a relapse. If he grow to his fit again,
I’ll go a nearer way to work with him
Than ever Paracelsus dream’d of; if
They’ll give me leave, I’ll buffet his madness out of him.
Stand aside; he comes.

Now let me come to him.⁠—Are you mad, my lord?

What’s he?

Your doctor.

Doctor, he did not fear you thoroughly.

True; I was somewhat too forward.

Mercy upon me, what a fatal judgment
Hath fall’n upon this Ferdinand!

Knows your grace
What accident hath brought unto the prince
This strange distraction?

Aside. I must feign somewhat.⁠—Thus they say it grew.
You have heard it rumour’d, for these many years
None of our family dies but there is seen
The shape of an old woman, which is given
By tradition to us to have been murder’d
By her nephews for her riches. Such a figure
One night, as the prince sat up late at’s book,
Appear’d to him; when crying out for help,
The gentleman of’s chamber found his grace
All on a cold sweat, alter’d much in face
And language: since which apparition,
He hath grown worse and worse, and I much fear
He cannot live.

Sir, I would speak with you.

We’ll leave your grace,
Wishing to the sick prince, our noble lord,
All health of mind and body.

You are most welcome.

Are you come? so.⁠—Aside. This fellow must not know
By any means I had intelligence
In our duchess’ death; for, though I counsell’d it,
The full of all th’ engagement seem’d to grow
From Ferdinand.⁠—Now, sir, how fares our sister?
I do not think but sorrow makes her look
Like to an oft-dy’d garment: she shall now
Take comfort from me. Why do you look so wildly?
O, the fortune of your master here the prince
Dejects you; but be you of happy comfort:
If you’ll do one thing for me I’ll entreat,
Though he had a cold tombstone o’er his bones,
I’d make you what you would be.

Anything;
Give it me in a breath, and let me fly to’t.
They that think long small expedition win,
For musing much o’ th’ end cannot begin.

Sir, will you come into supper?

I am busy; leave me.

Aside. What an excellent shape hath that fellow!

’Tis thus. Antonio lurks here in Milan:
Inquire him out, and kill him. While he lives,
Our sister cannot marry; and I have thought
Of an excellent match for her. Do this, and style me
Thy advancement.

But by what means shall I find him out?

There is a gentleman call’d Delio
Here in the camp, that hath been long approv’d
His loyal friend. Set eye upon that fellow;
Follow him to mass; may be Antonio,
Although he do account religion
But a school-name, for fashion of the world
May accompany him; or else go inquire out
Delio’s confessor, and see if you can bribe
Him to reveal it. There are a thousand ways
A man might find to trace him; as to know
What fellows haunt the Jews for taking up
Great sums of money, for sure he’s in want;
Or else to go to the picture-makers, and learn
Who bought115 her picture lately: some of these
Happily may take.

Well, I’ll not freeze i’ th’ business:
I would see that wretched thing, Antonio,
Above all sights i’ th’ world.

Do, and be happy.

This fellow doth breed basilisks in’s eyes,
He’s nothing else but murder; yet he seems
Not to have notice of the duchess’ death.
’Tis his cunning: I must follow his example;
There cannot be a surer way to trace
Than that of an old fox.

So, sir, you are well met.

How Now!

Nay, the doors are fast enough:
Now, sir, I will make you confess your treachery.

Treachery!

Yes, confess to me
Which of my women ’twas you hir’d to put
Love-powder into my drink?

Love-powder!

Yes, when I was at Malfi.
Why should I fall in love with such a face else?
I have already suffer’d for thee so much pain,
The only remedy to do me good
Is to kill my longing.

Sure, your pistol holds
Nothing but perfumes or kissing-comfits.116
Excellent lady!
You have a pretty way on’t to discover
Your longing. Come, come, I’ll disarm you,
And arm you thus: yet this is wondrous strange.

Compare thy form and my eyes together,
You’ll find my love no such great miracle.
Now you’ll say
I am wanton: this nice modesty in ladies
Is but a troublesome familiar
That haunts them.

Know you me, I am a blunt soldier.

The better:
Sure, there wants fire where there are no lively sparks
Of roughness.

And I want compliment.

Why, ignorance
In courtship cannot make you do amiss,
If you have a heart to do well.

You are very fair.

Nay, if you lay beauty to my charge,
I must plead unguilty.

Your bright eyes
Carry a quiver of darts in them sharper
Than sunbeams.

You will mar me with commendation,
Put yourself to the charge of courting me,
Whereas now I woo you.

Aside. I have it, I will work upon this creature.⁠—
Let us grow most amorously familiar:
If the great cardinal now should see me thus,
Would he not count me a villain?

No; he might count me a wanton,
Not lay a scruple of offence on you;
For if I see and steal a diamond,
The fault is not i’ th’ stone, but in me the thief
That purloins it. I am sudden with you.
We that are great women of pleasure use to cut off
These uncertain wishes and unquiet longings,
And in an instant join the sweet delight
And the pretty excuse together. Had you been i’ th’ street,
Under my chamber-window, even there
I should have courted you.

O, you are an excellent lady!

Bid me do somewhat for you presently
To express I love you.

I will; and if you love me,
Fail not to effect it.
The cardinal is grown wondrous melancholy;
Demand the cause, let him not put you off
With feign’d excuse; discover the main ground on’t.

Why would you know this?

I have depended on him,
And I hear that he is fall’n in some disgrace
With the emperor: if he be, like the mice
That forsake falling houses, I would shift
To other dependance.

You shall not need
Follow the wars: I’ll be your maintenance.

And I your loyal servant: but I cannot
Leave my calling.

Not leave an ungrateful
General for the love of a sweet lady!
You are like some cannot sleep in featherbeds,
But must have blocks for their pillows.

Will you do this?

Cunningly.

Tomorrow I’ll expect th’ intelligence.

Tomorrow! get you into my cabinet;
You shall have it with you. Do not delay me,
No more than I do you: I am like one
That is condemn’d; I have my pardon promis’d,
But I would see it seal’d. Go, get you in:
You shall see my wind my tongue about his heart
Like a skein of silk.

Where are you?

Here.

Let none, upon your lives, have conference
With the Prince Ferdinand, unless I know it.⁠—
Aside. In this distraction he may reveal
The murder.

Yond’s my lingering consumption:
I am weary of her, and by any means
Would be quit of.

How now, my lord! what ails you?

Nothing.

O, you are much alter’d:
Come, I must be your secretary, and remove
This lead from off your bosom: what’s the matter?

I may not tell you.

Are you so far in love with sorrow
You cannot part with part of it? Or think you
I cannot love your grace when you are sad
As well as merry? Or do you suspect
I, that have been a secret to your heart
These many winters, cannot be the same
Unto your tongue?

Satisfy thy longing⁠—
The only way to make thee keep my counsel
Is, not to tell thee.

Tell your echo this,
Or flatterers, that like echoes still report
What they hear though most imperfect, and not me;
For if that you be true unto yourself,
I’ll know.

Will you rack me?

No, judgment shall
Draw it from you: it is an equal fault,
To tell one’s secrets unto all or none.

The first argues folly.

But the last tyranny.

Very well: why, imagine I have committed
Some secret deed which I desire the world
May never hear of.

Therefore may not I know it?
You have conceal’d for me as great a sin
As adultery. Sir, never was occasion
For perfect trial of my constancy
Till now: sir, I beseech you⁠—

You’ll repent it.

Never.

It hurries thee to ruin: I’ll not tell thee.
Be well advis’d, and think what danger ’tis
To receive a prince’s secrets. They that do,
Had need have their breasts hoop’d with adamantan imagined substance of extreme hardness
To contain them. I pray thee, yet be satisfi’d;
Examine thine own frailty; ’tis more easy
To tie knots than unloose them. ’Tis a secret
That, like a ling’ring poison, may chance lie
Spread in thy veins, and kill thee seven year hence.

Now you dally with me.

No more; thou shalt know it.
By my appointment the great Duchess of Malfi
And two of her young children, four nights since,
Were strangl’d.

O heaven! sir, what have you done!

How now? How settles this? Think you your bosom
Will be a grave dark and obscure enough
For such a secret?

You have undone yourself, sir.

Why?

It lies not in me to conceal it.

No?
Come, I will swear you to’t upon this book.

Most religiously.

Kiss it. She kisses the book.

Now you shall never utter it; thy curiosity
Hath undone thee; thou ’rt poison’d with that book.
Because I knew thou couldst not keep my counsel,
I have bound thee to’t by death.

For pity-sake, hold!

Ha, Bosola!

I forgive you
This equal piece of justice you have done;
For I betray’d your counsel to that fellow.
He overheard it; that was the cause I said
It lay not in me to conceal it.

O foolish woman,
Couldst not thou have poison’d him?

’Tis weakness,
Too much to think what should have been done. I go,
I know not whither. Dies.

Wherefore com’st thou hither?

That I might find a great man like yourself,
Not out of his wits, as the Lord Ferdinand,
To remember my service.

I’ll have thee hew’d in pieces.

Make not yourself such a promise of that life
Which is not yours to dispose of.

Who plac’d thee here?

Her lust, as she intended.

Very well:
Now you know me for your fellow-murderer.

And wherefore should you lay fair marble colours
Upon your rotten purposes to me?
Unless you imitate some that do plot great treasons,
And when they have done, go hide themselves i’ th’ grave
Of those were actors in’t?

No more; there is
A fortune attends thee.

Shall I go sue to Fortune any longer?
’Tis the fool’s pilgrimage.

I have honours in store for thee.

There are a many ways that conduct to seeming
Honour, and some of them very dirty ones.

Throw to the devil
Thy melancholy. The fire burns well;
What need we keep a stirring of’t, and make
A greater smother?117 Thou wilt kill Antonio?

Yes.

Take up that body.

I think I shall
Shortly grow the common biera frame used to carry a dead body for churchyards.

I will allow thee some dozen of attendants
To aid thee in the murder.

Come to me after midnight, to help to remove
That body to her own lodging. I’ll give out
She died o’ th’ plague; ’twill breed the less inquiry
After her death.

Where’s Castruccio her husband?

He’s rode to Naples, to take possession
Of Antonio’s citadel.

Believe me, you have done a very happy turn.

Fail not to come. There is the master-key
Of our lodgings; and by that you may conceive
What trust I plant in you.

You shall find me ready.

O poor Antonio, though nothing be so needful
To thy estate as pity, yet I find
Nothing so dangerous! I must look to my footing:
In such slippery ice-pavements men had need
To be frost-nail’d well, they may break their necks else;
The precedent’s here afore me. How this man
Bears up in blood! seems fearless! Why, ’tis well;
Security some men call the suburbs of hell,
Only a dead wall between. Well, good Antonio,
I’ll seek thee out; and all my care shall be
To put thee into safety from the reach
Of these most cruel biters that have got
Some of thy blood already. It may be,
I’ll join with thee in a most just revenge.
The weakest arm is strong enough that strikes
With the sword of justice. Still methinks the duchess
Haunts me: there, there!⁠—’Tis nothing but my melancholy.
O Penitence, let me truly taste thy cup,
That throws men down only to raise them up!