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takes to he the real bodies ; after being prevented from taking rest or sleep b y the noise of maniacs , and the eventual introduction of them into the apartment , where they dance round her , according to their different degrees of disordered mind , with ic
music answerable thereto /'—Bosola enters , disguised as an old man , and the following scene ensues , which is quoted by the reviewer . If any man can bear metaphysical scrutiny , on great occasions , it is Webster * Let every line be looked into closely . " Enter Bosola to the Duchess ,
Duch . Is he mad too ? Bos . I am come to make thy tomb , Duch . Ha ! my tomb ? Thou speak ' st as if I lay upon my death-bed , Gasping for breath : dost thou perceive me sick r * Bos . Yes ; and the more dangerously , since thy sickness is insensible .
Duck . Thou art not mad , sure : dost know me } Bos . Yes . Duck . Who am I ? Bos . Thou art a box of woraiseed ; at best but a salvatory of green mummy . What ' s this flesh ? — a little crudded milk , fantastical puffpaste . Our bodies are weaker than those paper prisons boys use to
keep flies in *—more coutemptible , since ours is to preserve earthworms . Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage ? Such is ( he soul in the body : this world is like her little turf of grass ; and the heaven o ' er our heads , like her looking-glass , only gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of ' our prison . Duch . Am not I thy Duchess ?
Bos . Thou art some great woman , sure , for riot begins to sit on thy forehead ( clad in gray hairs ) twenty years sooner than on a merry milkmaid ' s . Thou sleepest worse than if a mouse should be forced to take up her lodging in a cat ' s ear ; a little infant that breeds its teeth , should it lie with thee , would cry out , as if thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow .
Duch . 1 am Duchess of Malfy still . Bos . That makes thy sleep so broken : Glories , like glow-worms , afar shine bright , But , look'd too near , have neither heat nor light , Duch . Thou art very plain . Bo m * My trade is to flatter the dead , not the living : I am a tomb-maker .
Dvch , And thou comest to make my tomb ? Bos ,. Yes ! Duck . Let me be a little merry : Of what stuff wilt thou make it ? Bbtf . Nay , resolve me first ; of what fashion ? Duch . Why , do we grow fantastical in our death-bed ? Do we it ( feet fashion in the grave ? Bos . Most ambitiously ! Princes' images on their tombs do not lie hs they were wont , seem ing- to pray up to heaven ; but with their
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f $ 9 The Louden Review v . Thi Brittih Drama .
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Citation
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Monthly Repository (1806-1838) and Unitarian Chronicle (1832-1833), April 2, 1836, page 238, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse.ac.uk/periodicals/mruc/issues/vm2-ncseproduct2656/page/46/
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