FERDINAND. Damn her! that body of hers. While that my blood run pure in 't, was more worth Than that which thou wouldst comfort, call'd a soul. I will send her masques of common courtezans, Have her meat serv'd up by bawds and ruffians, And, 'cause she 'll needs be mad, I am resolv'd To move forth the common hospital All the mad-folk, and place them near her lodging; There let them practise together, sing and dance, And act their gambols to the full o' th' moon: If she can sleep the better for it, let her. Your work is almost ended. BOSOLA. Must I see her again? FERDINAND. Yes. BOSOLA. Never. FERDINAND. You must. BOSOLA. Never in mine own shape; That 's forfeited by my intelligence[103] And this last cruel lie: when you send me next, The business shall be comfort. FERDINAND. Very likely; Thy pity is nothing of kin to thee, Antonio Lurks about Milan: thou shalt shortly thither, To feed a fire as great as my revenge, Which nev'r will slack till it hath spent his fuel: Intemperate agues make physicians cruel. Exeunt. Scene II[104] [Enter] DUCHESS and CARIOLA DUCHESS. What hideous noise was that? CARIOLA. 'Tis the wild consort[105] Of madmen, lady, which your tyrant brother Hath plac'd about your lodging. This tyranny, I think, was never practis'd till this hour. DUCHESS. Indeed, I thank him. Nothing but noise and folly Can keep me in my right wits; whereas reason And silence make me stark mad. Sit down; Discourse to me some dismal tragedy. CARIOLA. O, 'twill increase your melancholy! DUCHESS. Thou art deceiv'd: To hear of greater grief would lessen mine. This is a prison? CARIOLA. Yes, but you shall live To shake this durance off. DUCHESS. Thou art a fool: The robin-red-breast and the nightingale Never live long in cages. CARIOLA. Pray, dry your eyes. What think you of, madam? DUCHESS. Of nothing; When I muse thus, I sleep. CARIOLA. Like a madman, with your eyes open? DUCHESS. Dost thou think we shall know one another In th' other world? CARIOLA. Yes, out of question. DUCHESS. O, that it were possible we might But hold some two days' conference with the dead! ]From them I should learn somewhat, I am sure, I never shall know here. I 'll tell thee a miracle: I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow: Th' heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass, The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad. I am acquainted with sad misery As the tann'd galley-slave is with his oar; Necessity makes me suffer constantly, And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now?