FOURTH MADMAN. If I had my glass here, I would show a sight should make all the women here call me mad doctor. FIRST MADMAN. What 's he? a rope-maker? SECOND MADMAN. No, no, no, a snuffling knave that, while he shows the tombs, will have his hand in a wench's placket.[112] THIRD MADMAN. Woe to the caroche[113] that brought home my wife from the masque at three o'clock in the morning! It had a large feather-bed in it. FOURTH MADMAN. I have pared the devil's nails forty times, roasted them in raven's eggs, and cured agues with them. THIRD MADMAN. Get me three hundred milch-bats, to make possets[114] to procure sleep. FOURTH MADMAN. All the college may throw their caps at me: I have made a soap-boiler costive; it was my masterpiece. Here the dance, consisting of Eight Madmen, with music answerable thereunto; after which, BOSOLA, like an old man, enters. DUCHESS. Is he mad too? SERVANT. Pray, question him. I 'll leave you. [Exeunt Servant and Madmen.] BOSOLA. I am come to make thy tomb. DUCHESS. Ha! my tomb! Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death-bed, Gasping for breath. Dost thou perceive me sick? BOSOLA. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sickness is insensible. DUCHESS. Thou art not mad, sure: dost know me? BOSOLA. Yes. DUCHESS. Who am I? BOSOLA. Thou art a box of worm-seed, at best but a salvatory[115] of green mummy.[116] What 's this flesh? a little crudded[117] milk, fantastical puff-paste. Our bodies are weaker than those paper- prisons boys use to keep flies in; more contemptible, since ours is to preserve earth-worms. Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage? Such is the 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. DUCHESS. Am not I thy duchess? BOSOLA. 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 milk-maid'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. DUCHESS. I am Duchess of Malfi still. BOSOLA. That makes thy sleep so broken: Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright, But, look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. DUCHESS. Thou art very plain. BOSOLA. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living; I am a tomb-maker. DUCHESS. And thou comest to make my tomb? BOSOLA. Yes. DUCHESS. Let me be a little merry:--of what stuff wilt thou make it? BOSOLA. Nay, resolve me first, of what fashion?