DUCHESS. Why, do we grow fantastical on our deathbed? Do we affect fashion in the grave? BOSOLA. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not lie, as they were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven; but with their hands under their cheeks, as if they died of the tooth-ache. They are not carved with their eyes fix'd upon the stars, but as their minds were wholly bent upon the world, the selfsame way they seem to turn their faces. DUCHESS. Let me know fully therefore the effect Of this thy dismal preparation, This talk fit for a charnel. BOSOLA. Now I shall:-- [Enter Executioners, with] a coffin, cords, and a bell Here is a present from your princely brothers; And may it arrive welcome, for it brings Last benefit, last sorrow. DUCHESS. Let me see it: I have so much obedience in my blood, I wish it in their veins to do them good. BOSOLA. This is your last presence-chamber. CARIOLA. O my sweet lady! DUCHESS. Peace; it affrights not me. BOSOLA. I am the common bellman That usually is sent to condemn'd persons The night before they suffer. DUCHESS. Even now thou said'st Thou wast a tomb-maker. BOSOLA. 'Twas to bring you By degrees to mortification. Listen. Hark, now everything is still, The screech-owl and the whistler shrill Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly don her shroud! Much you had of land and rent; Your length in clay 's now competent: A long war disturb'd your mind; Here your perfect peace is sign'd. Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping? Sin their conception, their birth weeping, Their life a general mist of error, Their death a hideous storm of terror. Strew your hair with powders sweet, Don clean linen, bathe your feet, And (the foul fiend more to check) A crucifix let bless your neck. 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day; End your groan, and come away. CARIOLA. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers! Alas! What will you do with my lady?--Call for help! DUCHESS. To whom? To our next neighbours? They are mad-folks. BOSOLA. Remove that noise. DUCHESS. Farewell, Cariola. In my last will I have not much to give: A many hungry guests have fed upon me; Thine will be a poor reversion. CARIOLA. I will die with her. DUCHESS. I pray thee, look thou giv'st my little boy Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl Say her prayers ere she sleep. [Cariola is forced out by the Executioners.] Now what you please: What death? BOSOLA. Strangling; here are your executioners. DUCHESS. I forgive them: The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' th' lungs, Would do as much as they do. BOSOLA. Doth not death fright you?