_Duch._ Thou art a fool, then, To waste thy pity on a thing so wretched As cannot pity itself. I am full of daggers. Puff, let me blow these vipers from me. _Enter_ Servant. What are you? _Serv._ One that wishes you long life. _Duch._ I would thou wert hanged for the horrible curse Thou hast given me: I shall shortly grow one Of the miracles of pity. I'll go pray;-- No, I'll go curse. _Bos._ O, fie! _Duch._ I could curse the stars. _Bos._ O, fearful. _Duch._ And those three smiling seasons of the year Into a Russian winter: nay, the world To its first chaos. _Bos._ Look you, the stars shine still. _Duch._ O, but you must Remember, my curse hath a great way to go.-- Plagues, that make lanes through largest families, Consume them!-- _Bos._ Fie, lady! _Duch._ Let them, like tyrants, Never be remembered but for the ill they have done; Let all the zealous prayers of mortified Churchmen forget them!-- _Bos._ O, uncharitable! _Duch._ Let Heaven a little while cease crowning martyrs To punish them!-- Go, howl them this, and say, I long to bleed: It is some mercy when men kill with speed. [_Exit._ _Re-enter_ FERDINAND. _Ferd._ Excellent, as I would wish; she's plagued in art: These presentations are but framed in wax By the curious master in that quality, Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them For true substantial bodies. _Bos._ Why do you do this? _Ferd._ To bring her to despair. _Bos._ Faith, end here, And go no farther in your cruelty: Send her a penitential garment to put on Next to her delicate skin, and furnish her With beads and prayer-books. _Ferd._ Damn her! that body of hers, While that my blood ran pure in't, was more worth Than that which thou wouldst comfort, called a soul. I will send her masks of common courtezans, Have her meat served up by bawds and ruffians, And, 'cause she'll needs be mad, I am resolved To remove 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' the moon: If she can sleep the better for it, let her. Your work is almost ended. _Bos._ Must I see her again? _Ferd._ Yes. _Bos._ Never. _Ferd._ You must. _Bos._ Never in mine own shape; That's forfeited by my intelligence And this last cruel lie: when you send me next, The business shall be comfort. _Ferd._ 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 never will slack till it have spent his fuel: Intemperate agues make physicians cruel. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II.--_Another Room in the_ DUCHESS' _Lodging_. _Enter_ DUCHESS _and_ CARIOLA. _Duch._ What hideous noise was that?