_Cari._ 'Tis the wild consort[135] Of madmen, lady, which your tyrant brother Hath placed about your lodging: this tyranny, I think, was never practised till this hour. _Duch._ 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. _Cari._ O, 'twill increase your melancholy. _Duch._ Thou art deceived: To hear of greater grief would lessen mine. This is a prison? _Cari._ Yes, but you shall live To shake this durance off. _Duch._ Thou art a fool: The robin-redbreast and the nightingale Never live long in cages. _Cari._ Pray, dry your eyes. What think you of, madam? _Duch._ Of nothing; When I muse thus, I sleep. _Cari._ Like a madman, with your eyes open? _Duch._ Dost thou think we shall know one another In the other world? _Cari._ Yes, out of question. _Duch._ 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: The 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 tanned galley-slave is with his oar; Necessity makes me suffer constantly, And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now? _Cari._ Like to your picture in the gallery, A deal of life in show, but none in practice; Or rather like some reverend monument Whose ruins are even pitied. _Duch._ Very proper; And Fortune seems only to have her eyesight To behold my tragedy.--How now! What noise is that? _Enter_ Servant. _Serv._ I am come to tell you Your brother hath intended you some sport. A great physician, when the Pope was sick Of a deep melancholy, presented him With several sorts of madmen, which wild object Being full of change and sport, forced him to laugh, And so the imposthume broke: the self-same cure The duke intends on you. _Duch._ Let them come in. _Serv._ There's a mad lawyer; and a secular priest; A doctor that hath forfeited his wits By jealousy; an astrologian That in his works said such a day o' the month Should be the day of doom, and, failing of't, Ran mad; an English tailor crazed i' the brain With the study of new fashions; a gentleman-usher Quite beside himself with care to keep in mind The number of his lady's salutations Or "How do you" she employed him in each morning; A farmer, too, an excellent knave in grain, Mad 'cause he was hindered transportation: And let one broker that's mad loose to these, You'd think the devil were among them. _Duch._ Sit, Cariola.--Let them loose when you please, For I am chained to endure all your tyranny. _Enter_ Madmen. _Here this Song is sung to a dismal kind of music by a_ Madman.