O, let us howl some heavy note, Some deadly doggèd howl, Sounding as from the threatening throat Of beasts and fatal fowl! As ravens, screech-owls, bulls, and bears, We'll bell, and bawl our parts, Till irksome noise have cloyed your ears And còrrosived your hearts. At last, whenas our quire wants breath, Our bodies being blest, We'll sing, like swans, to welcome death, And die in love and rest. _1st Madman._ Doom's-day not come yet! I'll draw it nearer by a perspective, or make a glass that shall set all the world on fire upon an instant. I cannot sleep; my pillow is stuffed with a litter of porcupines. _2nd Madman._ Hell is a mere glass-house, where the devils are continually blowing up women's souls on hollow irons, and the fire never goes out. _3rd Madman._ I will lie with every woman in my parish the tenth night; I will tythe them over like haycocks. _4th Madman._ Shall my pothecary out-go me because I am a cuckold? I have found out his roguery; he makes alum of his wife's urine, and sells it to Puritans that have sore throats with overstraining. _1st Madman._ I have skill in heraldry. _2nd Madman._ Hast? _1st Madman._ You do give for your crest a woodcock's head with the brains picked out on't; you are a very ancient gentleman. _3rd Madman._ Greek is turned Turk: we are only to be saved by the Helvetian translation. _1st Madman._ Come on, sir, I will lay the law to you. _2nd Madman._ O, rather lay a corrosive: the law will eat to the bone. _3rd Madman._ He that drinks but to satisfy nature is damned. _4th Madman._ If I had my glass here, I would show a sight should make all the women here call me mad doctor. _1st Madman._ What's he? a rope-maker? _2nd Madman._ No, no, no, a snuffling knave that, while he shows the tombs, will have his hand in a wench's placket. _3rd Madman._ Woe to the caroche[136] that brought home my wife from the masque at three o'clock in the morning! it had a large feather-bed in it. _4th Madman._ I have pared the devil's nails forty times, roasted them in raven's eggs, and cured agues with them. _3rd Madman._ Get me three hundred milchbats, to make possets to procure sleep. _4th Madman._ All the college may throw their caps at me: I have made a soap-boiler costive; it was my masterpiece. [_Here a dance of_ Eight Madmen, _with music answerable thereto; after which,_ BOSOLA, _like an_ Old Man, _enters._ _Duch._ Is he mad too? _Serv._ Pray, question him. I'll leave you. [_Exeunt_ Servant _and_ Madmen. _Bos._ I am come to make thy tomb. _Duch._ Ha! my tomb! Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my deathbed, Gasping for breath: dost thou perceive me sick? _Bos._ Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sickness is insensible. _Duch._ Thou art not mad, sure: dost know me? _Bos._ Yes. _Duch._ Who am I?