Scene II

       [Enter] DUCHESS, ANTONIO, and CARIOLA

  DUCHESS.  Bring me the casket hither, and the glass.--
  You get no lodging here to-night, my lord.

  ANTONIO.  Indeed, I must persuade one.

  DUCHESS.                                Very good:
  I hope in time 'twill grow into a custom,
  That noblemen shall come with cap and knee
  To purchase a night's lodging of their wives.

  ANTONIO.  I must lie here.

  DUCHESS.                    Must!  You are a lord of mis-rule.

  ANTONIO.  Indeed, my rule is only in the night.

  DUCHESS.  I 'll stop your mouth.
       [Kisses him.]

  ANTONIO.  Nay, that 's but one; Venus had two soft doves
  To draw her chariot; I must have another.--
       [She kisses him again.]
  When wilt thou marry, Cariola?

  CARIOLA.                        Never, my lord.

  ANTONIO.  O, fie upon this single life! forgo it.
  We read how Daphne, for her peevish [flight,][80]
  Became a fruitless bay-tree; Syrinx turn'd
  To the pale empty reed; Anaxarete
  Was frozen into marble:  whereas those
  Which married, or prov'd kind unto their friends,
  Were by a gracious influence transhap'd
  Into the olive, pomegranate, mulberry,
  Became flowers, precious stones, or eminent stars.

  CARIOLA.  This is a vain poetry:  but I pray you, tell me,
  If there were propos'd me, wisdom, riches, and beauty,
  In three several young men, which should I choose?

  ANTONIO.  'Tis a hard question.  This was Paris' case,
  And he was blind in 't, and there was a great cause;
  For how was 't possible he could judge right,
  Having three amorous goddesses in view,
  And they stark naked?  'Twas a motion
  Were able to benight the apprehension
  Of the severest counsellor of Europe.
  Now I look on both your faces so well form'd,
  It puts me in mind of a question I would ask.

  CARIOLA.  What is 't?

  ANTONIO.               I do wonder why hard-favour'd ladies,
  For the most part, keep worse-favour'd waiting-women
  To attend them, and cannot endure fair ones.

  DUCHESS.  O, that 's soon answer'd.
  Did you ever in your life know an ill painter
  Desire to have his dwelling next door to the shop
  Of an excellent picture-maker?  'Twould disgrace
  His face-making, and undo him.  I prithee,
  When were we so merry?--My hair tangles.

  ANTONIO.  Pray thee, Cariola, let 's steal forth the room,
  And let her talk to herself:  I have divers times
  Serv'd her the like, when she hath chaf'd extremely.
  I love to see her angry.  Softly, Cariola.
       Exeunt [ANTONIO and CARIOLA.]

  DUCHESS.  Doth not the colour of my hair 'gin to change?
  When I wax gray, I shall have all the court
  Powder their hair with arras,[81] to be like me.
  You have cause to love me; I ent'red you into my heart
       [Enter FERDINAND unseen]
  Before you would vouchsafe to call for the keys.
  We shall one day have my brothers take you napping.
  Methinks his presence, being now in court,
  Should make you keep your own bed; but you 'll say
  Love mix'd with fear is sweetest.  I 'll assure you,
  You shall get no more children till my brothers
  Consent to be your gossips.  Have you lost your tongue?
  'Tis welcome:
  For know, whether I am doom'd to live or die,
  I can do both like a prince.

  FERDINAND.                    Die, then, quickly!
       Giving her a poniard.
  Virtue, where art thou hid?  What hideous thing
  Is it that doth eclipse thee?

  DUCHESS.                       Pray, sir, hear me.

  FERDINAND.  Or is it true thou art but a bare name,
  And no essential thing?

  DUCHESS.                 Sir----

  FERDINAND.                        Do not speak.

  DUCHESS.  No, sir:
  I will plant my soul in mine ears, to hear you.

  FERDINAND.  O most imperfect light of human reason,
  That mak'st [us] so unhappy to foresee
  What we can least prevent!  Pursue thy wishes,
  And glory in them:  there 's in shame no comfort
  But to be past all bounds and sense of shame.

  DUCHESS.  I pray, sir, hear me:  I am married.

  FERDINAND.                                      So!

  DUCHESS.  Happily, not to your liking:  but for that,
  Alas, your shears do come untimely now
  To clip the bird's wings that 's already flown!
  Will you see my husband?

  FERDINAND.                Yes, if I could change
  Eyes with a basilisk.

  DUCHESS.               Sure, you came hither
  By his confederacy.

  FERDINAND.           The howling of a wolf
  Is music to thee, screech-owl:  prithee, peace.--
  Whate'er thou art that hast enjoy'd my sister,
  For I am sure thou hear'st me, for thine own sake
  Let me not know thee.  I came hither prepar'd
  To work thy discovery; yet am now persuaded
  It would beget such violent effects
  As would damn us both.  I would not for ten millions
  I had beheld thee:  therefore use all means
  I never may have knowledge of thy name;
  Enjoy thy lust still, and a wretched life,
  On that condition.--And for thee, vile woman,
  If thou do wish thy lecher may grow old
  In thy embracements, I would have thee build
  Such a room for him as our anchorites
  To holier use inhabit.  Let not the sun
  Shine on him till he 's dead; let dogs and monkeys
  Only converse with him, and such dumb things
  To whom nature denies use to sound his name;
  Do not keep a paraquito, lest she learn it;
  If thou do love him, cut out thine own tongue,
  Lest it bewray him.

  DUCHESS.             Why might not I marry?
  I have not gone about in this to create
  Any new world or custom.

  FERDINAND.                Thou art undone;
  And thou hast ta'en that massy sheet of lead
  That hid thy husband's bones, and folded it
  About my heart.

  DUCHESS.         Mine bleeds for 't.

  FERDINAND.                            Thine! thy heart!
  What should I name 't unless a hollow bullet
  Fill'd with unquenchable wild-fire?

  DUCHESS.                             You are in this
  Too strict; and were you not my princely brother,
  I would say, too wilful:  my reputation
  Is safe.

  FERDINAND.  Dost thou know what reputation is?
  I 'll tell thee,--to small purpose, since the instruction
  Comes now too late.
  Upon a time Reputation, Love, and Death,
  Would travel o'er the world; and it was concluded
  That they should part, and take three several ways.
  Death told them, they should find him in great battles,
  Or cities plagu'd with plagues:  Love gives them counsel
  To inquire for him 'mongst unambitious shepherds,
  Where dowries were not talk'd of, and sometimes
  'Mongst quiet kindred that had nothing left
  By their dead parents:  'Stay,' quoth Reputation,
  'Do not forsake me; for it is my nature,
  If once I part from any man I meet,
  I am never found again.' And so for you:
  You have shook hands with Reputation,
  And made him invisible.  So, fare you well:
  I will never see you more.

  DUCHESS.                    Why should only I,
  Of all the other princes of the world,
  Be cas'd up, like a holy relic?  I have youth
  And a little beauty.

  FERDINAND.            So you have some virgins
  That are witches.  I will never see thee more.
       Exit.

       Re-enter ANTONIO with a pistol, [and CARIOLA]

  DUCHESS.  You saw this apparition?

  ANTONIO.                            Yes:  we are
  Betray'd.  How came he hither?  I should turn
  This to thee, for that.

  CARIOLA.                 Pray, sir, do; and when
  That you have cleft my heart, you shall read there
  Mine innocence.

  DUCHESS.         That gallery gave him entrance.

  ANTONIO.  I would this terrible thing would come again,
  That, standing on my guard, I might relate
  My warrantable love.--
       (She shows the poniard.)
                          Ha! what means this?

  DUCHESS.  He left this with me.

  ANTONIO.                         And it seems did wish
  You would use it on yourself.

  DUCHESS.                       His action seem'd
  To intend so much.

  ANTONIO.            This hath a handle to 't,
  As well as a point:  turn it towards him, and
  So fasten the keen edge in his rank gall.
       [Knocking within.]
  How now! who knocks?  More earthquakes?

  DUCHESS.                                 I stand
  As if a mine beneath my feet were ready
  To be blown up.

  CARIOLA.         'Tis Bosola.

  DUCHESS.                       Away!
  O misery! methinks unjust actions
  Should wear these masks and curtains, and not we.
  You must instantly part hence:  I have fashion'd it already.
       Exit ANTONIO.

       Enter BOSOLA

  BOSOLA.  The duke your brother is ta'en up in a whirlwind;
  Hath took horse, and 's rid post to Rome.

  DUCHESS.                                   So late?

  BOSOLA.  He told me, as he mounted into the saddle,
  You were undone.

  DUCHESS.          Indeed, I am very near it.

  BOSOLA.  What 's the matter?

  DUCHESS.  Antonio, the master of our household,
  Hath dealt so falsely with me in 's accounts.
  My brother stood engag'd with me for money
  Ta'en up of certain Neapolitan Jews,
  And Antonio lets the bonds be forfeit.

  BOSOLA.  Strange!--[Aside.] This is cunning.

  DUCHESS.  And hereupon
  My brother's bills at Naples are protested
  Against.--Call up our officers.

  BOSOLA.                          I shall.
       Exit.

       [Re-enter ANTONIO]

  DUCHESS.  The place that you must fly to is Ancona:
  Hire a house there; I 'll send after you
  My treasure and my jewels.  Our weak safety
  Runs upon enginous wheels:[82] short syllables
  Must stand for periods.  I must now accuse you
  Of such a feigned crime as Tasso calls
  Magnanima menzogna, a noble lie,
  'Cause it must shield our honours.--Hark! they are coming.

       [Re-enter BOSOLA and Officers]

  ANTONIO.  Will your grace hear me?

  DUCHESS.  I have got well by you; you have yielded me
  A million of loss:  I am like to inherit
  The people's curses for your stewardship.
  You had the trick in audit-time to be sick,
  Till I had sign'd your quietus;[83] and that cur'd you
  Without help of a doctor.--Gentlemen,
  I would have this man be an example to you all;
  So shall you hold my favour; I pray, let him;
  For h'as done that, alas, you would not think of,
  And, because I intend to be rid of him,
  I mean not to publish.--Use your fortune elsewhere.

  ANTONIO.  I am strongly arm'd to brook my overthrow,
  As commonly men bear with a hard year.
  I will not blame the cause on 't; but do think
  The necessity of my malevolent star
  Procures this, not her humour.  O, the inconstant
  And rotten ground of service!  You may see,
  'Tis even like him, that in a winter night,
  Takes a long slumber o'er a dying fire,
  A-loth to part from 't; yet parts thence as cold
  As when he first sat down.

  DUCHESS.                    We do confiscate,
  Towards the satisfying of your accounts,
  All that you have.

  ANTONIO.            I am all yours; and 'tis very fit
  All mine should be so.

  DUCHESS.                So, sir, you have your pass.

  ANTONIO.  You may see, gentlemen, what 'tis to serve
  A prince with body and soul.
       Exit.

  BOSOLA.  Here 's an example for extortion:  what moisture is drawn
  out of the sea, when foul weather comes, pours down, and runs into
  the sea again.

  DUCHESS.  I would know what are your opinions
  Of this Antonio.

  SECOND OFFICER.  He could not abide to see a pig's head gaping:
  I thought your grace would find him a Jew.

  THIRD OFFICER.  I would you had been his officer, for your own sake.

  FOURTH OFFICER.  You would have had more money.

  FIRST OFFICER.  He stopped his ears with black wool, and to those came
  to him for money said he was thick of hearing.

  SECOND OFFICER.  Some said he was an hermaphrodite, for he could not
  abide a woman.

  FOURTH OFFICER.  How scurvy proud he would look when the treasury
  was full!  Well, let him go.

  FIRST OFFICER.  Yes, and the chippings of the buttery fly after him,
  to scour his gold chain.[84]

  DUCHESS.  Leave us.
       Exeunt [Officers.]
  What do you think of these?

  BOSOLA.  That these are rogues that in 's prosperity,
  But to have waited on his fortune, could have wish'd
  His dirty stirrup riveted through their noses,
  And follow'd after 's mule, like a bear in a ring;
  Would have prostituted their daughters to his lust;
  Made their first-born intelligencers;[85] thought none happy
  But such as were born under his blest planet,
  And wore his livery:  and do these lice drop off now?
  Well, never look to have the like again:
  He hath left a sort[86] of flattering rogues behind him;
  Their doom must follow.  Princes pay flatterers
  In their own money:  flatterers dissemble their vices,
  And they dissemble their lies; that 's justice.
  Alas, poor gentleman!

  DUCHESS.  Poor! he hath amply fill'd his coffers.

  BOSOLA.  Sure, he was too honest.  Pluto,[87] the god of riches,
  When he 's sent by Jupiter to any man,
  He goes limping, to signify that wealth
  That comes on God's name comes slowly; but when he's sent
  On the devil's errand, he rides post and comes in by scuttles.[88]
  Let me show you what a most unvalu'd jewel
  You have in a wanton humour thrown away,
  To bless the man shall find him.  He was an excellent
  Courtier and most faithful; a soldier that thought it
  As beastly to know his own value too little
  As devilish to acknowledge it too much.
  Both his virtue and form deserv'd a far better fortune:
  His discourse rather delighted to judge itself than show itself:
  His breast was fill'd with all perfection,
  And yet it seemed a private whisp'ring-room,
  It made so little noise of 't.

  DUCHESS.  But he was basely descended.

  BOSOLA.  Will you make yourself a mercenary herald,
  Rather to examine men's pedigrees than virtues?
  You shall want[89] him:
  For know an honest statesman to a prince
  Is like a cedar planted by a spring;
  The spring bathes the tree's root, the grateful tree
  Rewards it with his shadow:  you have not done so.
  I would sooner swim to the Bermoothes on
  Two politicians' rotten bladders, tied
  Together with an intelligencer's heart-string,
  Than depend on so changeable a prince's favour.
  Fare thee well, Antonio!  Since the malice of the world
  Would needs down with thee, it cannot be said yet
  That any ill happen'd unto thee, considering thy fall
  Was accompanied with virtue.

  DUCHESS.  O, you render me excellent music!

  BOSOLA.                                      Say you?

  DUCHESS.  This good one that you speak of is my husband.

  BOSOLA.  Do I not dream?  Can this ambitious age
  Have so much goodness in 't as to prefer
  A man merely for worth, without these shadows
  Of wealth and painted honours?  Possible?

  DUCHESS.  I have had three children by him.

  BOSOLA.                                      Fortunate lady!
  For you have made your private nuptial bed
  The humble and fair seminary of peace,
  No question but:  many an unbenefic'd scholar
  Shall pray for you for this deed, and rejoice
  That some preferment in the world can yet
  Arise from merit.  The virgins of your land
  That have no dowries shall hope your example
  Will raise them to rich husbands.  Should you want
  Soldiers, 'twould make the very Turks and Moors
  Turn Christians, and serve you for this act.
  Last, the neglected poets of your time,
  In honour of this trophy of a man,
  Rais'd by that curious engine, your white hand,
  Shall thank you, in your grave, for 't; and make that
  More reverend than all the cabinets
  Of living princes.  For Antonio,
  His fame shall likewise flow from many a pen,
  When heralds shall want coats to sell to men.

  DUCHESS.  As I taste comfort in this friendly speech,
  So would I find concealment.

  BOSOLA.  O, the secret of my prince,
  Which I will wear on th' inside of my heart!

  DUCHESS.  You shall take charge of all my coin and jewels,
  And follow him; for he retires himself
  To Ancona.

  BOSOLA.     So.

  DUCHESS.         Whither, within few days,
  I mean to follow thee.

  BOSOLA.                 Let me think:
  I would wish your grace to feign a pilgrimage
  To our Lady of Loretto, scarce seven leagues
  ]From fair Ancona; so may you depart
  Your country with more honour, and your flight
  Will seem a princely progress, retaining
  Your usual train about you.

  DUCHESS.                     Sir, your direction
  Shall lead me by the hand.

  CARIOLA.                    In my opinion,
  She were better progress to the baths at Lucca,
  Or go visit the Spa
  In Germany; for, if you will believe me,
  I do not like this jesting with religion,
  This feigned pilgrimage.

  DUCHESS.  Thou art a superstitious fool:
  Prepare us instantly for our departure.
  Past sorrows, let us moderately lament them,
  For those to come, seek wisely to prevent them.
       [Exeunt DUCHESS and CARIOLA.]

  BOSOLA.  A politician is the devil's quilted anvil;
  He fashions all sins on him, and the blows
  Are never heard:  he may work in a lady's chamber,
  As here for proof.  What rests[90] but I reveal
  All to my lord?  O, this base quality[91]
  Of intelligencer!  Why, every quality i' the world
  Prefers but gain or commendation:
  Now, for this act I am certain to be rais'd,
  And men that paint weeds to the life are prais'd.
       [Exit.]

In the Duchess's bedroom, she tells Antonio he can't sleep in her bed this night, but Antonio says he must, and they tease each other good-naturedly. Antonio teases Cariola about being single, and then they leave the Duchess alone so she can prepare for bed. The Duchess muses to herself how she would expect Antonio to avoid her bed while Ferdinand was in the palace, but she imagines Antonio's response would be that "love mixed with fear is sweetest". While she soliloquizes, Ferdinand sneaks in. When she notices him, he hands her a knife for her to kill herself with. She tells him that she is married, and he warns her that he doesn't want to know who the husband is because it would lead to such violence as would destroy them both, and he warns the Duchess that she must do everything she can--including cutting out her own tongue--to make sure Ferdinand never discovers his identity. The Duchess protests that she has done nothing wrong--she is not the only widow to remarry, and she remains pure. Ferdinand tells her that once gone, a good reputation can never be regained, and since she has lost hers, he will never see her again. He leaves, and Antonio and Cariola return, Antonio carrying a gun. Antonio suspects that Cariola let Ferdinand into the room, and threatens her with the gun, but the Duchess tells him he came in through the gallery and gave her a knife, presumably for her to kill herself with. Bosola knocks at the door and Antonio exits before they let him in. Bosola reports that Ferdinand has left for Rome, and asks the Duchess why she seems upset. She makes up a story about Antonio falsifying her accounts, a lie that will force him to flee Malfi and hence escape potential harm. She tells Bosola to get her officers to arrest Antonio, and Bosala leaves. Antonio returns, and the Duchess tells him of her plan. She demands he flee to Ancona, where she will send her treasure to him. When Bosola returns with the officers, the Duchess berates Antonio, but tells them to let him go freely, as she doesn't want the public to find out about his crimes and blame her. She banishes him, and he leaves. The Duchess asks for the officers' opinions of Antonio, and they complain of his tight-fisted behavior towards them. When they leave, Bosola says they were flattering parasites to Antonio when he was doing well, and tells the Duchess that she has made a big mistake and treated the honest and virtuous Antonio unfairly. He speaks at length about Antonio's virtue, until the Duchess, moved to trust him, admits that he is her husband. Bosola declares himself impressed that she would marry him for his virtues in spite of his lack of rank. The Duchess, comforted, asks him to help keep her secret, and to take her money to Antonio in Ancona where she will meet them in a few days. The Duchess and Cariola exit, leaving Bosola alone to lament that he must tell all to Ferdinand, although he looks forward to the promotion he will receive for doing so

The Duchess is in her bedroom with Antonio and Cariola. She and Antonio tease each other and flirt as Cariola helps her prepare for bed. Honestly, if this scene doesn't convert you to Team Antonio and Duchess, you're probably evil. Or the Cardinal. Or Ferdinand. The three chat for a little while about marriage and sex and whatnot, when Antonio whispers to Cariola while the Duchess is distracted that they should leave the room and let the Duchess talk to herself. Antonio apparently finds this hilarious. We agree with Antonio. Except! In comes Ferdinand. The Duchess, still thinking she's talking to Antonio and Cariola, is all "oh, yes, my brothers, we really should hold off on that next child until you're BFF with them." She sees Ferdinand, and, to her great credit, doesn't flip out: "whether I am doomed to live, or die, / I can do both like a prince" . Ferdinand gives her his poniard again, and tells her to kill herself. Nice guy, that Ferdo. "Whoa, hold up, you've got the wrong idea: yeah, I have a few kids now, but I'm married! I mean, probably not to the guy you would have picked for me, but, still, married! Brazen Hussy I am not!" This doesn't calm Ferdinand down in the way the Duchess is hoping. He launches into a diatribe about how she'd better hide this guy really carefully, because when Ferdinand finds this husband of hers, he's going to kill him. The Duchess calls him out on how unreasonable this all seems: "Dude, people get remarried. Women get remarried. I got remarried. It's not just legal, it's totally normal, so what's the problem?" After furiously telling her that she has utterly destroyed her reputation, Ferdinand promises to never see her again and storms out. Antonio and Cariola, having heard what's gone down from their hiding spot, come back in. They have just enough time to communally decide that they're in real trouble before Bosola knocks, and Antonio once again hides. Bosola tells the Duchess that Ferdinand has just taken off for Rome, and wants to know what's up. The Duchess, again, is remarkably quick on the draw: Antonio, she says, has been mishandling her money, and as a result has really messed up her and Ferdinand's finances. A wee bit of misdirection, you see. After Bosola has left and Antonio once again comes out of hiding, the Duchess tells Antonio that he's got to high-tail it over to Ancona and lay low for a while. In the meanwhile, she explains, she's going to have to make it look like she's firing him for mishandling her accounts. Bosola and the other officers of the court come in, and the Duchess and Antonio play out a scene where she very dramatically accuses Antonio and then fires him, after which he leaves. The Duchess turns to her officers, and asks them what they think of Antonio. The officers, figuring that Antonio is not a guy to be siding with right now, all reply, "oh, yeah, that Antonio, I always knew he was a bad dude, coulda seen that coming a mile away." They leave, and she poses the question to Bosola. Those guys are unprincipled jerks, Bosola says: "Antonio was a good guy, a great steward, he always had your back, and that you just threw him under the bus means that you're just as bad as every other corrupt politician." The Duchess, although she draws out the charade for a little while, is thrilled to hear this. She figures that somebody who stands up for Antonio is worth trusting, and tells Bosola that Antonio is her husband. Bosola acts shocked and impressed that "some preferment in the world can yet / Arise from merit" . The Duchess swears him to secrecy, and asks him to take charge of all her money and jewels and to bring them to Antonio in Ancona. Uh oh. Bosola advises her to travel to Loretto, pretending that she's making a religious pilgrimage. The Duchess agrees, saying to Bosola, "your direction / shall lead me by the hand" . This is the point where the audience goes from Kind of Worried to Duchess, You In Danger, Girl. Cariola isn't on board with Bosola's plan, but the Duchess tells her she's being stupid and to go prepare for their departure. They leave. Bosola, now possessing the information he's been after for years and having finally won the Duchess's trust, announces that he must immediately update Ferdinand, and mentions his dissatisfaction with his job as a spy.


Scene III

       [Enter] CARDINAL, FERDINAND, MALATESTI, PESCARA, DELIO,
       and SILVIO

  CARDINAL.  Must we turn soldier, then?

  MALATESTI.                              The emperor,
  Hearing your worth that way, ere you attain'd
  This reverend garment, joins you in commission
  With the right fortunate soldier the Marquis of Pescara,
  And the famous Lannoy.

  CARDINAL.               He that had the honour
  Of taking the French king prisoner?

  MALATESTI.                           The same.
  Here 's a plot drawn for a new fortification
  At Naples.

  FERDINAND.  This great Count Malatesti, I perceive,
  Hath got employment?

  DELIO.                No employment, my lord;
  A marginal note in the muster-book, that he is
  A voluntary lord.

  FERDINAND.         He 's no soldier.

  DELIO.  He has worn gun-powder in 's hollow tooth for the tooth-ache.

  SILVIO.  He comes to the leaguer with a full intent
  To eat fresh beef and garlic, means to stay
  Till the scent be gone, and straight return to court.

  DELIO.  He hath read all the late service
  As the City-Chronicle relates it;
  And keeps two pewterers going, only to express
  Battles in model.

  SILVIO.            Then he 'll fight by the book.

  DELIO.  By the almanac, I think,
  To choose good days and shun the critical;
  That 's his mistress' scarf.

  SILVIO.                       Yes, he protests
  He would do much for that taffeta.

  DELIO.  I think he would run away from a battle,
  To save it from taking prisoner.

  SILVIO.                           He is horribly afraid
  Gun-powder will spoil the perfume on 't.

  DELIO.  I saw a Dutchman break his pate once
  For calling him pot-gun; he made his head
  Have a bore in 't like a musket.

  SILVIO.  I would he had made a touch-hole to 't.
  He is indeed a guarded sumpter-cloth,[93]
  Only for the remove of the court.

       [Enter BOSOLA]

  PESCARA.  Bosola arriv'd!  What should be the business?
  Some falling-out amongst the cardinals.
  These factions amongst great men, they are like
  Foxes, when their heads are divided,
  They carry fire in their tails, and all the country
  About them goes to wrack for 't.

  SILVIO.                           What 's that Bosola?

  DELIO.  I knew him in Padua,--a fantastical scholar, like such who
  study to know how many knots was in Hercules' club, of what colour
  Achilles' beard was, or whether Hector were not troubled with the
  tooth-ache.  He hath studied himself half blear-eyed to know the true
  symmetry of Caesar's nose by a shoeing-horn; and this he did to gain
  the name of a speculative man.

  PESCARA.  Mark Prince Ferdinand:
  A very salamander lives in 's eye,
  To mock the eager violence of fire.

  SILVIO.  That cardinal hath made more bad faces with his oppression
  than ever Michael Angelo made good ones.  He lifts up 's nose, like
  a foul porpoise before a storm.

  PESCARA.  The Lord Ferdinand laughs.

  DELIO.                                Like a deadly cannon
  That lightens ere it smokes.

  PESCARA.  These are your true pangs of death,
  The pangs of life, that struggle with great statesmen.

  DELIO.  In such a deformed silence witches whisper their charms.

  CARDINAL.  Doth she make religion her riding-hood
  To keep her from the sun and tempest?

  FERDINAND.  That, that damns her.  Methinks her fault and beauty,
  Blended together, show like leprosy,
  The whiter, the fouler.  I make it a question
  Whether her beggarly brats were ever christ'ned.

  CARDINAL.  I will instantly solicit the state of Ancona
  To have them banish'd.

  FERDINAND.              You are for Loretto:
  I shall not be at your ceremony; fare you well.--
  Write to the Duke of Malfi, my young nephew
  She had by her first husband, and acquaint him
  With 's mother's honesty.

  BOSOLA.                    I will.

  FERDINAND.                          Antonio!
  A slave that only smell'd of ink and counters,
  And never in 's life look'd like a gentleman,
  But in the audit-time.--Go, go presently,
  Draw me out an hundred and fifty of our horse,
  And meet me at the foot-bridge.
       Exeunt.

Scene Three is again set in the Cardinal's palace at Rome. Count Malateste is showing the Cardinal plans for a new fortification at Naples, when Ferdinand enters with Delio, Silvio, and Pescara. Delio and Silvio explain to Ferdinand that Malateste is a soldier only in name--he avoids any real battles and only studies theories of war without actually engaging. They mock the care he takes with his mistress's scarf. Bosola arrives and speaks to Ferdinand and the Cardinal privately, while the others discuss what his presence there could mean. They note that Ferdinand and the Cardinal both look furious in reaction to whatever Bosola is telling them. Ferdinand and the Cardinal are especially distressed that the Duchess is escaping to meet Antonio by pretending to be on a pilgrimage, which Cariola had warned her against. The Cardinal says he'll have them banished from Ancona immediately, and Ferdinand orders Bosola to tell the Duchess's son from her previous marriage--who is not mentioned anywhere else in the play--the news. Ferdinand makes plans to intercept her

The theme of class becomes most developed here in Act Three. Interestingly, it is first explicitly discussed between Bosola and the Duchess, both of whom are speaking disingenuously in an effort to hide something from the other. They each thus end up acting as the other's mouthpiece on the issue, as when Bosola berates the Duchess for saying of Antonio, "But he was basely descended" , in response to Bosola listing Antonio's virtues, for those virtues, he says, matter more than "men's pedigrees" . The ironic presentation does not mean that the opinions voiced are not honest considerations of the way people approach an individual's status. When, as a result of Bosola's protestations, the Duchess admits that she is married to Antonio, Bosola pretends to be filled with joy and admiration that the Duchess would look past rank and wealth to give a man his true due for his character alone. The audience knows not to trust his effusive praise, of course, but it is worth noting that the final tragedy for the Duchess and her family comes out of this very moment, when Bosola uses this praise of looking beyond rank to get her to admit who her husband is. Yet, as is often true with Bosola, it is impossible to know just how much truth is mixed in with his lies. Once he is alone again on stage, he expresses some reluctance to give his new information to Ferdinand, even though it's the very information he has been trying to get for about two years. This implies that there may have been some truth to his "friendly speech" , especially since his pervasive melancholy is centered on his own inability to improve his position, and now he sees, embodied in Antonio, that it is, in fact, possible to rise past what custom usually dictates. Though this contradiction may indicate that Bosola has some respect for the Duchess's choice in marrying Antonio, he does much to dispel such an interpretation later in the act. For once he has told Ferdinand about Antonio, and so can speak forthrightly without having to lie to try to ensnare the Duchess, he shows much more snobbery about class. For example, when Antonio refuses to act as Ferdinand, through Bosola, wants him to, Bosola says, "This proclaims your breeding/Every small thing draws a base mind to fear" . Ferdinand is an obviously dangerous figure, and his attempt to get Antonio to come to him has a double, threatening meaning which is barely even hidden. The Duchess, the embodiment of pedigree, is the first to notice this, and yet Bosola would have it that it is only Antonio's lack of breeding that makes him fearful of it. After the sad parting of Antonio and the oldest son with the Duchess and the rest of the children, Bosola comes to take the Duchess into custody. In this powerful scene, Bosola holds up Antonio's rank as reason enough for the Duchess to forget him completely--"Forget this base, low fellow" . This admonition is all the starker in juxtaposition to the sad leave-taking that preceded it, making Bosola's directive, and thus his blind judgment based on rank, seem absurd. When the Duchess responds angrily, he doesn't even bother to use a full sentence in his reply--"One of no birth" --as though his meaning is so obvious that he doesn't even need to declare it.  This leaves the Duchess an opportunity to stand up for Antonio, and for the unimportance of birth, and she does so beautifully, having the last word in the argument for the moment. Though she first defends him positively, explaining that since a man who is great for his own actions, not his birth, is happiest, then the reverse is also true--"So, to great men, the moral may be stretched:/Men oft are valued high, when th'are most wretch'd" . The fixation on Antonio's rank in the third act, then, becomes also related to question of Ferdinand and the Cardinal's evil. They have the birth, the power, and the standing that Antonio lacks, but they are the symbol of evil throughout the play. Act Three also further elucidates the stark differences between what the Duchess actually is, what Ferdinand believes her to be, and what he wants her to be. The image of the Duchess of a reproductive figure and mother that first came in Act Two is expanded here--one of the first things the audience learns in Act Three is that in what has been only moments in the time of the theater, the Duchess has had two more children--she has been an "excellent/Feeder of pedigrees" . In the next scene, the domestic bliss of the Duchess's marriage is made clear. The Duchess, Antonio, and Cariola tease each other kindly in the Duchess's bedroom while she prepares to go to bed. The simplicity and easy domestic happiness of this scene create a very different image than all of Ferdinand's imaginings of the Duchess two scenes earlier, when he sees "her in the shameful act of sin"  in his mind, "Haply with some strong thighed bargeman,/Or one o'th' wood-yard, that can quoit the sledge" . Ferdinand is incapable of imagining her in a loving relationship. If she has had a child, it must have been a product of her uncontrollable lust and resulting promiscuous behavior. The only other option he can imagine for her, that which he wants, is as a monumentalized figure, forever bowing chastely over her first husband's tomb, "cased up, like a holy relic" . The irony is of course that for someone so harshly moral about sex, he is most fixated upon it, again a contradiction that can be seen through a lens of repressed incestuous feelings for his twin. Antonio marks the distinction between this chaste, marble figure the Duchess's brothers would like her to be and the more earthly figure she actually is when talking to Cariola: O fie upon this single life. Forgo it.We read how Daphne, for her peevish flight,Became a fruitless bay-tree; Syrinx turned To the pale empty reed; Anaxarete  Was frozen into marble: whereas those Which married, or proved kind unto their friends, Were, by a gracious influence, transshaped Into the olive, pomegranate, mulberry. The women who remain single are "fruitless," "pale," "empty," "frozen," "marble," while the married women become fruit-bearing trees, both beautiful and nourishing to the world around them. This is so preferable to the marble women that Ferdinand and the Cardinal would have, and so far from the lusty widow that they believe the Duchess to be, that their evil against her and her family becomes all the more pronounced. Finally, a word can be said about the inventive theatricality Webster employs to detail the Duchess and Antonio's banishment from Ancona.  Performed as a pantomime dumb-show under a sung hymn, the scene has a great theatrical power both for its economy of storytelling and the irony of pilgrims celebrating through song such a perverse, demented, self-interested line of action.

Meanwhile, back in Rome. The Cardinal's talking with Ferdinand, Malateste, Pescara, Silvio, and Delio about the new fortifications that the Emperor, Charles V, is setting up in Naples. It looks like the guys are going to have to do some soldiering. Count Malateste is showing the fortification plans, while the other guys hang in the background talking smack about his martial abilities--apparently he's not fit to be a soldier. Trash-talking comes to an end when Bosola comes in to chat with the Cardinal and Ferdinand. Bosola has shared his newfound info with the brothers, and the Cardinal immediately decides that he'll have the Duchess and her family banished from Ancona. Ferdinand plans to tell the Duchess's oldest son, the one she had by her first husband, that his mother's been ruining her reputation. Quick note--keeping track of the Duchess's children can be a little tricky, so take note of the fact that this is the only time we ever hear about this particular kid. Most scholars actually think that Webster meant to edit this son out, because his existence means that Ferdinand won't inherit the Duchess's wealth the way he claims to desire at . Life before Control + Find and Delete was rough, man.


Scene IV

       [Enter] Two Pilgrims to the Shrine of our Lady of Loretto

  FIRST PILGRIM.  I have not seen a goodlier shrine than this;
  Yet I have visited many.

  SECOND PILGRIM.           The Cardinal of Arragon
  Is this day to resign his cardinal's hat:
  His sister duchess likewise is arriv'd
  To pay her vow of pilgrimage.  I expect
  A noble ceremony.

  FIRST PILGRIM.     No question.--They come.

       [Here the ceremony of the Cardinal's instalment, in the habit
       of a soldier, perform'd in delivering up his cross, hat, robes,
       and ring, at the shrine, and investing him with sword, helmet,
       shield, and spurs; then ANTONIO, the DUCHESS and their children,
       having presented themselves at the shrine, are, by a form
       of banishment in dumb-show expressed towards them by the
       CARDINAL and the state of Ancona, banished:  during all which
       ceremony, this ditty is sung, to very solemn music, by divers
       churchmen:  and then exeunt [all except the] Two Pilgrims.

  Arms and honours deck thy story,
  To thy fame's eternal glory!
  Adverse fortune ever fly thee;
  No disastrous fate come nigh thee!

  I alone will sing thy praises,
  Whom to honour virtue raises,
  And thy study, that divine is,
  Bent to martial discipline is,
  Lay aside all those robes lie by thee;
  Crown thy arts with arms, they 'll beautify thee.

  O worthy of worthiest name, adorn'd in this manner,
  Lead bravely thy forces on under war's warlike banner!
  O, mayst thou prove fortunate in all martial courses!
  Guide thou still by skill in arts and forces!
  Victory attend thee nigh, whilst fame sings loud thy powers;
  Triumphant conquest crown thy head, and blessings pour down
       showers![94]

  FIRST PILGRIM.
  Here 's a strange turn of state! who would have thought
  So great a lady would have match'd herself
  Unto so mean a person?  Yet the cardinal
  Bears himself much too cruel.

  SECOND PILGRIM.                They are banish'd.

  FIRST PILGRIM.  But I would ask what power hath this state
  Of Ancona to determine of a free prince?

  SECOND PILGRIM.  They are a free state, sir, and her brother show'd
  How that the Pope, fore-hearing of her looseness,
  Hath seiz'd into th' protection of the church
  The dukedom which she held as dowager.

  FIRST PILGRIM.  But by what justice?

  SECOND PILGRIM.                       Sure, I think by none,
  Only her brother's instigation.

  FIRST PILGRIM.  What was it with such violence he took
  Off from her finger?

  SECOND PILGRIM.       'Twas her wedding-ring;
  Which he vow'd shortly he would sacrifice
  To his revenge.

  FIRST PILGRIM.      Alas, Antonio!
  If that a man be thrust into a well,
  No matter who sets hand to 't, his own weight
  Will bring him sooner to th' bottom.  Come, let 's hence.
  Fortune makes this conclusion general,
  All things do help th' unhappy man to fall.
       Exeunt.

Scene Four is set at the Shrine of Our Lady of Loretto. Here, the Cardinal gives up his cardinal's hat in a ceremony so that he can fight as a soldier. Antonio, the Duchess, and their children arrive, and are banished from Ancona. This all happens in pantomime while the churchmen sing a solemn song. They all exit except for two pilgrims, who discuss what happened and explain that the Pope, spurred by the Cardinal, took the Duchess's dukedom from her

We're at Loretto, where Bosola advised the Duchess travel, watching two pilgrims as they watch the Cardinal undergo the ceremony for transforming into a soldier. They continue to watch as the Duchess, Antonio, and their kids are brought forward and banished from Ancona by the Cardinal. The pilgrims muse that Cardinal is being way harsh here. Actually, given that the Duchess is a prince, how can anybody banish her? Well, Ancona's one of the papal states, so the Cardinal, as a representative of the Catholic church, can go to the Pope, claiming, "oooh, she's all sinful and sex-having, I simply can't abide this ungodliness" and have her banished. The pilgrims still think it's unjust and nasty, especially that part where the Cardinal ripped off her wedding ring.


Scene V

       [Enter] DUCHESS, ANTONIO, Children, CARIOLA, and Servants

  DUCHESS.  Banish'd Ancona!

  ANTONIO.                    Yes, you see what power
  Lightens in great men's breath.

  DUCHESS.                         Is all our train
  Shrunk to this poor remainder?

  ANTONIO.                        These poor men
  Which have got little in your service, vow
  To take your fortune:  but your wiser buntings,[96]
  Now they are fledg'd, are gone.

  DUCHESS.                         They have done wisely.
  This puts me in mind of death:  physicians thus,
  With their hands full of money, use to give o'er
  Their patients.

  ANTONIO.         Right the fashion of the world:
  ]From decay'd fortunes every flatterer shrinks;
  Men cease to build where the foundation sinks.

  DUCHESS.  I had a very strange dream to-night.

  ANTONIO.                                        What was 't?

  DUCHESS.  Methought I wore my coronet of state,
  And on a sudden all the diamonds
  Were chang'd to pearls.

  ANTONIO.                 My interpretation
  Is, you 'll weep shortly; for to me the pearls
  Do signify your tears.

  DUCHESS.                The birds that live i' th' field
  On the wild benefit of nature live
  Happier than we; for they may choose their mates,
  And carol their sweet pleasures to the spring.

       [Enter BOSOLA with a letter]

  BOSOLA.  You are happily o'erta'en.

  DUCHESS.                             From my brother?

  BOSOLA.  Yes, from the Lord Ferdinand your brother
  All love and safety.

  DUCHESS.              Thou dost blanch mischief,
  Would'st make it white.  See, see, like to calm weather
  At sea before a tempest, false hearts speak fair
  To those they intend most mischief.
  [Reads.] 'Send Antonio to me; I want his head in a business.'
  A politic equivocation!
  He doth not want your counsel, but your head;
  That is, he cannot sleep till you be dead.
  And here 's another pitfall that 's strew'd o'er
  With roses; mark it, 'tis a cunning one:
       [Reads.]
    'I stand engaged for your husband for several debts at Naples:
    let not that trouble him; I had rather have his heart than his
    money':--
  And I believe so too.

  BOSOLA.                What do you believe?

  DUCHESS.  That he so much distrusts my husband's love,
  He will by no means believe his heart is with him
  Until he see it:  the devil is not cunning enough
  To circumvent us In riddles.

  BOSOLA.  Will you reject that noble and free league
  Of amity and love which I present you?

  DUCHESS.  Their league is like that of some politic kings,
  Only to make themselves of strength and power
  To be our after-ruin; tell them so.

  BOSOLA.  And what from you?

  ANTONIO.                     Thus tell him; I will not come.

  BOSOLA.  And what of this?

  ANTONIO.                    My brothers have dispers'd
  Bloodhounds abroad; which till I hear are muzzl'd,
  No truce, though hatch'd with ne'er such politic skill,
  Is safe, that hangs upon our enemies' will.
  I 'll not come at them.

  BOSOLA.                  This proclaims your breeding.
  Every small thing draws a base mind to fear,
  As the adamant draws iron.  Fare you well, sir;
  You shall shortly hear from 's.
       Exit.

  DUCHESS.                         I suspect some ambush;
  Therefore by all my love I do conjure you
  To take your eldest son, and fly towards Milan.
  Let us not venture all this poor remainder
  In one unlucky bottom.

  ANTONIO.                You counsel safely.
  Best of my life, farewell.  Since we must part,
  Heaven hath a hand in 't; but no otherwise
  Than as some curious artist takes in sunder
  A clock or watch, when it is out of frame,
  To bring 't in better order.

  DUCHESS.  I know not which is best,
  To see you dead, or part with you.--Farewell, boy:
  Thou art happy that thou hast not understanding
  To know thy misery; for all our wit
  And reading brings us to a truer sense
  Of sorrow.--In the eternal church, sir,
  I do hope we shall not part thus.

  ANTONIO.                           O, be of comfort!
  Make patience a noble fortitude,
  And think not how unkindly we are us'd:
  Man, like to cassia, is prov'd best, being bruis'd.

  DUCHESS.  Must I, like to slave-born Russian,
  Account it praise to suffer tyranny?
  And yet, O heaven, thy heavy hand is in 't!
  I have seen my little boy oft scourge his top,
  And compar'd myself to 't:  naught made me e'er
  Go right but heaven's scourge-stick.

  ANTONIO.                              Do not weep:
  Heaven fashion'd us of nothing; and we strive
  To bring ourselves to nothing.--Farewell, Cariola,
  And thy sweet armful.--If I do never see thee more,
  Be a good mother to your little ones,
  And save them from the tiger:  fare you well.

  DUCHESS.  Let me look upon you once more, for that speech
  Came from a dying father.  Your kiss is colder
  Than that I have seen an holy anchorite
  Give to a dead man's skull.

  ANTONIO.  My heart is turn'd to a heavy lump of lead,
  With which I sound my danger:  fare you well.
       Exeunt [ANTONIO and his son.]

  DUCHESS.  My laurel is all withered.

  CARIOLA.  Look, madam, what a troop of armed men
  Make toward us!

       Re-enter BOSOLA [visarded,] with a Guard

  DUCHESS.         O, they are very welcome:
  When Fortune's wheel is over-charg'd with princes,
  The weight makes it move swift:  I would have my ruin
  Be sudden.--I am your adventure, am I not?

  BOSOLA.  You are:  you must see your husband no more.

  DUCHESS.  What devil art thou that counterfeit'st heaven's thunder?

  BOSOLA.  Is that terrible?  I would have you tell me whether
  Is that note worse that frights the silly birds
  Out of the corn, or that which doth allure them
  To the nets?  You have heark'ned to the last too much.

  DUCHESS.  O misery! like to a rusty o'ercharg'd cannon,
  Shall I never fly in pieces?--Come, to what prison?

  BOSOLA.  To none.

  DUCHESS.           Whither, then?

  BOSOLA.                            To your palace.

  DUCHESS.                                            I have heard
  That Charon's boat serves to convey all o'er
  The dismal lake, but brings none back again.

  BOSOLA.  Your brothers mean you safety and pity.

  DUCHESS.                                          Pity!
  With such a pity men preserve alive
  Pheasants and quails, when they are not fat enough
  To be eaten.

  BOSOLA.  These are your children?

  DUCHESS.                           Yes.

  BOSOLA.                                  Can they prattle?

  DUCHESS.  No:
  But I intend, since they were born accurs'd,
  Curses shall be their first language.

  BOSOLA.                                Fie, madam!
  Forget this base, low fellow----

  DUCHESS.                          Were I a man,
  I 'd beat that counterfeit face[97] into thy other.

  BOSOLA.  One of no birth.

  DUCHESS.                   Say that he was born mean,
  Man is most happy when 's own actions
  Be arguments and examples of his virtue.

  BOSOLA.  A barren, beggarly virtue.

  DUCHESS.  I prithee, who is greatest?  Can you tell?
  Sad tales befit my woe:  I 'll tell you one.
  A salmon, as she swam unto the sea.
  Met with a dog-fish, who encounters her
  With this rough language; 'Why art thou so bold
  To mix thyself with our high state of floods,
  Being no eminent courtier, but one
  That for the calmest and fresh time o' th' year
  Dost live in shallow rivers, rank'st thyself
  With silly smelts and shrimps?  And darest thou
  Pass by our dog-ship without reverence?'
  'O,' quoth the salmon, 'sister, be at peace:
  Thank Jupiter we both have pass'd the net!
  Our value never can be truly known,
  Till in the fisher's basket we be shown:
  I' th' market then my price may be the higher,
  Even when I am nearest to the cook and fire.'
  So to great men the moral may be stretched;
  Men oft are valu'd high, when they're most wretched.--
  But come, whither you please.  I am arm'd 'gainst misery;
  Bent to all sways of the oppressor's will:
  There 's no deep valley but near some great hill.
       Exeunt.

Scene Five takes place nearby Loretto, following the banishment. The Duchess and Antonio mourn their current state to Cariola, their children, and their last remaining servants. Bosola brings them a letter from Ferdinand, which asks for Antonio to be sent to him, using double-talk so as to threaten his murder while pretending to offer amity. The Duchess sees through his "riddles" easily, and so Antonio refuses to go. Bosola scorns his refusal and leaves. The Duchess, fearful of an ambush, pleads for Antonio to take their oldest son to Milan. He accepts, and they all say their farewells. After Antonio and the older son leave, Bosola and a troop of armed men approach to apprehend the Duchess and her remaining family. Bosola entreats her to forget her lowly husband, but she says that a man's actions, not his rank, are what matter. She and her family are taken back to her palace as prisoners.

We're with the Duchess and Antonio, right after they've been banished from Ancona. Antonio remarks that most of her entourage of servants has abandoned her. "Yeah, well, that's pretty smart of them," the Duchess says. Bosola arrives with a letter from Ferdinand, wherein he asks the Duchess to send Antonio to him, because he'd really appreciate Antonio's advice on a business letter. Yeah right. The Duchess and Antonio aren't fooled for a second, and ask Bosola to tell Ferdinand that no way no how is Antonio going to Ferdinand and getting murdered. Bosola's manner clues the Duchess into the fact that she's been betrayed, and after he leaves she asks Antonio to take their eldest son with him to Milan. She's trying to split up the family so if things go south the entire family doesn't get destroyed in one blow. Not a bad idea, considering. Antonio agrees, and they have a tear-jerker of a goodbye, wherein Antonio wonders if they'll ever see each other again. After he departs, the Duchess, Cariola, and the remaining children are approached by Bosola, flanked by masked guards. The Duchess fully expects to be taken to prison, but Bosola instead tells her she, Cariola, and the remaining kids are going to be under house arrest in the Duchess's own palace. If you think things are as dire as they can get, Shmoopers, think again. Get out your tissues, because it only goes downhill from here.


Act IV. Scene I

[98]

       [Enter] FERDINAND and BOSOLA

  FERDINAND.  How doth our sister duchess bear herself
  In her imprisonment?

  BOSOLA.               Nobly:  I 'll describe her.
  She 's sad as one long us'd to 't, and she seems
  Rather to welcome the end of misery
  Than shun it; a behaviour so noble
  As gives a majesty to adversity:
  You may discern the shape of loveliness
  More perfect in her tears than in her smiles:
  She will muse for hours together; and her silence,
  Methinks, expresseth more than if she spake.

  FERDINAND.  Her melancholy seems to be fortified
  With a strange disdain.

  BOSOLA.                  'Tis so; and this restraint,
  Like English mastives that grow fierce with tying,
  Makes her too passionately apprehend
  Those pleasures she is kept from.

  FERDINAND.                         Curse upon her!
  I will no longer study in the book
  Of another's heart.  Inform her what I told you.
       Exit.

       [Enter DUCHESS and Attendants]

  BOSOLA.  All comfort to your grace!

  DUCHESS.                             I will have none.
  Pray thee, why dost thou wrap thy poison'd pills
  In gold and sugar?

  BOSOLA.  Your elder brother, the Lord Ferdinand,
  Is come to visit you, and sends you word,
  'Cause once he rashly made a solemn vow
  Never to see you more, he comes i' th' night;
  And prays you gently neither torch nor taper
  Shine in your chamber.  He will kiss your hand,
  And reconcile himself; but for his vow
  He dares not see you.

  DUCHESS.               At his pleasure.--
  Take hence the lights.--He 's come.
       [Exeunt Attendants with lights.]

       [Enter FERDINAND]

  FERDINAND.                           Where are you?

  DUCHESS.                                             Here, sir.

  FERDINAND.  This darkness suits you well.

  DUCHESS.                                   I would ask you pardon.

  FERDINAND.  You have it;
  For I account it the honorabl'st revenge,
  Where I may kill, to pardon.--Where are your cubs?

  DUCHESS.  Whom?

  FERDINAND.       Call them your children;
  For though our national law distinguish bastards
  ]From true legitimate issue, compassionate nature
  Makes them all equal.

  DUCHESS.               Do you visit me for this?
  You violate a sacrament o' th' church
  Shall make you howl in hell for 't.

  FERDINAND.                           It had been well,
  Could you have liv'd thus always; for, indeed,
  You were too much i' th' light:--but no more;
  I come to seal my peace with you.  Here 's a hand
       Gives her a dead man's hand.
  To which you have vow'd much love; the ring upon 't
  You gave.

  DUCHESS.  I affectionately kiss it.

  FERDINAND.  Pray, do, and bury the print of it in your heart.
  I will leave this ring with you for a love-token;
  And the hand as sure as the ring; and do not doubt
  But you shall have the heart too.  When you need a friend,
  Send it to him that ow'd it; you shall see
  Whether he can aid you.

  DUCHESS.                 You are very cold:
  I fear you are not well after your travel.--
  Ha! lights!----O, horrible!

  FERDINAND.                   Let her have lights enough.
       Exit.

  DUCHESS.  What witchcraft doth he practise, that he hath left
  A dead man's hand here?
       [Here is discovered, behind a traverse,[99] the artificial
       figures of ANTONIO and his children, appearing as if
       they were dead.

  BOSOLA.  Look you, here 's the piece from which 'twas ta'en.
  He doth present you this sad spectacle,
  That, now you know directly they are dead,
  Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve
  For that which cannot be recovered.

  DUCHESS.  There is not between heaven and earth one wish
  I stay for after this.  It wastes me more
  Than were 't my picture, fashion'd out of wax,
  Stuck with a magical needle, and then buried
  In some foul dunghill; and yon 's an excellent property
  For a tyrant, which I would account mercy.

  BOSOLA.                                     What 's that?

  DUCHESS.  If they would bind me to that lifeless trunk,
  And let me freeze to death.

  BOSOLA.                      Come, you must live.

  DUCHESS.  That 's the greatest torture souls feel in hell,
  In hell, that they must live, and cannot die.
  Portia,[100] I 'll new kindle thy coals again,
  And revive the rare and almost dead example
  Of a loving wife.

  BOSOLA.            O, fie! despair?  Remember
  You are a Christian.

  DUCHESS.              The church enjoins fasting:
  I 'll starve myself to death.

  BOSOLA.                        Leave this vain sorrow.
  Things being at the worst begin to mend:  the bee
  When he hath shot his sting into your hand,
  May then play with your eye-lid.

  DUCHESS.                          Good comfortable fellow,
  Persuade a wretch that 's broke upon the wheel
  To have all his bones new set; entreat him live
  To be executed again.  Who must despatch me?
  I account this world a tedious theatre,
  For I do play a part in 't 'gainst my will.

  BOSOLA.  Come, be of comfort; I will save your life.

  DUCHESS.  Indeed, I have not leisure to tend so small a business.

  BOSOLA.  Now, by my life, I pity you.

  DUCHESS.                               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?

  SERVANT.       One that wishes you long life.

  DUCHESS.  I would thou wert hang'd for the horrible curse
  Thou hast given me:  I shall shortly grow one
  Of the miracles of pity.  I 'll go pray;--
       [Exit Servant.]
  No, I 'll go curse.

  BOSOLA.              O, fie!

  DUCHESS.                      I could curse the stars.

  BOSOLA.                                                 O, fearful!

  DUCHESS.  And those three smiling seasons of the year
  Into a Russian winter; nay, the world
  To its first chaos.

  BOSOLA.              Look you, the stars shine still[.]

  DUCHESS.  O, but you must
  Remember, my curse hath a great way to go.--
  Plagues, that make lanes through largest families,
  Consume them!--

  BOSOLA.          Fie, lady!

  DUCHESS.                     Let them, like tyrants,
  Never be remembered but for the ill they have done;
  Let all the zealous prayers of mortified
  Churchmen forget them!--

  BOSOLA.                   O, uncharitable!

  DUCHESS.  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]

  FERDINAND.  Excellent, as I would wish; she 's plagu'd in art.[101]
  These presentations are but fram'd in wax
  By the curious master in that quality,[102]
  Vincentio Lauriola, and she takes them
  For true substantial bodies.

  BOSOLA.                       Why do you do this?

  FERDINAND.  To bring her to despair.

  BOSOLA.                               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.

  FERDINAND.                    Damn her! that body of hers.
  While that my blood run pure in 't, was more worth
  Than that which thou wouldst comfort, call'd a soul.
  I will send her masques of common courtezans,
  Have her meat serv'd up by bawds and ruffians,
  And, 'cause she 'll needs be mad, I am resolv'd
  To move 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' th' moon:
  If she can sleep the better for it, let her.
  Your work is almost ended.

  BOSOLA.                     Must I see her again?

  FERDINAND.  Yes.

  BOSOLA.           Never.

  FERDINAND.                You must.

  BOSOLA.                              Never in mine own shape;
  That 's forfeited by my intelligence[103]
  And this last cruel lie:  when you send me next,
  The business shall be comfort.

  FERDINAND.                      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 nev'r will slack till it hath spent his fuel:
  Intemperate agues make physicians cruel.
       Exeunt.

Act Four begins back in Malfi, at the Duchess's palace. Bosola tells Ferdinand that the Duchess is bearing her imprisonment nobly. Ferdinand is dissatisfied and leaves, and the Duchess enters. Bosola tells her that Ferdinand has come to visit her, but does not want to go against the vow he made to never see her again, so entreats her not to have any light in her room tonight so he can address her. She agrees, and Bosola walks away with the lights. Ferdinand enters in the dark, and tells the Duchess that she has his pardon. He gives her a dead man's severed hand wearing her wedding ring on one of its fingers, hoping that because it is dark, she will believe it to be Antonio's. However, she assumes it is Ferdinand's and wonders why he is so cold. Ferdinand exits and Bosola brings up the light, and she sees what she holds. Bosola then pulls back a curtain, revealing the corpses of Antonio and their children. He says that Ferdinand wants her to see them so that she will stop grieving for them. The Duchess believes him, and asks to be bound to Antonio's lifeless body and left to die there. Bosola tells her to forget her sorrow--now that everything is at its worst, it can only get better--but she ignores him. She continues to mourn and finally asks Bosola to tell her brothers to come and kill her, and not prolong her torture. She exits and Ferdinand enters, telling Bosola that the bodies are only wax figures and they have accomplished his goal--"to bring her to despair". Bosola entreats him to stop torturing her and to simply send her to a convent, but Ferdinand wants her to go completely mad. He further insists he will have madmen placed near her chamber so that the sounds of their torture will rankle her. Bosola says in that case, he would prefer to never see her again, but Ferdinand says he must, so Bosola insists he will not do so as Ferdinand's spy. Ferdinand sends him to Milan, where Antonio waits

In Act Four, the final showdown between the Duchess and Ferdinand occurs, acted largely through Bosola. In the most basic sense, Ferdinand is the victor--the Duchess is killed and so truly becomes a monument, a name only, with no domestic or life-bearing side remaining.  The purity he demands of her will not again be compromised. The symbolic reality is more complicated, however, for Ferdinand fails to destroy her spirit, "to bring her to despair" , and his attempts to do so only further highlight how far her spirit rises above him. She does not die despairing, but bravely and honorably, and the only one truly brought to despair in this scene is he himself. Though, at the beginning of the act, the Duchess has been separated from her loving husband and oldest child, stripped of her wealth and power, and imprisoned, she bears it "nobly" . When Ferdinand cruelly tries to fool her into thinking she holds Antonio's dead hand, the trick fails and she at first thinks it is Ferdinand's own hand, and even after all his awful treatment of her, she shows worry for him, saying, "I fear you are not well after your travel" . Rather than be moved by this, Ferdinand takes the trick further, showing her the faked corpses of her family. That the Duchess stands for good and Ferdinand for evil is nowhere more clear than this. At this moment, when the Duchess believes her family to be dead, she is now deprived of the last external thing she had to derive strength from--her hope. Her title, her standing, her freedom were gone, and now she truly has nothing left. But still, she shows profound strength in her death scene, which allows her to defeat the cruel machinations of her brothers, even in her death, for she never gives in to despair, never regrets her choice to marry Antonio and create a family, never is brought down to her brothers' level in any way. The madmen surrounding her room only make her calmer, and those brought into her room only stand as an example of what she could have been brought to, and how very far she still is from that. When she learns that it is her time to die, she shows no fear, no anger, no remorse. The true courage this takes is made clear to the audience through the contrast of Cariola.  Where Cariola at first showed bravely in insisting she wishes to die alongside her mistress, she acts quite differently in the moment, in which she begs, lies, delays, and fights physically to try to fend it off. The grotesqueness of the theatricality surrounding the Duchess's death also highlights her majestic nature. She is at peace while madmen dance and sing around her, while fake corpses surround her, while Bosola changes personas again and again, and while Cariola fights desperately for her life.  Further, there is a great theatricality in the use of the madmen, whose several speeches creates a creepy theatrical atmosphere.  Her ability to ignore them is another sign of her strength. The horrors surrounding her also serve to show that her dying is not synonymous with her being defeated by her brothers, for she is escaping this hell on earth that they have created, and into which they will fall prey to themselves during the final act. Act Four also serves as a turning point for Bosola. In keeping with the pattern of contradiction in his character, his showings of remorse are seemingly genuine, but far from pure. Within the course of one scene, he orders the Duchess's murder, then her children's and Cariola's, without any hesitation or remorse. His regrets come only after Ferdinand has made it clear that Bosola will not be rewarded for these gruesome tasks. But even then, his remorse is not pure, for when the Duchess shows signs of life again, and he prays, "Return, fair soul, from darkness" , it is so that she can assuage his guilt, lead him "out of this sensible hell" , save him, not so that she can live for her own sake. Bosola has, with Ferdinand's regret at the sight of the Duchess's corpse, lost his one excuse for all of his evil deeds. He has throughout the play "rather sought/To appear a true servant than an honest man" --he has chosen to be loyal to Ferdinand and the Cardinal rather than act according to his instincts "to do good" . But Ferdinand, who most gained from this unblinking loyalty, berates him for it--"Why didst not thou pity her?" . Even this man who embodies mindless evil, who shows no remorse at the sight of two infant corpses, thinks that Bosola should have felt enough in himself to prevent him from following his orders. These contradictions reframe all of Bosola's actions in the play, and makes it clear just how meaningless his expressions of remorse, of hesitation, of regret that he must do such evil action are, for he, in fact, could have said no, and if Ferdinand is to be believed, he would have been rewarded for that better than for going through with it. When Bosola tells Ferdinand he executed "this bloody sentence"  on Ferdinand's authority, Ferdinand responds, Mine? Was I her judge?  Did any ceremonial form of law  Doom her to not-being? Did a complete jury  Deliver her conviction up i'th' court? , completely dismantling Bosola's attempts to believe that he was acting within a system, and that it was the system that was malicious, not he himself.  It is a tribute to Webster's talent that we can both despise Bosola for his actions and pity him for his feelings of helplessness before social expectation, and all the while believe those contradictions.

Ferdinand asks Bosola how the Duchess is holding up in her imprisonment. Bosola's kind of impressed, actually. She's understandably sad, but he finds her calm and majestic acceptance of her situation to be really noble. As directed by Ferdinand, Bosola tells the Duchess that Ferdinand regrets saying he'd never see her again, and wants to make up with her in the dead of night. Bosola tells her that Ferdinand wants it to be totally dark when he reconciles with her, so all of the torches are removed. Ferdinand comes in, and instead of reconciling the first thing he does is make a crack about the Duchess's supposedly illegitimate children. He says he's come to make peace with her, though, and tells her that he's holding out his hand for her to kiss. Okay, brace yourselves, because this is gross: it's actually the severed hand of a dead man. The Duchess, not being able to see a thing, kisses the hand, and remarks that Ferdinand must be coming down with something for his hand to be so cold. Ferdinand leaves, and the lights are brought back in, suddenly, and the Duchess recoils, realizing what Ferdinand's done. That's not all, though; as the lights come on Bosola presents the Duchess with the dead bodies of Antonio and her children, and tells her that the dead hand she just kissed was Antonio's. You thought the Duchess was in a glum mood before? She goes from her whole "noble acceptance" thing to professing that, at this point, she has absolutely no wish to live. She and Bosola go back and forth for a little while, with the main takeaway being that the Duchess is really, really done with life by now. She just wants to die, sooner rather than later, if Bosola can manage it. She and Cariola leave, and Ferdinand, who's been watching the entire time, is pleased as punch with the results his spectacle has wrought. Spectacle? Yep--apparently, those bodies we just saw were made of wax; Ferdinand planned the entire thing to psychologically torture the Duchess ). Hint: if you've been wondering if Ferdinand is a Real Bad Guy, this should tip you off. At this point, even Bosola's having some issues with what's going down. He asks Ferdinand to stop messing with the Duchess, and to give her some recourse to mourn for her supposedly dead family. Ferdinand could care less about Bosola's newly discovered sense of pity, and tells Bosola he's going to need him to do some more stuff for him. First up: Bosola's got to round up a posse of madmen from the local insane asylum and bring them in front of the Duchess. Bosola's not pleased, but Ferdinand closes the scene by telling him that he's going to have him go after Antonio as well.


Scene II

       [Enter] DUCHESS and CARIOLA

  DUCHESS.  What hideous noise was that?

  CARIOLA.                                'Tis the wild consort[105]
  Of madmen, lady, which your tyrant brother
  Hath plac'd about your lodging.  This tyranny,
  I think, was never practis'd till this hour.

  DUCHESS.  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.

  CARIOLA.  O, 'twill increase your melancholy!

  DUCHESS.                                       Thou art deceiv'd:
  To hear of greater grief would lessen mine.
  This is a prison?

  CARIOLA.           Yes, but you shall live
  To shake this durance off.

  DUCHESS.                    Thou art a fool:
  The robin-red-breast and the nightingale
  Never live long in cages.

  CARIOLA.                   Pray, dry your eyes.
  What think you of, madam?

  DUCHESS.                   Of nothing;
  When I muse thus, I sleep.

  CARIOLA.  Like a madman, with your eyes open?

  DUCHESS.  Dost thou think we shall know one another
  In th' other world?

  CARIOLA.             Yes, out of question.

  DUCHESS.  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:
  Th' 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 tann'd galley-slave is with his oar;
  Necessity makes me suffer constantly,
  And custom makes it easy.  Who do I look like now?

  CARIOLA.  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.

  DUCHESS.                      Very proper;
  And Fortune seems only to have her eye-sight
  To behold my tragedy.--How now!
  What noise is that?

       [Enter Servant]

  SERVANT.             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[106] of madmen, which wild object
  Being full of change and sport, forc'd him to laugh,
  And so the imposthume[107] broke:  the self-same cure
  The duke intends on you.

  DUCHESS.                  Let them come in.

  SERVANT.  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 craz'd 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 employ'd him in each morning;
  A farmer, too, an excellent knave in grain,[108]
  Mad 'cause he was hind'red transportation:[109]
  And let one broker that 's mad loose to these,
  You'd think the devil were among them.

  DUCHESS.  Sit, Cariola.--Let them loose when you please,
  For I am chain'd to endure all your tyranny.

       [Enter Madman]

       Here by a Madman this song is sung to a dismal kind of music

  O, let us howl some heavy note,
    Some deadly dogged 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 cloy'd your ears
    And corrosiv'd your hearts.
  At last, whenas our choir wants breath,
    Our bodies being blest,
  We 'll sing, like swans, to welcome death,
    And die in love and rest.

  FIRST MADMAN.  Doom's-day not come yet!  I 'll draw it nearer by
  a perspective,[110] 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.

  SECOND 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.

  FIRST MADMAN.  I have skill in heraldry.

  SECOND MADMAN.  Hast?

  FIRST MADMAN.  You do give for your crest a woodcock's head
  with the brains picked out on 't; you are a very ancient gentleman.

  THIRD MADMAN.  Greek is turned Turk:  we are only to be saved by
  the Helvetian translation.[111]

  FIRST MADMAN.  Come on, sir, I will lay the law to you.

  SECOND MADMAN.  O, rather lay a corrosive:  the law will eat
  to the bone.

  THIRD MADMAN.  He that drinks but to satisfy nature is damn'd.

  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?

  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?

  DUCHESS.                             Who would be afraid on 't,
  Knowing to meet such excellent company
  In th' other world?

  BOSOLA.  Yet, methinks,
  The manner of your death should much afflict you:
  This cord should terrify you.

  DUCHESS.                       Not a whit:
  What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut
  With diamonds? or to be smothered
  With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls?
  I know death hath ten thousand several doors
  For men to take their exits; and 'tis found
  They go on such strange geometrical hinges,
  You may open them both ways:  any way, for heaven-sake,
  So I were out of your whispering.  Tell my brothers
  That I perceive death, now I am well awake,
  Best gift is they can give or I can take.
  I would fain put off my last woman's-fault,
  I 'd not be tedious to you.

  FIRST EXECUTIONER.           We are ready.

  DUCHESS.  Dispose my breath how please you; but my body
  Bestow upon my women, will you?

  FIRST EXECUTIONER.               Yes.

  DUCHESS.  Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength
  Must pull down heaven upon me:--
  Yet stay; heaven-gates are not so highly arch'd
  As princes' palaces; they that enter there
  Must go upon their knees [Kneels].--Come, violent death,
  Serve for mandragora to make me sleep!--
  Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out,
  They then may feed in quiet.
       They strangle her.

  BOSOLA.  Where 's the waiting-woman??
  Fetch her:  some other strangle the children.
       [Enter CARIOLA]
  Look you, there sleeps your mistress.

  CARIOLA.                               O, you are damn'd
  Perpetually for this!  My turn is next;
  Is 't not so ordered?

  BOSOLA.                Yes, and I am glad
  You are so well prepar'd for 't.

  CARIOLA.                          You are deceiv'd, sir,
  I am not prepar'd for 't, I will not die;
  I will first come to my answer,[118] and know
  How I have offended.

  BOSOLA.               Come, despatch her.--
  You kept her counsel; now you shall keep ours.

  CARIOLA.  I will not die, I must not; I am contracted
  To a young gentleman.

  FIRST EXECUTIONER.     Here 's your wedding-ring.

  CARIOLA.  Let me but speak with the duke.  I 'll discover
  Treason to his person.

  BOSOLA.                 Delays:--throttle her.

  FIRST EXECUTIONER.  She bites and scratches.

  CARIOLA.                                      If you kill me now,
  I am damn'd; I have not been at confession
  This two years.

  BOSOLA.  [To Executioners.] When?[119]

  CARIOLA.                           I am quick with child.

  BOSOLA.                                                    Why, then,
  Your credit 's saved.
       [Executioners strangle Cariola.]
                         Bear her into the next room;
  Let these lie still.
       [Exeunt the Executioners with the body of CARIOLA.]

       [Enter FERDINAND]

  FERDINAND.            Is she dead?

  BOSOLA.                             She is what
  You 'd have her.  But here begin your pity:
       Shows the Children strangled.
  Alas, how have these offended?

  FERDINAND.                      The death
  Of young wolves is never to be pitied.

  BOSOLA.  Fix your eye here.

  FERDINAND.                   Constantly.

  BOSOLA.                                   Do you not weep?
  Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out.
  The element of water moistens the earth,
  But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens.

  FERDINAND.  Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle:  she died young.

  BOSOLA.  I think not so; her infelicity
  Seem'd to have years too many.

  FERDINAND.  She and I were twins;
  And should I die this instant, I had liv'd
  Her time to a minute.

  BOSOLA.                It seems she was born first:
  You have bloodily approv'd the ancient truth,
  That kindred commonly do worse agree
  Than remote strangers.

  FERDINAND.              Let me see her face
  Again.  Why didst thou not pity her?  What
  An excellent honest man mightst thou have been,
  If thou hadst borne her to some sanctuary!
  Or, bold in a good cause, oppos'd thyself,
  With thy advanced sword above thy head,
  Between her innocence and my revenge!
  I bade thee, when I was distracted of my wits,
  Go kill my dearest friend, and thou hast done 't.
  For let me but examine well the cause:
  What was the meanness of her match to me?
  Only I must confess I had a hope,
  Had she continu'd widow, to have gain'd
  An infinite mass of treasure by her death:
  And that was the main cause,--her marriage,
  That drew a stream of gall quite through my heart.
  For thee, as we observe in tragedies
  That a good actor many times is curs'd
  For playing a villain's part, I hate thee for 't,
  And, for my sake, say, thou hast done much ill well.

  BOSOLA.  Let me quicken your memory, for I perceive
  You are falling into ingratitude:  I challenge
  The reward due to my service.

  FERDINAND.                     I 'll tell thee
  What I 'll give thee.

  BOSOLA.                Do.

  FERDINAND.                  I 'll give thee a pardon
  For this murder.

  BOSOLA.           Ha!

  FERDINAND.             Yes, and 'tis
  The largest bounty I can study to do thee.
  By what authority didst thou execute
  This bloody sentence?

  BOSOLA.                By yours.

  FERDINAND.  Mine! was I her judge?
  Did any ceremonial form of law
  Doom her to not-being?  Did a complete jury
  Deliver her conviction up i' the court?
  Where shalt thou find this judgment register'd,
  Unless in hell?  See, like a bloody fool,
  Thou 'st forfeited thy life, and thou shalt die for 't.

  BOSOLA.  The office of justice is perverted quite
  When one thief hangs another.  Who shall dare
  To reveal this?

  FERDINAND.       O, I 'll tell thee;
  The wolf shall find her grave, and scrape it up,
  Not to devour the corpse, but to discover
  The horrid murder.

  BOSOLA.             You, not I, shall quake for 't.

  FERDINAND.  Leave me.

  BOSOLA.                I will first receive my pension.

  FERDINAND.  You are a villain.

  BOSOLA.                         When your ingratitude
  Is judge, I am so.

  FERDINAND.          O horror,
  That not the fear of him which binds the devils
  Can prescribe man obedience!--
  Never look upon me more.

  BOSOLA.                   Why, fare thee well.
  Your brother and yourself are worthy men!
  You have a pair of hearts are hollow graves,
  Rotten, and rotting others; and your vengeance,
  Like two chain'd-bullets, still goes arm in arm:
  You may be brothers; for treason, like the plague,
  Doth take much in a blood.  I stand like one
  That long hath ta'en a sweet and golden dream:
  I am angry with myself, now that I wake.

  FERDINAND.  Get thee into some unknown part o' the world,
  That I may never see thee.

  BOSOLA.                     Let me know
  Wherefore I should be thus neglected.  Sir,
  I serv'd your tyranny, and rather strove
  To satisfy yourself than all the world:
  And though I loath'd the evil, yet I lov'd
  You that did counsel it; and rather sought
  To appear a true servant than an honest man.

  FERDINAND.  I 'll go hunt the badger by owl-light:
  'Tis a deed of darkness.
       Exit.

  BOSOLA.  He 's much distracted.  Off, my painted honour!
  While with vain hopes our faculties we tire,
  We seem to sweat in ice and freeze in fire.
  What would I do, were this to do again?
  I would not change my peace of conscience
  For all the wealth of Europe.--She stirs; here 's life:--
  Return, fair soul, from darkness, and lead mine
  Out of this sensible hell:--she 's warm, she breathes:--
  Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart,
  To store them with fresh colour.--Who 's there?
  Some cordial drink!--Alas!  I dare not call:
  So pity would destroy pity.--Her eye opes,
  And heaven in it seems to ope, that late was shut,
  To take me up to mercy.

  DUCHESS.  Antonio!

  BOSOLA.             Yes, madam, he is living;
  The dead bodies you saw were but feign'd statues.
  He 's reconcil'd to your brothers; the Pope hath wrought
  The atonement.

  DUCHESS.        Mercy!
       Dies.

  BOSOLA.  O, she 's gone again! there the cords of life broke.
  O sacred innocence, that sweetly sleeps
  On turtles' feathers, whilst a guilty conscience
  Is a black register wherein is writ
  All our good deeds and bad, a perspective
  That shows us hell!  That we cannot be suffer'd
  To do good when we have a mind to it!
  This is manly sorrow;
  These tears, I am very certain, never grew
  In my mother's milk.  My estate is sunk
  Below the degree of fear:  where were
  These penitent fountains while she was living?
  O, they were frozen up!  Here is a sight
  As direful to my soul as is the sword
  Unto a wretch hath slain his father.
  Come, I 'll bear thee hence,
  And execute thy last will; that 's deliver
  Thy body to the reverend dispose
  Of some good women:  that the cruel tyrant
  Shall not deny me.  Then I 'll post to Milan,
  Where somewhat I will speedily enact
  Worth my dejection.
       Exit [with the body].

Cariola explains to the Duchess that the noises they hear are coming from the madmen that Ferdinand has placed all around her prison. The Duchess tells her that it is actually comforting--silence is worse--and that though she is in despair, she remains sane. A servant enters to explain that Ferdinand has sent her several madmen to try to cure her sadness by making her laugh at them, a trick that previously worked on the Pope. The servant tells her about each one, and then brings them in. They sing, dance, and act crazy. The madmen include: the Mad Astronomer, who lost his mind when his prediction of the apocalypse proved incorrect; the Mad Doctor, who lost his mind due to jealousy; the Mad Priest; and the Mad Lawyer. Bosola, disguised like an old man, enters last, after which the madmen leave. Bosola, whom she does not recognize, tells the Duchess that he has come to design her tomb. She protests that she isn't ill, and that she is still Duchess of Malfi, and he tells her that such glories mean nothing up close. The executioners enter with a coffin, cords, and a bell, and Bosola tells her this is her present from her brothers. Cariola wants to call for help, but the only ones that might hear her are the nearby madmen. Bosola order the executioners to shut her up, and Cariola says she wants to die with the Duchess. She is taken off stage. Bosola tells the Duchess she will die by strangulation, and is surprised that she is not afraid, but rather ancticipates meeting her family in the afterlife. The executioners strangle her, and Bosola tells them to next kill Cariola and the children. Cariola demands to know what crime she has committed to deserve death, and Bosola tells her she is being punished for keeping the Duchess's marriage a secret. She protests as they try to kill her, saying she is engaged, she hasn't been to confession, and she is pregnant, but they kill her anyway. Ferdinand enters, and Bosola shows him the dead bodies. Ferdinand is unmoved by the corpses of the children, but cries at the sight of the Duchess, and berates Bosola for following his orders and not taking her away to safety or defending her from Ferdinand. Ferdinand admits he was hoping she wouldn't remarry so that he could inherit her fortune, which is why her marriage so incensed him. Bosola, seeing Ferdinand is quickly turning against him, asks for his reward. Ferdinand refuses to give him anything beyond pardoning him for the murder. Bosola insists he be paid, but Ferdinand tells him to banish himself from Ferdinand's sight forever. Ferdinand, showing signs of his coming madness, says he is leaving to hunt badger, and exits. Bosola is greatly distressed, seeing that he has done all this evil for no reward. He notices the Duchess is still alive, but fears calling for help since Ferdinand might still be within range. She says, "Antonio," , and Bosola quickly tells her that he is alive and has been pardoned, not dead as she believed, and then she dies. He confesses in a soliloquy that he feels repentant, and wonders how he can make amends or gain revenge.

The Duchess and Cariola hear some noises, only to discover that Ferdinand has transported all of the local lunatics to her living space. The Duchess barely bats an eye: she's already endured the worst possible thing that can happen to her , and explains to the Cariola that she's not actually crazy, she's just resigned to the fact that Fate is really, really stacked against her. Her response to the servant who comes in and tells her she's going to have to watch a bunch of insane people cavort and scream around her? "Bring it on." Then follows a scene that you basically can't summarize. Go read it, for full affect. Basically, you get to watch the Crazy People Parade for a while, which consists of a bunch of lunatics saying dark, socially cynical and scary things. While dancing and singing. Creepily. They eventually leave, and Bosola comes in, dressed as an old man. He tells the Duchess that he's here to make her tomb, and when she tries to explain, "hey, I'm the Duchess of Malfi, who the hell do you think you are?" He tells her, "yeah, I'm sure you're a noble lady, but moreover you're a soul trapped in a body, waiting for death." The executioners come in with a rope, and the Duchess, seeing where things are going, assures Cariola that she isn't frightened. Cariola, however, freaks out, and has to be taken away by the guards. Now it's down to Bosola, the Duchess and her executioners. Bosola tells her that the executioners are here to strangle her, and the Duchess, without missing a beat, forgives them: how is being strangled by an executioner any different than dying by a stroke, or being shot to death with pearls? All death is the same to her, and at this point she just wants it over with, so that she can join her murdered family in heaven. She kneels down, and the executioners strangle her. Bosola orders the men to fetch Cariola, and to kill the children, who are apparently being kept somewhere else in the palace. Cariola is brought in, and, unlike the Duchess, is definitely not about to go gentle into that good night. She tries every trick in the book to convince Bosola not to kill her: "I'm engaged! Wait, no, I'm pregnant! I have dirt on one of the Dukes!" No dice: she's strangled with little hesitation. Ferdinand checks in, and Bosola shows him that the Duchess is, per his orders, dead. Bosola tries to guilt Ferdinand, asking him why the children deserved to die. Yeah, guilt is clearly not Ferdinand's thing--it's enough that the children were the offspring of the Duchess to order their deaths. Then, Ferdinand does the unexpected. He tries guilting Bosola: "Why did you kill the Duchess? If you were a good guy, you would have protected her from me. All she did was remarry, and, what, we kill her for that? You're a jerk, Bosola, and I hate you." Bosola is, understandably, kind of gobsmacked. "Are you kidding me, buddy? You commissioned me to spy on her and then kill her. You know what, I'm done, just give me my money and we'll call it even." Ferdinand, instead of paying up, offers to forgive Bosola for the murder. You know, the murder that he himself ordered and arranged. Bosola is not happy. He says, "look, I'm not a bad guy; I hated all that stuff I did for you, but I wanted to serve you well, so I did it." Ferdinand could care less about Bosola's moral qualms, and leaves. Bosola is in the middle of proclaiming how he's a changed man, when, out of the blue, the Duchess stirs. For one beautiful moment, everyone thinks that the executioners failed Strangling Class, and that the Duchess is going to make it. Bosola's elated--maybe he has some recourse to forgiveness, after all. The Duchess blearily asks after Antonio, and Bosola immediately tells her that Antonio's alive and that the Pope himself has reconciled him and her brothers. And then she dies. For real this time. What can we say? This is a Webster play; life is harsh. Bosola, knowing she's truly dead now, grieves for her, and promises to take care of her body and to hightail it over to Milan .