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.
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