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.
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