A monologue from the play by John Webster
Act – 4, Scene – 2
Oh 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 tanned galley-slave is with his oar.
Necessity makes me suffer constantly,
And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now?