No More Learning

I never knew what the mad felt
Before; for I am mad beyond all doubt! _25
[MORE WILDLY. ]
No, I am dead! These putrefying limbs
Shut round and sepulchre the panting soul
Which would burst forth into the wandering air!
[A PAUSE. ]
What hideous thought was that I had even now?
'Tis gone; and yet its burthen remains here _30
O'er these dull eyes. . . upon this weary heart!
O, world! O, life! O, day! O, misery!

LUCRETIA:
What ails thee, my poor child?
She answers not:
Her spirit apprehends the sense of pain,
But not its cause; suffering has dried away _35
The source from which it sprung. . .

BEATRICE [FRANTICLY]:
Like Parricide. . .
Misery has killed its father: yet its father
Never like mine. . . O, God! What thing am I?

LUCRETIA:
My dearest child, what has your father done?

BEATRICE [DOUBTFULLY]:
Who art thou, questioner? I have no father. _40
[ASIDE. ]
She is the madhouse nurse who tends on me,
It is a piteous office.