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SCENE XIII
Enter Heronimo, with a book in his hand.
Her. Vindicta mihi!
Ay, heav'n will be reveng'd of every ill;
Nor will they suffer murder unrepaid.
Then stay, Hieronimo, attend their will:
For mortal men may not appoint their time!—
'Per scelus semper tutum est sceleribus iter.'
Strike, and strike home, where wrong is offer'd thee;
For evils unto ills conductors be,
And death's the worst of resolution.
For he that thinks with patience to contend
To quiet life, his life shall easily end.—
'Fata si miseros juvant, habes salutem;
Fata si vitam negant, habes sepulchrum':
If destiny thy miseries do ease,
Then hast thou health, and happy shalt thou be;
If destiny deny thee life, Hieronimo,
Yet shalt thou be assured of a tomb—:
If neither, yet let this thy comfort be:
Heav'n cov'reth him that hath no burial.
And to conclude, I will revenge his death!
But how? not as the vulgar wits of men,
With open, but inevitable ills,
As by a secret, yet a certain mean,
Which under kindship will be cloakèd best.
Wise men will take their opportunity
Closely and safely, fitting things to time,—
But in extremes advantage hath no time;
And therefore all times fit not for revenge.
Thus therefore will I rest me in unrest,
Dissembling quiet in unquietness,
Not seeming that I know their villanies,
That my simplicity may make them think,
That ignorantly I will let all slip;
For ignorance, I wot, and well they know.
Remedium malorum iners est.
Nor ought avails it me to menace them
Who, as a wintry storm upon a plain,
Will bear me down with their nobility.
No, no, Hieronimo, thou must enjoin
Thine eyes to observation, and thy tongue
To milder speeches than thy spirit affords,
Thy heart to patience, and thy hands to rest,
Thy cap to courtesy, and thy knee to bow,
Till to revenge thou know, when, where and how.
[A noise within.
How now, what noise? what coil is that you keep?
Enter a Servant.
Serv. Here are a sort of poor petitioners,
That are importunate, and it shall please you, sir,
That you should plead their cases to the king.
Hier. That I should plead their several actions?
Why, let them enter, and let me see them.
Enter three Citizens and an Old Man.
1. So,
I tell you this: for learning and for law,
There is not any advocate in Spain
That can prevail, or will take half the pain
That he will, in pursuit of equity.
Hier. Come near, you men, that thus importune me.—
[Aside.] Now must I bear a face of gravity;
For thus I us'd, before my marshalship,
To plead in causes as corregidor.—
Come on, sirs, what's the matter?
2. Sir, an action.
Hier. Of battery?
1. Mine of debt.
Hier. Give place.
2. No, sir, mine is an action of the case.
3. Mine an ejectione firmae by a lease.
Hier. Content you, sirs; are you determinèd
That I should plead your several actions?
1. Ay, sir, and here's my declaration.
2. And here's my band.
3. And here's my lease.
[They give him papers.
Hier. But wherefore stands yon silly man so mute,
With mournful eyes and hands to heav'n uprear'd?
Come hither, father, let me know thy cause.
Senex. O worthy sir, my cause, but slightly known,
May move the hearts of warlike Myrmidons,
And melt the Corsic rocks with ruthful tears.
Hier. Say, father, tell me what's thy suit?
Senex. No, sir, could my woes
Give way unto my most distressful words,
Then should I not in paper, as you see,
With ink bewray what blood began in me.
Hier. What's here? 'The humble supplication
Of Don Bazulto for his murder'd son.'
Senex. Ay, sir.
Hier. No, sir, it was my murder'd son:
O my son, my son, O my son Horatio!
But mine, or thine, Bazulto, be content.
Here, take my handkercher, and wipe thine eyes,
Whiles wretched I in thy mishaps may see
The lively portrait of my dying self.
[He draweth out a bloody napkin.
O no, not this; Horatio, this was thine;
And when I dy'd it in thy dearest blood,
This was a token 'twixt thy soul and me,
That of thy death revenged I should be.
But here, take this, and this—what, my purse?
Ay, this, and that, and all of them are thine;
For all as one are our extremities.
1. O, see the kindness of Hieronimo!
2. This gentleness shows him a gentleman.
Hier. See, see, O see thy shame, Hieronimo;
See here a loving father to his son!
Behold the sorrows and the sad laments,
That he deliv'reth for his son's decease!
If love's effects so strive in lesser things,
If love enforce such moods in meaner wits,
If love express such power in poor estates:
Hieronimo, when as a raging sea,
Toss'd with the wind and tide, o'erturnest then
The upper billows course of waves to keep,
Whilst lesser waters labour in the deep:
Then sham'st thou not, Hieronimo, to neglect
The sweet revenge of thy Horatio?
Though on this earth justice will not be found,
I'll down to hell, and in this passion
Knock at the dismal gates of Pluto's court,
Getting by force, as once Alcides did,
A troop of Furies and tormenting hags
To torture Don Lorenzo and the rest.
Yet lest the triple-headed porter should
Deny my passage to the slimy strand,
The Thracian poet thou shalt counterfeit:
Come on, old father, be my Orpheus,
And if thou canst no notes upon the harp,
Then sound the burden of thy sore hearts-grief,
Till we do gain that Proserpine may grant
Revenge on them that murdered my son.
Then will I rent and tear them, thus and thus,
Shiv'ring their limbs in pieces with my teeth.
[Tears the papers.
1. O sir, my. declaration!
[Exit Hieronimo, and they after.
2. Save my bond!
Enter Hieronimo.
Save my bond!
3. Alas, my lease! it cost me ten pound,
And you my lord, have torn the same.
Hier. That cannot be, I gave it never a wound;
Show me one drop of blood fall from the same:
How is it possible I should slay it then?
Tush, no; run after, catch me if you can.
[Exeunt all but the Old Man.
Bazulto remains till Hieronimo enters again, who, staring him in the face, speaks.
Hier. And art thou come, Horatio, from the depth,
To ask for justice in this upper earth,
To tell thy father thou art unreveng'd,
To wring more tears from Isabella's eyes,
Whose lights are dimm'd with over-long laments?
Go back, my son, complain to Aeacus,
For here's no justice; gentle boy, be gone,
For justice is exited from the earth:
Hieronimo will bear thee company.
Thy mother cries on righteous Rhadamanth
For just revenge against the murderers.
Senex. Alas, my lord, whence springs this troubled speech?
Hier. But let me look on my Horatio.
Sweet boy, how art thou changed in death's black shade!
Had Proserpine no pity on thy youth,
But suffer'd thy fair crimson-colour'd spring
With withe'd winter to be blasted thus?
Horatio, thou art older than thy father:
Ah, ruthless fate, that favour thus transforms!
Baz. Ah, my good lord, I am not your young son.
Hier. What, not my son? thou then a Fury art,
Sent from the empty kingdom of black night
To summon me to make appearance
Before grim Minos and just Rhadamanth,
To plague Hieronimo that is remiss,
And seeks not vengeance for Horatio's death.
Baz. I am a grievèd man, and not a ghost,
That came for justice for my murder'd son.
Hier. Ay, now I know thee, now thou nam'st thy son:
Thou art the lively image of my grief;
Within thy face, my sorrows I may see.
Thy eyes are gumm'd with tears, thy cheeks are wan,
Thy forehead troubled, and thy mutt'ring lips
Murmur sad words abruptly broken off;
By force of windy sighs thy spirit breathes,
And all this sorrow riseth for thy son:
And selfsame sorrow feel I for my son.
Come in, old man, them shalt to Isabel;
Lean on my arm: I thee, thou me, shalt stay.
And thou, and I, and she will sing a song,
Three parts in one, but all of discords fram'd—:
Talk not of chords, but let us now be gone,
For with a cord Horatio was slain.
[Exeunt.
