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SCENE III
Enter Hieronimo; he knocks up the curtain.
Enter the Duke of Castile.
Cast. How now, Hieronimo, where's your fellows,
That you take all this pain?
Hier. O sir, it is for the author's credit,
To look that all things may go well.
But, good my lord, let me entreat your grace,
To give the king the copy of the play:
This is the argument of what we show.
Cast. I will, Hieronimo.
Hier. One thing more, my good lord.
Cast. What's that?
Hier. Let me entreat your grace
That, when the train are pass'd into the gallery,
You would vouchsafe to throw me down the key.
Cast. I will, Hieronimo.
[Exit Castile.
Hier. What, are you ready, Balthazar?
Bring a chair and a cushion for the king.
Enter Balthazar, with a chair.
Well done, Balthazar! hang up the title:
Our scene is Rhodes;—what, is your beard on?
Bal. Half on; the other is in my hand.
Hier. Despatch for shame; are you so long?
[Exit Balthazar.
Bethink thyself, Hieronimo,
Recall thy wits, recount thy former wrongs
Thou hast receiv'd by murder of thy son,
And lastly—not least!—how Isabel,
Once his mother and thy dearest wife,
All woe-begone for him, hath slain herself.
Behoves thee then, Hieronimo, to be reveng'd!
The plot is laid of dire revenge:
On, then, Hieronimo, pursue revenge;
For nothing wants but acting of revenge!
[Exit Hieronimo
SCENE IV
Enter Spanish King, Viceroy, the Duke of Castile, and their train.
King. Now, Viceroy, shall we see the tragedy
Of Soliman, the Turkish emperor,
Perform'd—of pleasure—by your son the prince,
My nephew Don Lorenzo, and my niece.
Vic. Who? Bellimperia?
King. Ay, and Hieronimo, our marshal,
At whose request they deign to do't themselves:
These be our pastimes in the court of Spain.
Here, brother, you shall be the bookkeeper:
This is the argument of that they show.
[He giveth him a book.
Gentlemen, this play of Hieronimo, in sundry languages, was thought good to be set down in English more largely, for the easier understanding to every public reader.
Enter Balthazar, Bellimperia, and Hieronimo.
Bal. Bashaw, that Rhodes is ours, yield heav'ns the honour,
And holy Mahomet, our sacred prophet!
And be thou graced with every excellence
That Soliman can give, or thou desire.
But thy desert in conquering Rhodes is less
Than in reserving this fair Christian nymph,
Perseda, blissful lamp of excellence,
Whose eyes compel, like powerful adamant
The warlike heart of Soliman to wait.
King. See, Viceroy, that is Balthazar, your son,
That represents the emperor Soliman:
How well he acts his amorous passion!
Vic. Ay, Bellimperia hath taught him that.
Cast. That's because his mind runs all on Bellimperia.
Hier. Whatever joy earth yields, betide your majesty.
Bal. Earth yields no joy without Perseda's love.
Hier. Let then Perseda on your grace attend.
Bal. She shall not wait on me, but I on her:
Drawn by the influence of her lights, I yield.
But let my friend, the Rhodian knight, come forth,
Erasto, dearer than my life to me,
That he may see Perseda, my belov'd.
Enter Erasto.
King. Here comes Lorenzo: look upon the plot,
And tell me, brother, what part plays he?
Bel. Ah, my Erasto, welcome to Perseda.
Lor. Thrice happy is Erasto that thou litv'st;
Rhodes' loss is nothing to Erasto's joy:
Sith his Perseda lives, his life survives.
Bal. Ah, bashaw, here is love between Erasto
And fair Perseda, sovereign of my soul.
Hier. Remove Erasto, mighty Soliman,
And then Perseda will be quickly won.
Bal. Erasto is my friend; and while he lives,
Perseda never will remove her love.
Hier. Let not Erasto live to grieve great Soliman.
Bal. Dear is Erasto in our princely eye.
Hier. But if he be your rival, let him die.
Bal. Why, let him die!—so love commandeth me.
Yet grieve I that Erasto should so die.
Hier. Erasto, Soliman saluteth thee,
And lets thee wit by me his highnesf will,
Which ist thou shouldst be thus employ'd.
[Stabs him.
Bel. Ay me!
Erasto! see, Soliman, Erasto's slain!
Bal. Yet liveth Soliman to comfort thee.
Fair queen of beauty, let not favour die,
But with a gracious eye behold his grief,
That with Perseda's beauty is increas'd,
If by Perseda his grief be not releas'd.
Bel. Tyrant, desist soliciting vain suits;
Relentless are mine ears to thy laments,
As thy butcher is pitiless and base,
Which seiz'd on my Erasto, harmless knight.
Yet by thy power thou thinkest to command,
And to thy power Perseda doth obey:
But, were she able, thus she would revenge
Thy treacheries on thee, ignoble prince:
[Stabs him.
And on herself she would be thus reveng'd.
[Stabs herself.
King. Well said!—Old marshal, this was bravely done!
Hier. But Bellimperia plays Perseda well!
Vic. Were this in earnest, Bellimperia,
You would be better to my son than so.
King. But now what follows for Hieronimo?
Hier. Marry, this follows for Hieronimo:
Here break we off our sundry languages,
And thus conclude I in our vulgar tongue.
Haply you think—but bootless are your thoughts
That this is fabulously counterfeit,
And that we do as all tragedians do:
To die to-day (for fashioning our scene)
The death of Ajax or some Roman peer,
And in a minute starting up again,
Revive to please to-morrow's audience.
No, princes; know I am Hieronimo,
The hopeless father of a hapless son,
Whose tongue is tun'd to tell his latest tale,
Not to excuse gross errors in the play.
I see, your looks urge instance of these words;
Behold the reason urging me to this:
[Shows his dead son.
See here my show, look on this spectacle:
Here lay my hope, and here my hope hath end;
Here lay my heart, and here my heart was slain;
Here lay my treasure, here my treasure lost;
Here lay my bliss, and here my bliss bereft:
But hope, heart, treasure, joy, and bliss,
All fled, fail'd, died, yea, all decay'd with this.
From forth these wounds came breath that gave me life
They murdered me that made these fatal marks.
The cause was love, whence grew this mortal hate;
The hate: Lorenzo and young Balthazar;
The love: my son to Bellimperia.
But night, the cov'rer of accursèd crimes,
With pitchy silence hush'd these traitors' harms,
And lent them leave, for they had sorted leisure
To take advantage in my garden-plot
Upon my son, my dear Horatio:
There merciless they butcher'd up my boy,
In black, dark night, to pale, dim, cruel death.
He shrieks: I heard (and yet, methinks, I hear)
His dismal outcry echo in the air.
With soonest speed I hasted to the noise,
Where hanging on a tree I found my son,
Through-girt with wounds, and slaughter'd as you see.
And griev'd I, think you, at this spectacle?
Speak, Portuguese, whose loss resembles mine:
If thou canst weep upon thy Balthazar,
'Tis like I wail'd for my Horatio.
And you, my lord, whose reconcilèd son
March'd in a net, and thought himself unseen,
And rated me for brainsick lunacy,
With 'God amend that mad Hieronimo!'
How can you brook our play's catastrophe?
And here behold this bloody hand-kercher,
Which at Horatio's death I weeping dipp'd
Within the river of his bleeding wounds
It as propitious, see, I have reserv'd,
And never hath it left my bloody heart,
Soliciting remembrance of my vow
With these, O, these accursèd murderers:
Which now perform'd my heart is satisfied.
And to this end the bashaw I became
That might revenge me on Lorenzo's life,
Who therefore was appointed to the part,
And was to represent the knight of Rhodes,
That I might kill him more conveniently.
So, Viceroy, was this Balthazar, thy son,
That Soliman which Bellimperia,
In person of Perseda, murderèd:
Solely appointed to that tragic part
That she might slay him that offended her.
Poor Bellimperia miss'd her part in this:
For though the story saith she should have died,
Yet I of kindness, and of care to her,
Did otherwise determine of her end;
But love of him whom they did hate too much
Did urge her resolution to be such.—
And, princes, now behold Hieronimo,
Author and actor in this tragedy,
Bearing his latest fortune in his fist;
And will as resolute conclude his part,
As any of the actors gone before.
And, gentles, thus I end my play;
Urge no more words: I have no more to say.
[He runs to hang himself.
King. O hearken, Viceroy! Hold, Hieronimo!
Brother, my nephew and thy son are slain!
Vic. We are betray'd; my Balthazar is slain!
Break ope the doors; run, save Hieronimo.
[They break in and hold Hieronimo.
Hieronimo, do but inform the king of these events;
Upon mine honour, thou shalt have no harm.
Hier. Viceroy, I will not trust thee with my life,
Which I this day have offer'd to my son.
Accursèd wretch! Why stay'st thou him that was resolv'd to die?
King. Speak, traitor! damnèd, bloody murd'rer, speak!
For now I have thee, I will make thee speak.
Why hast thou done this undeserving deed?
Vic. Why hast thou murder'd my Balthazar?
Cast. Why hast thou butcher'd both my children thus?
Hier. O, good words!
As dear to me was my Horatio,
As yours, or yours, or yours, my lord, to you.
My guiltless son was by Lorenzo slain,
And by Lorenzo and that Balthazar
Am I at last revengèd thoroughly,
Upon whose souls may heav'ns be yet avenged
With greater far than these afflictions.
Cast. But who were thy confederates in this?
Vic. That was thy daughter Bellimperia;
For by her hand my Balthazar was slain:
I saw her stab him.
King. Why speak'st thou not?
Hier. What lesser liberty can kings afford
Than harmless silence? then afford it me.
Sufficeth, I may not, nor I will not tell thee.
King. Fetch forth the tortures: traitor as thou art,
I'll make thee tell.
Hier. Indeed,
Thou may'sy torment me, as his wretched son
Hath done in murd'ring my Horatio:
But never shalt thou force me to reveal
The thing which I have vow'd inviolate.
And therefore, in despite of all thy threats,
Pleas'd with their deaths, and eas'd with their revenge,
First take my tongue, and afterwards my heart.
[He bites out his tongue.
King. O monstrous resolution of a wretch!
See, Viceroy, he hath bitten forth his tongue,
Rather than to reveal what we requir'd.
Cast. Yet can he write.
King. And if in this he satisfy us not,
We will devise th' extremest kind of death
That ever was invented for a wretch.
[Then he makes signs for a knife to mend his pen.
Cast. O, he would have a knife to mend his pen.
Vic. Here, and advise thee that thou write the troth.—
Look to my brother! save Hieronimo!
[He with a knife stabs the duke and himself.
King. What age hath ever heard such monstrous deeds?
My brother, and the whole succeeding hope
That Spain expected after my decease!—
Go, bear his body hence, that we may mourn
The loss of our belovèd brother's death—:
That he may be entomb'd!—Whate'er befall,
I am the next, the nearest, last of all.
Vic. And thou, Don Pedro, do the like for us:
Take up our hapless son, untimely slain;
Set me with him, and he with woeful me,
Upon the main-mast of a ship unmann'd,
And let the wind and tide haul me along
To Scylla's barking and untamèd gulf,
Or to the loathsome pool of Acheron,
To weep my want for my sweet Balthazar:
Spain hath no refuge for a Portingal.
[The trumpets sound a dead march;
the King of Spain mourning after his brothers body,
and the King of Portingal bearing the body of his son.
