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[NOTE: All additions are bold italic in square brackets.]
ACT II, Scene V, 1602 additions between lines 45 and 46
SCENE V
Enter Hieronimo in his shirt, etc.
Hier. What outcries pluck me from my naked bed,
And chill my throbbing heart with trembling fear,
Which never danger yet could daunt before?
Who calls Hieronimo? speak, here I am.
I did not slumber; therefore 'twas no dream.
No, no, it was some woman cried for help;
And here within this garden did she cry;
And in this garden must I rescue her.—
But stay, what murd'rous spectacle is this?
A man h'ang'd up and all the murd'rers gone!
And in my bower, to lay the guilt on me!
This place was made for pleasure, not for death.
[He cuts him down.
Those garments that he wears I oft have seen—:
Alas, it is Horatio, my sweet son!
O no, but he that whilom was my son!
O, was it thou that call'dst me from my bed?
O speak, if any spark of life remain:
I am thy father; who hath slain my son?
What savage monster, not of human kind,
Hath here been glutted with thy harmless blood,
And left thy bloody corpse dishonour'd here,
For me, amidst these dark and deathful shades,
To drown thee with an ocean of my tears?
O heav'ns, why made you night to cover sin?
By day this deed of darkness had not been.
O earth, why didst thou not in time devour
The vild profaner of this sacred bow'r?
O poor Horatio, what hadst thou misdone,
To leese thy life, ere life was new begun?
O wicked butcher, whatsoe'er thou wert,
How could thou strangle virtue and desert?
Ay me most wretched, that have lost my joy,
In leesing my Horatio, my sweet boy!
Enter Isabella.
Isab. My husband's absence makes my heart to throb:—
Hieronimo!
Hier. Here, Isabella, help me to lament;
For sighs are stopp'd, and all my tears are spent.
Isab. What world of grief! my son Horatio!
O, where's the author of this endless woe?
Hier. To know the author were some ease of grief;
For in revenge my heart would find relief.
Isab. Then is he gone? and is my son gone too?
O, gush out, tears, fountains and floods of tears;
Blow, sighs, and raise an everlasting storm;
For outrage fits our cursèd wretchedness.
[Ay me, Hieronimo, sweet husband, speak!
Hier. He supp'd with us to-night, frolic and merry,
And said he would go visit Balthazar
At the duke's palace; there the prince doth lodge.
He had no custom to stay out so late:
He may be in his chamber; some go see.
Roderigo, ho!
Enter Pedro and Jaques.
Isab. Ay me, he raves! sweet Hieronimo.
Hier. True, all Spain takes note of it.
Besides, he is so generally belov'd;
His majesty the other day did grace him
With waiting on his cup: these be favours,
Which do assure me he cannot be short-liv'd.
Isab. Sweet Hieronimo!
Hier. I wonder how this fellow got his clothes!—
Sirrah, sirrah, I'll know the truth of all:
Jaques, run to the Duke of Castile presently,
And bid my son Horatio to come home:
I and his mother have had strange dreams to-night.
Do ye hear me, sir?
Jaques. Ay, sir.
Hier. Well, sir, be gone.
Pedro, come hither; know'st thou who this is?
Ped. Too well, sir.
Hier. Too well! who, who is it? Peace, Isabella!
Nay, blush not, man.
Ped. It is my lord Horatio.
Hier. Ha, ha, St. James! but this doth make me laugh,
That there are more deluded than myself.
Ped. Deluded?
Hier. Ay:
I would have sworn myself, within this hour,
That this had been my son Horatio:
His garments are so like.
Ha! are they not great persuasions?
Isab. O, would to God it were not so!
Hier. Were not, Isabella? dost thou dream it is?
Can thy soft bosom entertain a thought,
That such a black deed of mischief should be done
On one so pure and spotless as our son?
Away, I am ashamed.
Isab. Dear Hieronimo,
Cast a more serious eye upon thy grief:
Weak apprehension gives but weak belief.
Hier. It was a man, sure, that was hangd up here;
A youth, as I remember: I cut him down.
If it should prove my son now after all—
Say you? say you?— Light! lend me a taper;
Let me look again.—O God!
Confusion, mischief, torment, death and hell,
Drop all your stings at once in my cold bosom,
That now is stiff with horror: kill me quickly!
Be gracious to me, thou infective night,
And drop this deed of murder down on me;
Gird in my waste of grief with thy large darkness,
And let me not survive to see the light
May put me in the mind I had a son.
Isab. O sweet Horatio! O my dearest son!
Hier. How strangely had I lost my way to grief!]
Sweet, lovely rose, ill-pluck'd before thy time,
Fair, worthy son, not conquer'd, but betray'd,
I'll kiss thee now, for words with tears are stay'd.
Isab. And I'll close up the glasses of his sight,
For once these eyes were only my delight.
Hier. See'st thou this handkercher besmear'd with blood?
It shall not from me, till I take revenge.
See'st thou those wounds that yet are bleeding fresh?
I'll not entomb them, till I have revenge.
Then will I joy amidst my discontent;
Till then my sorrow never shall be spent.
Isab. The heav'ns are just; murder cannot be hid:
Time is the author both of truth and right,
And time will bring this treachery to light.
Hier. Meanwhile, good Isabella, cease thy plaints,
Or, at the least, dissemble them awhile:
So shall we sooner find the practice out,
And learn by whom all this was brought about.
Come, Isabel, now let us take him up,
[They take him up.
And bear him in from out this cursèd place.
I'll say his dirge; singing fits not this case.
O aliquis mihi quas pulchrum ver educat herbas,
[Hieronimo sets his breast unto his sword.
Misceat, & nostro detur medicina dolori;
Aut, si qui faciunt annorum oblivia, succos
Praebeat; ipse metam magnum quaecunque per orbem
Gramina Sol pulchras effert in luminis oras;
Ipse bibam quicquid meditatur saga veneni,
Quicquid & herbarum vi caeca nenia nectit:
Omnia perpetiar, lethum quoque, dum semel omnis
Noster in extincto moriatur pectore sensus.—
Ergo tuos oculos nunquam, mea vita, videbo,
Et tua perpetuus sepelivit lumina somnus?
Emoriar tecum: sic, sic juvat ire sub umbras.—
Attamen absistam properato cedere letho,
Ne mortem vindicta tuam tarn nulla sequatur.
[Here he throws it from him
and bears the body away.
ACT III, Scene II, 1602 replacement of line 65 and part of line 66
SCENE II
Enter Hieronimo.
Hier. O eyes! no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears;
O life! no life, but lively form of death
O world! no world, but mass of public wrongs,
Confus'd and fill'd with murder and misdeeds!
O sacred heav'ns! if this unhallow'd deed,
If this inhuman and barbarous attempt,
If this incomparable murder thus
Of mine, but now no more my son,
Shall unreveal'd and unrevengèd pass,
How should we term your dealings to be just,
If you unjustly deal with those that in your justice trust?
The night, sad secretary to my moans,
With direful visions wakes my vexèd soul,
And with the wounds of my distressful son
Solicits me for notice of his death.
The ugly fiends do sally forth of hell,
And frame my steps to unfrequented paths,
And fear my heart with fierce inflamèd thoughts.
The cloudy day my discontents records,
Early begins to register my dreams,
And drive me forth to seek the murtherer.
Eyes, life, world, heav'ns, hell, night, and day,
See, search, shew, send some man, some mean, that may—
[A letter falleth.
What's here? a letter? tush! it is not so!—
A letter written to Hieronimo!
[Red ink.
'For want of ink, receive this bloody writ:
Me hath my hapless brother hid from thee;
Revenge thyself on Balthazar and him:
For these were they that murderèd thy son.
Hieronimo, revenge Horatio's death,
And better fare than Bellimperia doth.'
What means this unexpected miracle?
My son slain by Lorenzo and the prince!
What cause had they Horatio to malign?
Or what might move thee, Bellimperia,
To accuse thy brother, had he been the mean?
Hieronimo, beware!—thou art betray'd,
And to entrap thy life this train is laid
Advise thee therefore, be not credulous:
This is devisèd to endanger thee,
That thou, by this, Lorenzo shouldst accuse;
And he, for thy dishonour done, should draw
Thy life in question and thy name in hate.
Dear was the life of my belovèd son,
And of his death behoves me be reveng'd:
Then hazard not thine own, Hieronimo,
But live t' effect thy resolution.
I therefore will by circumstances try,
What I can gather to confirm this writ;
And, heark'ning near the Duke of Castile's house,
Close, if I can, with Bellimperia,
To listen more, bat nothing to bewray.
Enter Pedringano.
Now, Pedringano!
Ped. Now, Hieronimo!
Hier. Where's thy lady?
Ped. I know not; here's my lord.
Enter Lorenzo.
Lor. How now, who's this? Hieronimo?
Hier. My lord—
Ped. He asketh for my lady Bellimperia.
Lor. What to do, Hieronimo? The duke, my father, hath,
Upon some disgrace, awhile remov'd her hence;
But if it be ought I may inform her of,
Tell me, Hieronimo, and I'll let her know it.
Hier. Nay, nay, my lord, I thank you; it shall not need.
I had a suit unto her, but too late,
And her disgrace makes me unfortunate.
Lor. Why so, Hieronimo? use me.
Hier. [Who? you, my lord?
I reserve your favour for a greater honour;
This is a very toy, my lord, a toy.
Lor. All's one, Hieronimo, acquaint me with it.
Hier. I faith, my lord, it is an idle thing;
I must confess I ha' been too slack, too tardy,
Too remiss unto your honour.
Lor. How now, Hieronimo?
Hier. In troth, my lord, it is a thing of nothing:
The murder of a son, or so—
A thing of nothing, my lord!]
Lor. Why then, farewell.
Hier. My grief no heart, my thoughts no tongue can tell.
[Exit.
Lor. Come hither, Pedringano, see'st thou this?
Ped. My lord, I see it, and suspect it too.
Lor. This is that damnèd villain Serberine,
That hath, I fear, reveal'd Horatio's death.
Ped. My lord, he could not, 'twas so lately done;
And since he hath not left my company.
Lor. Admit he have not, his condition's such,
As fear or flatt'ring words may make him false.
I know his humour, and therewith repent
That e'er I us'd him in this enterprise.
But, Pedringano, to prevent the worst,
And 'cause I know thee secret as my soul,
Here, for thy further satisfaction, take thou this.
[Gives him more gold.
And hearken to me—thus it is devis'd:
This night thou must (and, prithee, so resolve)
Meet Serberine at Saint Luigi's Park—
Thou know'st 'tis here hard by behind the house—
There take thy stand, and see thou strike him sure:
For die he must, if we do mean to live.
Ped. But how shall Serberine be there, my lord?
Lor. Let me alone; I'll send to him to meet
The prince and me, where thou must do this deed.
Ped. It shall be done, my lord, it shall be done;
And I'll go arm myself to meet him there.
Lor. When things shall alter, as I hope they will,
Then shalt thou mount for this; thou know'st my mind.
Che le Ieron!
Enter Page.
Page. My lord?
Lor. Go, sirrah,
To Serberine, and bid him forthwith meet
The prince and me at Saint Luigi's Park,
Behind the house; this evening, boy!
Page. I go, my lord.
Lor. But, sirrah, let the hour be eight o'clock:
Bid him not fail.
Page. I fly, my lord.
[Exit.
Lor. Now to confirm the complot thou hast cast
Of all these practices, I'll spread the watch,
Upon precise commandment from the king,
Strongly to guard the place where Pedringano
This night shall murder hapless Serberine.
Thus must we work that will avoid distrust;
Thus must we practise to prevent mishap,
And thus one ill another must expulse.
This sly enquiry of Hieronimo
For Bellimperia breeds suspicion,
And this suspicion bodes a further ill.
As for myself, I know my secret fault,
And so do they; but I have dealt for them:
They that for coin their souls endangered,
To save my life, for coin shall venture theirs;
And better it's that base companions die,
Than by their life to hazard our good haps.
Nor shall they live, for me to fear their faith:
I'll trust myself, myself shall be my friend;
For die they shall, slaves are ordain'd to no other end.
[Exit.
ACT III, Scene XI, 1602 addition between lines 1 and 2
SCENE XI
Enter two Portingals, and Hieronimo meets them.
1. By your leave, sir.
Hier. ['Tis neither as you think, nor as you think,
Nor as you think; you 're wide all:
These slippers are not mine, they were my son Horatio's.
My son! and what's a son! A thing begot
Within a pair of minutes—thereabout;
A lump bred up in darkness; and doth serve
To ballace these light creatures we call women;
And, at nine month's end, creeps forth to light.
What is there yet in a son,
To make a father dote, rave, or run mad?
Being born, it pouts, cries, and breeds teeth.
What is there yet in a son? He must be fed,
Be taught to go, and speak. Ay, or yet
Why might not a man love a calf as well?
Or melt in passion o'er a frisking kid,
As for a son? Methinks, a young bacon,
Or a fine little smooth horse colt,
Should move a man as much as doth a son:
For one of these, in very little time,
Will grow to some good use; whereas a son,
The more he grows in stature and in years,
The more unsquar'd, unbevell'd, he appears,
Reckons his parents among the rank of fools,
Strikes care upon their heads with his mad riots;
Makes them look old, before they meet with age.
This is a son!—And what a loss were this,
Consider'd truly?——O, but my Horatio
Grew out of reach of these insatiate humours:
He lov'd his loving parents;
He was my comfort, and his mother's joy,
The very arm that did hold up our house:
Our hopes were storèd up in him,
None but a damnèd murderer could hate him.
He had not seen the back of nineteen year,
When his strong arm unhors'd
The proud Prince Balthazar, and his great mind,
Too full of honour, took him to his mercy—
That valiant, but ignoble Portingal!
Well, heaven is heaven still!
And there is Nemesis, and Furies,
And things call'd whips,
And they sometimes do meet with murderers:
They do not always 'scape, that is some comfort.
Ay, ay, ay; and then time steals on,
And steals, and steals, till violence leaps forth
Like thunder wrappèd in a ball of fire.
And so doth bring confusion to them all.]
Good leave have you: nay, I pray you go,
For I'll leave you, if you can leave me so.
2. Pray you, which is the next way to my lord the duke's?
Hier. The next way from me.
1. To his house, we mean.
Hier. O, hard by: 'tis yon house that you see.
2. You could not tell us if his son were there?
Hier. Who, my Lord Lorenzo?
1. Ay, sir.
[He goeth in at one door and comes out at another.
Hier. O, forbear!
For other talk for us far fitter were.
But if you be importunate to know
The way to him, and where to find him out,
Then list to me, and I'll resolve your doubt.
There is a path upon your left-hand side,
That leadeth from a guilty conscience
Unto a forest of distrust and fear—
A darksome place, and dangerous to pass:
There shall you meet with melancholy thoughts,
Whose baleful humours if you but uphold,
It will conduct you to Despair and Death—
Whose rocky cliffs when you have once beheld,
Within a hugy dale of lasting night,
That, kindled with the world's iniquities,
Doth cast up filthy and detested fumes—:
Not far from thence, where murderers have built
A habitation for their cursèd souls,
There, in a brazen cauldron, fix'd by Jove,
In his fell wrath, upon a sulphur flame,
Yourselves shall find Lorenzo bathing him
In boiling lead and blood of innocents.
1. Ha, ha, ha!
Hier. Ha, ha, ha! Why, ha, ha, ha! Farewell, good ha, ha, ha!
[Exit.
2. Doubtless this man is passing lunatic,
Or imperfection of his age doth make him dote.
Come, let's away to seek my lord the duke.
[Exeunt.
ACT III, 1602 addition between Scenes XII and XIII
[SCENE XIIA
Enter Jaques and Pedro.
Jaq. I wonder, Pedro, why our master thus
At midnight sends us with our torches light,
When man, and bird, and beast, are all at rest,
Save those that watch for rape and bloody murder.
Ped. O Jaques, know thou that our master's mind
Is much distraught, since his Horatio died,
And—now his aged years should sleep in rest,
His heart in quiet—like a desp'rate man,
Grows lunatic and childish for his son.
Sometimes, as he doth at his table sit,
He speaks as if Horatio stood by him;
Then starting in a rage, falls on the earth,
Cries out 'Horatio, where is my Horatio?
So that with extreme grief and cutting sorrow
There is not left in him one inch of man:
See, where he comes.
Enter Hieronimo.
Hier. I pry through every crevice of each wall,
Look on each tree, and search through every brake,
Beat at the bushes, stamp our grandam earth,
Dive in the water, and stare up to heaven;
Yet cannot I behold my son Horatio.—
How now, who's there? spirits, spirits?
Ped. We are your servants that attend you, sir.
Hier. What make you with your torches in the dark?
Ped. You bid us light them, and attend you here.
Hier. No, no, you are deceiv'd! not I!—you are deceiv'd'!
Was I so mad to bid you light your torches now?
Light me your torches at the mid of noon,
When-as the sun-god rides in all his glory;
Light me your torches then.
Ped. Then we burn daylight.
Hier. Let it be burnt; Night is a murd'rous slut
That would not have her treasons to be seen;
And yonder pale-fac'd Hecate there, the moon,
Doth give consent to that is done in darkness;
And all those stars that gaze upon her face,
Are aglets on her sleeve, pins on her train;
And those that should be powerful and divine,
Do sleep in darkness, when they most should shine.
Ped. Provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting words:
The heav'ns are gracious, and your miseries
And sorrow makes you speak, you know not what.
Hier. Villain, thou liest! and thou dost nought
But tell me I am mad: thou liest, I am not mad!
I know thee to be Pedro, and he Jaques.
I'll prove it to thee; and were I mad, how could I?
Where was she that same night,
When my Horatio was murder'd?
She should have shone: search thou the book.—Had the moon shone.
In my boy's face there was a kind of grace,
That I know—nay, I do know—had the murd'rer seen him,
His weapon would have fall'n and cut the earth,
Had he been fram'd of naught but blood and death.
Alack! when mischief doth it knows not what,
What shall we say to mischief?
Enter Isabella.
Isab. Dear Hieronimo, come in a-doors;
O, seek not means so to increase thy sorrow.
Hier. Indeed, Isabella, we do nothing here;
I do not cry: ask Pedro, and ask Jaques;
Not I indeed; we are very merry, very merry.
Isab. How? be merry here, be merry here?
Is not this the place, and this the very tree,,
Where my Horatio died, where he was murder'd?
Hier. Was—do not say what: let her weep it out.
This was the tree; I set it of a kernel:
And when our hot Spain could not let it grow,
But that the infant and the human sap
Began to wither, duly twice a morning
Would I be sprinkling it with fountain-water.
At last it grew and grew, and bore and bore,
Till at the length
It grew a gallows, and did bear our son:
It bore thy fruit and mine—O wicked, wicked plant!
[One knocks within at the door.
See, who knock there.
Ped. It is a painter, sir.
Hier. Bid him come in, and paint some comfort.
For surely there's none lives but painted comfort,
Let him come in!—One knows not what may chance:
God's will that I should set this tree!—but even so
Masters ungrateful servants rear from nought.
And then they hate them that did bring them up.
Enter the Painter.
Paint. God bless you, sir.
Hier. Wherefore? why, thou scornful villain?
How, where, or by what means should I be bless'd?
Isab. What wouldst thou have, good fellow?
Paint. Justice, madam.
Hier. O ambitious beggar!
Wouldst thou have that that lives not in the world!
Why, all the undelv'd mines cannot buy
An ounce of justice!
'Tis a jewel so inestimable. I tell thee,
God hath engross'd all justice in his hands,
And there is none but what comes from him.
Paint. O, then I see
That God must right me for my murder'd son.
Hier. How, was thy son murder'd?
Paint. Ay, sir; no man did hold a son so dear.
Hier. What, not as thine? that's a lie,
As massy as the earth: I had a son.
Whose least unvalu'd hair did weigh
A thousand of thy sons: and he was murder'd.
Paint. Alas, sir, I had no more but he.
Hier. Nor I, nor I: but this same one of mine
Was worth a legion. But all is one.
Pedro, Jaques, go in a-doors; Isabella, go,
And this good fellow here and I
Will range this hideous orchard up and down,
Like to two lions reavèd of their young.
Go in a-doors, I say.
[Exeunt. The painter and he sits down.
Come, let's talk wisely now. Was thy son murder'd?
Paint. Ay, sir.
Hier. So was mine.
How dost take it? art thou not sometimes mad?
Is there no tricks that comes before thine eyes?
Paint. O Lord, yes, sir.
Hier. Art a painter? canst paint me a tear, or a wound, a groan, or a sigh? canst paint me such a tree as this?
Paint. Sir, I am sure you have heard of my painting: my name's Bazardo.
Hier. Bazardo! afore God, an excellent fellow. Look you, sir, do you see, I'd have you paint me for my gallery, in your oil-colours matted, and draw me five years younger than I am—do ye see, sir, let five years go; let them go like the marshal of Spain—my wife Isabella standing by me, with a speaking look to my son Horatio, which should intend to this or some such-like purpose: 'God bless thee my sweet son; and my hand leaning upon his head, thus sir; do you see?—may it be done?
Paint. Very well,sir.
Hier. Nay, I pray, mark me, sir: then, sir, would I have you 'paint me this tree, this very tree. Canst paint a doleful cry?
Paint. Seemingly, sir.
Hier. Nay, it should cry; but all is one. Well, sir, paint me a youth run through and through with villains' swords, hanging upon this tree. Canst thou draw a murderer?
Paint. I'll warrant you, sir; I have the pattern of the most notorious villains that ever lived in all Spain.
Hier. O, let them be worse, worse: stretch thine art, and let their beards be of Judas his own colour; and let their eye-brows jutty over; in any case observe that. Then, sir, after some violent noise, bring me forth in my shirt, and my gown under mine arm, with my torch in my hand, and my sword reared up thus:—and with these words:
'What noise is this; who calls Hieronimo?'
May it be done?
Paint. Yea, sir.
Hier. Well, sir; then bring me forth, bring me through alley and alley, still with a distracted countenance going along, and let my hair heave up my night-cap. Let the clouds scowl, make the moon dark, the stars extinct, the winds blowing, the bells tolling. the owls shrieking, the toads croaking, the minutes jarring, and the clock striking twelve. And then at last, sir, starting, behold a man hanging, and tottering and tottering, as you know the wind will wave a man, and I with a trice to cut him down. And looking upon him by the advantage of my torch, find it to be my son Horatio. There you may show a passion, there you may show a passion! Draw me like old Priam of Troy, crying: 'The house is a-fire, the house is a-fire, as the torch over my head!' Make me curse, make me rave, make me cry, make me mad, make me well again, make me curse hell, invocate heaven, and in the end leave me in a trance—and so forth.
Paint. And is this the end?
Hier. O no, there is no end: the end is death and madness! As I am never better than when I am mad: then methinks I am a brave fellow; then I do wonders: but reason abuseth me, and there's the torment, there's the hell. At the last, sir, bring me to one of the murderers; were he as strong as Hector, thus would I tear and drag him up and down.
[He beats the painter in, then comes out again,
with a book in his hand.]
ACT IV, Scene IV, 1602 replacement of lines 168 to 190 and 193 to 204
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;
Hieronimo, 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. [But are you sure they are dead?
Cast. Ay, slave, too sure.
Hier. What, and yours too!
Vic. Ay, all are dead; not one of them survive.
Hier. Nay, then I care not; come, and we shall be friends;
Let us lay our heads together:
See here's a goodly noose will hold them all.
Vic. O damn'd devil, how secure he is!
Hier. Secure? why, dost thou wonder at it?
I tell thee, Viceroy, this day I have seen revenge,
And in that sight am grown a prouder monarch,
Than ever sat under the crown of Spain.
Had I as many lives as there be stars,
As many heav'ns to go to, as those lives,
I'd give them all, ay, and my soul to boot,
But I would see thee ride in this red pool.]
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.
[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.
Methinks, since I grew inward with revenge,
I cannot look with scorn enough on death.
King. What, dost thou mock us, slave? bring tortures forth.
Hier. Do, do, do: and meantime I'II torture you.
You had a son, as I take it; and your son
Should ha' been married to your daughter:
Ha, was it not so?— You had a son too.
He was my liege's nephew; he was proud
And politic; had he liv'd, he might have come
To wear the crown of Spain (I think 'twas so) —:
'Twas I that kill'd him; look you, this same hand,
'Twas it that stabb'd his heart — do ye see this hand?
For one Horatio, if you ever knew him: a youth,
One that they hang'd up in his father's garden;
One that did force your valiant son to yield.
While your more valiant son did take him prisoner.
Vic. Be deaf, my senses; I can hear no more.
King. Fall, heav'n, and cover us with thy sad ruins.
Cast. Roll all the world within thy pitchy cloud.
Hier. Now do I applaud what I have acted.
Nunc iners cadat manus!
Now to express the rupture of my part,
First take my tongue, and afterward 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.
