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When in the fall his eyes, ev'n now unclosed,
Beheld the queen, and cried to hor for help;
We then, alas! the ladies which that time
Did there attend, seeing that heinous deed,
And hearing him oft call the wretched name
Of mother, and to cry to her for aid,
Whose direful hand gave him the mortal wound,
Pitying, alas! (for naught else could we do)
His rueful end, ran to the woful bed,
Despoiled streight his breast, and all we might
Wipèd in vain with napkins next at hand
The sudden streams of blood, that fushed fast
Out of the gaping wound : O what a look,
O what a ruthful, steadfast eye methought
He fixed upon my face, which to my death
Will never part from me !—wherewith abraid,
A deep-fetched sigh he gave, and therewithal
Clasping his hands, to heaven he cast his sight;
And streight, pale death pressing within his face,
The flying ghost his mortal corpse forsook.

Arost. Never did age bring forth so vile a fact.

Thomas Kiyd.




Horatio, the son of HIERONIMO, is murdered while he is sitting with

his mistress BELIMPERIA by night in an arbour in his father's garden. The murderers (BALTHAZAR, his rival, and LORENZO, the brother of BELIMPERIA) hang his body on a trec. HIERONIMO is awakened by the cries of BELIMPERIA, and, coming out into his garden, discovers by the light of a torch, that the murdered man is his son. Upon this he

goes distracted.

A son,

HIERONIMO, mad. Hier. The more he grows in stature and in years, The more unsquared, unlevelled he appears ; Reckons his parents among the rank of fools, Strikes cares upon their heads with his mad riots, Makes them look old before they meet with age; This is a son; and what a loss is this, considered truly ! Oh, but my Horatio grew out of reach of those Insatiate humours: he loved his loving parents : He was my comfort, and his mother's joy, The very arm that did hold up our houseOur hopes were stored up in him, None but a damnèd murderer could hate him. He had not seen the back of nineteen years, When his strong arm unhorsed the proud Prince Balthazar; And his great mind, too full of honour, took To mercy that valiant but ignoble Portuguese.

Well, Heaven is Heaven still !
And there is Nemesis, and furies,
And things called whips,
And they sometimes do meet with murderers :
They do not always 'scape, that's some comfort,
Ay, ay, ay, and then time steals on, and steals, and steals,
Till violence leaps forth, like thunder
Wrapped in a ball of fire,
And so doth bring confusion to them all.


JAQUES and Pedro, servants.
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 distract since his Horatio died :
And, now his aged years should sleep in rest,
His heart in quiet, like a desperate 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


Horatio ?
So that with extreme grief, and cutting sorrow,
There is not left in him one inch of man :
See, here he comes.


Hier. I pry through every crevice of each wall, Look at each tree, and search through every brake, Beat on the bushes, stamp our grandame Earth,

Dive in the water, and stare up to heaven;
Yet cannot I behold my son Horatio.
How now! who's there, sprights, sprights ?
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 deceived, not I, you are deceived: 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-faced 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 heavens are gracious; and your

miseries And sorrow make you speak you know not what.

Hier. Villain, thou liest! and thou doest naught 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 the same night, when my Horatio was mur

dered? She should have shone : search thou the book :

* Tags of points.

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Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there was a kind of

That I know, nay, I do know, had the murd'rer seen him,
His weapon would have fallen, and cut the earth,
Had he been framed of naught but blood and death ;
Alack, when mischief doth it knows not what,
What shall we say to mischief?

Isabella, his wife, enters.
Isa. Dear Hieronimo, come in a doors,
O seek not means to increase thy sorrow.

Hier. Indeed, Isabella, we do nothing here ;
I do not cry, ask Pedro and Jaques :
Not I, indeed ; we are very merry, very merry.
Isa. How? be merry here, be merry

here? Is not this the place, and this the very tree, Where

my Horatio died, where he was murdered ?
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 length it grew a gallows, and did bear our son.
It bore thy fruit and mine. O wicked, wicked plant !
See who knocks there. [One knocks within at the door.

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

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