The Spanish Tragedie/Act 3

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The Spanish Tragedie
by Thomas Kyd

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4754989The Spanish Tragedie — Act IIIThomas Kyd

ACTVS TERCIVS.

Enter Viceroy of Portingale, Nobles, Alexandro, Villappo.

Vice.Infortunate condition of Kings,Seated amidst so many helples doubts:First we are plast vpon extreamest height,And oft supplanted with exceeding hate,But euer subiect to the wheele of chunce:And at our highest neuer ioy we so,As we both doubt and dread our ouerthrow.So striueth not the waues with sundry windes, As Fortune toileth in the affaires of Kings,That would be feard, yet feare to be beloued,Sith feare or loue to Kings is flatterie:For Instance, Lordings, looke upon your King,By hate depriued of his dearest sonne,The onely hope of our successiue liue.

Nob. I had not thought that Alexandros heart,Had beene in venomde with such extreame hate,But now I see that wordes haue seuerall workes,And ther's no credite in the countenance.

Vill. No, for my Lord, had you beheld the traine,That feigned loue had coloured in his lookes,When he in Campe, consorted Balthazar,Farre more inconstant had you thought the Sunne,That hourely coastes the Centre of the earth,Than Alexandros purpose to the Prince.

Vice. No more, Viluppo, thou hast said enough,And with thy words thou staiest our wounded thoughts.Nor shall I longer dally with the world,Procrastinating Alexandros death:Goe some of you and fetch the traitour forth,That as he is condemned, he may die.

Enter Alexandro, with a Noble man, and halberts.

Nob. In such extreames, will nought but patience serue.

Alex. But in extreames what patience shall I vse?Nor discontents it me to leaue the word,With whom there nothing can preuaile but wrong.

Nob. Yet hope the best.

Alex. Tis heauen is my hope.As for the earth it is too much infect,To yeeld me hope of any of her mould.

Vice. Why linger ye? bring forth that daring fiend,And let him die for his accursed deede.

Alex. Not that I feare the extremitie of death,(For Nobles cannot stoope to seruile feare)Doe I (O King) thus discontented liue. But this, O this tormentes my labouring soule,That thus I die suspected of a sinne,Whereof, as heauens haue knowne my secret thoughtes,So am I free from this suggestion.

Vice. No more I say; to the tortures, when?Binde him, and burne his body in those flames.They binde him to the stake.That shall prefigure those vnquenched firesOf Phlegion, prepared for his soule.

Alex. My guiltlesse death will be auengde on thee,On thee Viluppo, that hath malisde thus,Or for thy meede, hast falsely me accusde.

Villup. Nay Alexandro, if thou menace me,Ile lende a hand to send thee to the lakeWhere those thy wordes shall perish with thy workes:Iniurious traytour, monstrous homicide. Enter Embassadour.Stay, hold a while, and heere with pardon of his Maiestie,Lay handes vpon Viluppo.

Vice. Embassadour, what newes hath vrg'd this sodaine entrance?

Embas. Know Soueraigne I, that Balthazar doth liue.

Vice. What sayst thou? liueth Balthazar our Sonne?

Embas. Your highnesse Sonne, L. Balthazar doth liue,And well intreated in the Court of Spaine:Humbly commendes him to your Maiestie;These eyes behelde, and these my followers,With these the Letters of the Kinges commende, Giues him Letters.Are happie witnesses of his Highnesse health.

The King lookes on the Letters, and proceedes.

Vice. Thy Sonne doth liue, your Tribute is receiu'd,Thy Peace is made, and we are satisfied:The rest resolue upon, as thinges proposde,For both our honors, and thy benefite.

Embas. These are his Highnesse farther Articles.He giues him more Letters.

Vice. Accursed wretch to intimate these illes Against the life and reputationOf noble Alexandro: come my Lord vnbind him,Let him vnbind thee, that is bound to death,They unbinde him.To make a quitall for thy discontent.

Alex. Dread Lord, in kindnesse you could do no lesse,Vpon report of such a damned fact:But thus we see our innocencie hath sauedThe hopelesse life which thou Viluppo soughtBy thy suggestions to haue massacred.

Vice. Say false Viluppo, wherefore didst thou thusFalsly betray Lord Alexandroes life?Him whom thou knowest, that no vnkindnesse els,But euen the slaughter of our dearest sonne,Could once haue mooued vs to haue misconceiued.

Alex. Say treacherous Viluppo, tell the King?Or wherein hath Alexandro vsed thee ill?

Vill. Rent with remembrance of so foule a deed,My guiltlesse soule submits me to thy doome:For not for Alexandroes iniuries,But for reward, and hope to be preferd,Thus haue I shamelesly hazarded his life.

Vice. Which villaine, shalbe ransomed with thy death,And not so meane a torment as we heere,Deuisde for him, who thou saydst slew our Sonne:But with the bitterest tormentes and extreamesThat may be yet inuented for thine end: Alex. seemes to intreate. Exit Vil.Intreate me not, go take the traytor hence.And Alexandro let vs honour theeWith publique notise of thy loyaltie,To end those thinges articulated heere,By our great L. the mightie King of Spaine,Exeunt.We with our Counsell will deliberate.Come Alexandro, keepe vs companie.

Enter Hieronimo.

Hiero. Oh eyes, no eyes but fountaines fraught with teares, Oh life, no life; but liuely forme of death:Oh world, no world but masse of publique wrongs,Confusde and filde with murder and misdeedes:Oh Sacred heauens, if this vnhallowed deed,If this inhumane and barbarous attempt,If this incomparable murder thus,Of mine, but now no more my sonne,Shall vnreuealed and vnreuenged passe,How should we tearme your dealinges to be iust,If you vniustly deale with those that in your iustice trust.The night sad secretarie to my mones,With direfull visions wake my vexed soule,And with the woundes of my distresfull sonne,Solicite me for notice of his death.The ougly feends doe sally forth of hell,And frame my steps to vnfrequented pathes,And feare my heart with fierce inflamed thoughts.The cloudie day my discontents recordes,Earely begins to register my dreames,And driue me forth to seeke the murderer.Eyes, life, world, heauens, hel, night and day,See, search, shew, send some man, Some meane, that may.A Letter falleth.Whats heere? A letter: tush, it is not so,Red incke.A letter written to Hieronimo.For want of incke, receiue this bloody writ.Me hath my hapless brother hid from thee,Reuenge thy selfe on Balthazar and him,For these were they that murdred thy sonne.Hieronimo, reuenge Horatios death,And better farre then Bel-imperia doth.What meanes this vnexpected miracle?My sonne slaine by Lorenzo, and the Prince.What cause had they Horatio to maligne?Or what might mooue thee Bel-imperia,To accuse thy brother, had he beene the meane? Hieronimo beware, thou art betrayde,And to intrap thy life this traine is laide:Aduise thee therefore, be not credulous:This is deuised to endanger thee,That thou by this Lorenzo shouldst accuse,And he for thy dishonour done, should drawThy life in question, and thy name in hate.Deare was the life of my beloued sonne,And of his death behoues me be reueng'd:Then hazard not thine owne Hieronimo,But liue t'effect thy resolution:I therefore will by circumstaunces tryWhat I can gather, to confirme this writ,And harkning neare the Duke of Castiles house,Close if I can with Bel-imperia,To listen more; but nothing to bewray.

Enter Pedringano.

Hiero. Now Pedringano.

Ped. Now Hieronimo.

Hero. Wheres thy Lady?

Ped. I know not, heeres my Lord.

Enter Lorenzo.

Lor. How now, who's this? Hieronimo?

Hiro. My Lord.

Ped. He asketh for my Lady Bel-imperia.

Lor. What to doe Hieronimo? The Duke my father hathVpon some disgrace awhile remooued her hence:But if it be ought I may informe her off,Tell me Hieronimo, and Ile let her know it.

Hiero. Nay, nay, my Lord, I thanke you, it shall not need,I had a sute vnto her, but too late,And her disgrace makes me vnfortunate.

Lor. Why so Hieronimo? vse me.

Hiero. Who, you my Lord?I reserue your fauour for a greater honor,This is a very toy my Lord, a toy.

Lor. All's one Hieronimo, acquaint me with it.

Hiero. Y'fayth my Lord tis an idle thing I must confesse,I ha'been too slacke, too tardie, too remisse vnto your honor.

Lor. How now Hieronimo?Hiero. In troth my Lord it is a thing of nothing,The murder of a Sonne, or so:A thing of nothing my Lord.

Lor. Why then farewell.

Exit.Hier. My griefe no hart, my thoughts no tong can tell.

Lor. Come hither Pedringano, seest thou this?

Ped. My Lord I see it, and suspect it too.

Lor. This is that damned villaine Serberine,That hath (I feare) reueald Horatios death.

Ped. My Lord he could not, twas so lately done,And since he hath not left my companie.

Lor. Admit he haue not, his condition's such,As feare or flattering wordes may make him false.I know his humour, and therewith repentThat ere I vsde him in this enterprize.But Pedringano, to preuent the worst,And cause I know thee secret as my soule,Heere for thy further satisfaction, take thou this,Giues him more Gold.And harken to me: thus it is disguisde,This night thou must, and prethee so resolue,Meete Serberine at S. Luigis Parke,Thou know'st tis heere hard by behind the house,There take thy stand, and see thou strike him sure,For die he must, if we do meane to liue.

Ped. But how shall Serberine be there my Lord?

Lor. Let me alone, Ile send to him to meeteThe Prince and me, where thou must do this deed.

Ped. It shall be done my Lord, it shall be done,And Ile go arme my selfe to meete him theere.

Lor. When thinges shall alter, as I hope they will,Then shalt thou mount for this, thou knowst my minde.Exit Peda.

Enter Page.Che le Ieron

Page. My Lord.

Lor. Goe sirra to Serberine, and bid him foorthwithMeete the Prince and me at S. Luigis Parke,Behinde the house this euening, Boy.

Page. I goe my Lord.

Lor. But sirra, let the hower be eight a clocke:Bid him not fayle.

Exit.Page. I flie my Lord.

Lor. Now to confirme the complot thou hast cast,Of all these practises, Ile spread the Watch,Vpon precise commaundement from the King,Strongly to guard the place where PedringanoThis night shall murder haples Serberine.Thus must we worke that will auoyde distrust.Thus must we practise to preuent mishap,And thus one ill, an other must expulse.This sly inquiry of Hieronimo for Bel-imperia, breeds suspitionAnd this suspition boades a further ill.As for my selfe, I know my secret fault,And so do they, but I haue dealt for them.They that for Coyne their soules endangeredTo saue my life; for Coyne shall venture theirs:And better tis that base companions die,Then by their life to hazard our good haps.Nor shall they liue for me, to feare their fayth:Ile trust my selfe, my selfe shall be my friend,Exit.For die they shall, slaues are ordained to no other end.

Enter Pedringano with a Pistoll.

Ped. Now Pedringano bid thy Pistoll hold,And hold on Fortune, once more fauoure me,Giue but successe to mine attempting spirit,And let me shift for taking of mine ayme:Heere is the Gold, this is the Gold proposde,It is no dreame that I aduenture for,But Pedringano is possest thereof: And he that would not straine his ConscienceFor him, that thus his liberall Purse hath stretcht,Vnworthy such a fauour may he fayle;And wishing, want, when such as I preuayle:As for the feare of apprehension,I know (if neede should be) my noble LordWill stand betweene me and ensuing harmes.Besides, this place is free from all suspect:Heere therefore will I stay, and take my stand.

Enter the Watch.

1 I wonder much to what intent it is,That we are thus expresly chargde to watch?

2 Tis by commandement in the Kings owne name.

3 But we were neuer woont to watch and wardSo neare the Duke his house before.

2 Content your selfe, stand close, ther's somewhat in't.

Enter Serberine.

Ser. Heere Serberine attand and stay thy pace,For heere did Don Lorenzoes Page appoynt,That thou by his commaund shouldst meete with him:How fit a place, if one were so disposde,Mee thinkes this corner is, to close with one.

Ped. Heere comes the bird that I must ceaze vpon,Now Pedringano or neuer, play the man.

Ser. I wonder that his Lordshyp stayes so long,Or wherefore should he send for me so late?

Ped. For this Serberine, and thou shalt ha't:Shootes the Dagge.So, there he lyes; my promise is performde.

The Watch.

1 Harke Gentleman, this is a Pistoll shot.

2 And heere's one slaine; stay the murderer.

Ped. Now by the sorrowes of the soules in Hell,He striues with the Watch.Who first layes hand on me, Ile be his Priest.

3 Sirra, confesse, and therein play the Priest;Why hast thou thus vnkindly kild the man?

Ped. Why? because he walk't abroad so late.

3 Come sir, you had beene better kept your bed,Than haue committed this misdeede so late.

2 Come, to the Marshals with the murderer.

1 On, to Hieronimos: helpe me here,To bring the murdered body with vs too.

Ped. Hieronimo, cary me before whom you will,What ere he be, Ile answere him and you,Exeunt.And doe your worst, for I defie you all.

Enter Lorenzo and Balthazar.

Bal. How now my Lord, what makes you rise so soone?

Lor. Feare of preuenting our mishaps too late.

Bal. What mischiefe is it that we not mistrust?

Lor. Our greatest illes, we least mistrust my Lord,And inexpected harmes do hurt vs most.

Bal. Why, tell me Don Lorenzo, tell me man,If ought concernes our honour, & your owne?

Lor. Nor you, nor me, my Lord, but both in one.For I suspect and the presumption's great,That by those base confederates in our fault,Touching the death of Don Horatio,We are betraide to old Hieronimo.

Bal. Betrayde, Lorenzo, tush, it cannot be.

Lor. A guiltie conscience vrged with the thought,Of former euils, easily cannot erre:I am perswaded, and diswade me not,That all's reuealde to Hieronimo.And therefore know that I haue cast it thus:But here's the Page; how now, what newes with thee?

Page. My Lord, Serberine is slaine.

Bal. Who, Serberine my man?

Page. Your Highnes man, my Lord.

Lor. Speake Page, who murdered him?

Page. He that is apprehended for the fact.

Lor. Who?

Page. Pedringano.

Bal. Is Serberine slaine, that loued his Lord so well? Iniurious villaine, murderer of his friend.

Lor. Hath Pedringano murdered Serberine.My Lord, let me entreat you to take the paines,To exasperate and hasten his reuenge,With your complaintes vnto my L. the King.This their dissention breedes a greater doubt.

Bal. Assure thee Don Lorenzo, he shall die,Or els his Highnesse hardly shall denie.Meane while, Ile haste the Marshall Sessions:For die he shall for this his damned deed.Exit Bal.

Lor. Why so: This fits our former pollicie,And thus experience bids the wise to deale.I lay the plot, he prosecutes the point,I set the trap, he breakes the worthles twigs,And sees not that wherewith the bird was limde.Thus hopefull men that meane to hold their owne,Must looke like Fowlers to their dearest friends.He runnes to kill whom I haue hope to catch,And no man knowes it was my reaching fatch.Tis hard to trust vnto a multitude,Or any one in mine opinion,When men themselues their secrets will reueale.

Enter a messenger with a Letter.

Lor. Boy.

Page. My Lord.

Lor. Whats he?

Mes. I haue a Letter to your Lordship.

Lor. From whence?

Mes. From Pedringano that's imprisoned,

Lor. So, he is imprisoned then?

Mes. I, my good Lord.

Lor. What would he with vs? He writes vs here: To stand good L. and helpe him in distres. &c.Tell him, I haue his Letters, know his minde.And what we may, let him assure him of.Exit Mess.Fellow, be gone, my Boy shall followe thee. This workes like waxe, yet once more trie thy wits,Boy, goe, conuay this purse to Pedringano,Thou knowest the prison, closely giue it him:And be aduisde that none be there about.Bid him be merrie still, but secret:And though the Marshals Sessions be to day,Bid him not doubt of his deliuerie.Tell him his pardon is already signde,And thereon bid him boldly be resolued:For were he ready to be turned off,As tis my will the vttermost be tride:Thou with his pardon shalt attend him still,Shew him this boxe, tell him his pardons in't,But open't not, and if thou louest thy life:But let him wisely keepe his hopes vnknowne,He shall not want while Don Lorenzo liues: away.

Page. I go, my Lord, I runne.

Exit Page.Lor. But sirra see that this be cleanely done,Now stands our fortune on a tickle point,And now or neuer ends Lorenzos doubts.One onely thing is vneffected yet,And thats to see the Executioner,But to what ende? I list not trust the ayreWith vtterance of our pretence therein,For feare the priuie whispering of the winde,Conuey our wordes amongst vnfriendly eares,That lie too open to aduantages.Et quel-que voglio Il nessun le sa,Exit.Intendo io quel mi bassera.

Enter Boy with the Boxe.

My Maister hath forbidden me to looke in this Boxe, andby my troth tis likely, if he had not warned mee, I should not haue had so much idle time: for we mens-kinde in ourminoritie, are like women in their vncertaintie: that they aremost forbidden, they will soonest attempt: so I now. By my bare honestie, heere's nothing but the bare emptie Boxe: were it not sinne against secrecie, I would say it were a peece ofgentleman-like knauerie. I must go to Pedringano, and tel him his pardon is in this boxe: nay, I would haue sworne it, had I not seene the contrarie. I cannot chuse but smile to thinke, how the villaine will flout the gallowes, scorne the audience, and descant on the hang-man: and all presuming of his pardon from hence. Wilt not bee an odde iest, for me to stand and grace euery iest hee makes, pointing my finger at this boxeas who would say, mocke on, heeres thy warrant. Ist not a scuruie iest, that a man should iest himselfe to death. Alas, poore Pedringano, I am in a sort sory for thee; but if I should Exit.be hanged with thee, I cannot weepe.

Enter Hieronimo, and the Deputie.

Hiero. Thus must we toile in other mens extreames,That know not how to remedie our owne;And doe them iustice, when vniustly we,For all our wrongs can compasse no redresse.But shall I neuer liue to see the day,That I may come by iustice (of the heauens)To know the cause that may my cares alay?This toiles my bodie, this consumeth age,That onely I to all men iust must be,And neither Gods nor men be I iust to me.

Depu. Worthy Hieronimo, your office askesA care to punish such as doe transgresse.

Hiero. So ist my duty to regard his death,Who when he liued deserued my dearest blood:But come, for that we came for, lets begin,For heere lies that which bids me to be gone.

Enter Officers, Boy, and Pedringano, with a letterin his hand, bound.

Depu. Bring foorth the prisoner, for the Court is set.

Ped. Gramercie boy: but it was time to come,For I had written to my Lord anew,A neerer matter that concerneth him,For feare his Lordship had forgotten me:But sith he hath remembred me so well, Come, come, come on, when shall we to this geere.

Hiero. Stand foorth thou monster, murderer of men,And heere for satisfaction of the worlde,Confesse thy follie, and repent thy fault,For there's thy place of execution.

Ped. This is short worke: well, to your Marshalship:First, I confesse, nor feare I death therefore,I am the man, twas I slew Serberine.But sir, then you thinke this shall be the place,Where we shall satisfie you for this geare?

Depu. I, Pedringano.

Ped. Now, I thinke not so.

Hiero. Peace impudent, for thou shalt finde it so.For blood with blood, shall while I sit as Iudge,Be satisfied, and the Law dischargde.And though my selfe cannot receiue the like,Yet will I see that other haue their right.Dispatch, the fault approued and confest,And by our law he is condemn'd to die.

Hang. Come on sir, are you ready?

Ped. To doe what, my fine officious knaue?

Hang. To goe to this geere.

Ped. O sir, you are too forward, thou wouldst faine furnish me with a halter, to disfurnish me of my habit. So I should goe out of this geere my rayment, into that geere the rope. But Hang-man, nowe I spie your knauerie, Ile not chaunge without boot, thats flat.

Hang. Come, Sir.

Ped. So then I must vp.

Hang. No remedie,

Ped. Yes, but there shall be for comming downe.

Hang. Indeed heere's a remedie for that.

Ped. How, be turned off?

Hang. I truly, come, are you readie. I pray you sir dispatch, the day goes away.

Ped. What doe you hang by the houre, if you doe, I may chance to breake your old custome.

Hang. Faith you haue no reason, for I am like to break your yong necke.

Ped. Doest thou mocke me Hang-man, pray God, I be not preserued to breake your knaues pate for this.

Hang. Alas Sir, you are a foote too low to reach it, and I hope you will neuer grow so high while I am in the office.

Ped. Sirra, doest see yonder boy with the Boxe in his hand?

Hang. What he that pointes to it with his finger,

Ped. I, that companion.

Hang. I know him not, but what of him?

Ped. Doest thou thinke to liue till his olde doublet will make thee a new truss?

Hang. I, and many a faire yeere after, to trusse vp many an honester man then either thou or he.

Ped. What hath he in his box, as thou thinkest?

Hang. Faith, I cannot tell, nor I care not greatly. Me thinke you should rather hearken to your soules health.

Ped. Why, Sirra, Hang-man, I take it, that that is good for the body, is likewise good for the soule: and it may bee in that boxe is balme for both.

Hang. Wel, thou art euen the merriest peece of mans flesh that ere gronde at my office doore.

Ped. Is your roagarie become an office with a knaues name?

Hang. I, and that shall all they witnes, that see you seale it with a theeues name.

Ped. I prethee, requst this good company to pray for me.

Hang. I mary, sir, this is a good motion: my masters, you see heeres a good fellow.

Ped. Nay, nay, now I remember me, let them alone til some other time, for now I haue no great neede.

Hiero. I haue not seene a wrtch so impudent.O monstrous times where murder's set so light,And where the soule that shoulde be shrinde in heauen,Solely delights in interdicted things.Still wandring in the thornie passages, That intercepts it selfe of happinesse.Murder, O bloody monster, God forbid,A fault so foule should scape vnpunished.Dispatch, and see the execution done,This makes me to remember thee my sonne.Exit. Hier.]

Ped. Nay soft, no haste,

Depu. Why, wherefore stay you, haue you hope of life?

Ped. Why, I.

Hang. As how?

Ped. Why, Rascall, by my pardon from the King.

Hang. Stand you on that, then you shall off with this.He turnes him off.

Depu. So executioner conuay him hence,But let his bodie be vnburied.Let not the earth be choaked or infect,With that which heauen contemnes and men neglect.Exeunt.

Enter Hieronimo.

Hiero. Where shall I runne to breath abroad my woes,My woes, whose weight hath wearied the earth?Or mine exclaimes that haue surcharg'd the aire,With ceasles plaintes for my deceased sonne?The blustring windes conspiring with my wordes,At my lament haue moued the leaueles trees.Disrobde the medowes of their flowred greene,Made mountaines marsh with spring tide of my teares,And broken through the brasen gates of hell.Yet still tormented is my tortured soule,With broken sighes and restles passions,That winged mout, and houering in the aire,But at the windowes of the brightest heauens,Solliciting for iustice and reuenge:But they are plac't in those imperiall heightes.Where countermurde with walles of diamond,I finde the place impregnable: and theyResist my woes, and giue my wordes no way.

Enter Hang-man with a letter.

Han. O Lord sir, God blesse you sir, the man sir, Petergade, Sir, he that was so full of merry conceits.

Hier. Well, What of him?

Hang. O Lord sir, he went the wrong way, the fellowe had a fair commission to the contrary. Sir heere is his pasport, I pray you sir we haue done him wrong.

Hier. I warrant thee, giue it me.

Hang. You will stand betweene the gallowes and me.

Hier. I, I.

Exit Hang-man.]Hang. I thanke your L. worship.

Hiero. And yet though somewhat nearer me concernesI will to ease the griefe that I susteine, Take truce with sorrow while I read on this.My Lord, I write, as mine extreames requirde,That you Would labour my deliuerie;If you neglect, my life is desperate,And in my death I shall reueale the troth.You know, my Lord, I slew him for your sake,And was confederate with the prince and you,Wonne by rewardes, and hopefull promises,I holpe to murder Don Horatio too.Holpe he to murder mine Horatio,And actors in th' accursed Tragedie.Wast thou Lorenzo, Balthazar and thou,Of whom my sonne my sonne deserued so well.What haue I heard, what haue mine eyes beheld?O Sacred heauens, may it come to passe,That such a monstrous and detested deed,So closely smothered, and so long conceald,Shall thus by this be venged or reueald.Now see I what I durst not then suspect,That Bel-imperias letter was not fainde,Nor fained she though falsely they haue wrongde,Both her, my selfe, Horatio, and themselues.Now may I make compare twixt hers and this,Of euery accedent, I neere could finde, Till now, and now I feelingly perceiueThey did what heauen vnpunisht would not leaue.O false Lorenzo, are these thy flattering lookes?Is this the honour that thou didst my sonne?And Balthazar, bane to thy soule and me,Was this the ransome he reseru'd thee for?Woe to the cause of these constrained warres,Woe to thy basenes and captiuitie,Woe to thy birth, thy bodie, and thy soule,Thy cursed father, and thy conquered selfe:And band with bitter execrations be,The day and place where he did pittie thee:But wherefore waste I mine vnfruitfull wordes?When naught but blood will satisfie my woes:I wil go plaine me to my Lord the King,And cry aloude for iustice through the court.Wearing the flintes with these my withered feete,And either purchace iustice by intreates,Exit.Or tyre them all with my reuenging threats.

Enter Isabella and her maid.

Isa. So that you say, this herbe will purge the eye,And this the head, ah, but none of them will purge the heart:No, ther's no medicine left for my disease,Nor any physicke to recure the dead: She runnes lunaticke.Horatio, O wher's Horatio.

Maid. Good madame, affright not thus your selfe,With out-rage for your sonne Horatio.He sleepes in quiet in thee Elizian fields.

Isa. Why did I not giue you gownes and goodly things,Bought you a whistle and a whipstalke too:To be reuenged on their villainies.

Maid. Maddame, these humours do torment my soule.

Isa. My soule, poore soule thou talkes of thingsThou knowest not what, my soule hath siluer wings,That mounts me vp vnto the highest heauens.To heauen, I there sits my Horatio. Backt with a troupe of fierie Cherubins,Dauncing about his newely healed woundes,Singing sweet hymnes and chanting heauenly notes,Rare harmonie to greet his innocencie,That liude: I, dide, a mirrour in our dayes.But say, where shall I finde the men, the murderers,That slew Horatio? whither shall I runneExeunt.To finde them out, that murdered my sonne?

Bel-imperia, at a window.

Bel. What meanes this outrage that is offered me?Why am I thus sequestred from the Court?No notice: shall I not know the causeOf these my secret and suspitious ils.Accursed brother, vnkinde murderer,Why bends thou thus thy minde to martir me?Hieronimo, why write I of thy reuenge?Or why art thou so slacke in thy reuenge?Andrea, O Andrea, that thou sawestMe, for thy friend Horatio handled thus,And him for me, thus causeles murdered.Well, force perforce, I must constraine my selfeTo patience, and applie me to the time,Till heauen (as I haue hoped) shall set me free.

Enter Christophil.

Chris. Come, Madam Bel-Imperia, this may not be.Exeunt.

Enter Lorenzo, Balthazar, and the Page.

Lor. Boy, talke no further, thus farre things go well,Thou art assured that thou sawest him dead?

Page. Or els, my Lord, I liue not.

Lor. That's enough.As for his resolution in his ende,Leaue that to him with whom he soiourns now.Heere take my Ring, and giue it Christophill,And bid him let my Sister be enlargde,Exit Page.And bring her hither straight.This that I did was for a policie, To smooth and keepe the murther secret,Which as a nine daies wonder being ore-blowne,My gentle sister will I now inlarge.

Bal. And time, Lorenzo, for my Lord the Duke,You heard inquired for her yester-night.

Lor. Why, and my Lord, I hope you heard me say,Sufficient reason, why she kept away:But that's all one, my Lord, you loue her?

Bal. I.

Lor. Then in your loue beware, deale cunningly,Salue all suspitions, onely sooth me vp.And if she hap to stand on tearmes with vs:As for her sweet-heart, and concealement so,Iest with her gently vnder fained iest,Are things concealde that els would breed vnrest.But heere she comes.

Enter Bel-imperia.

Lor. Now, Sister.

Bel. Sister: No, thou art no brother, but an enemie:Els wouldst thou not haue vsed thy sister so.First to affright me with thy weapons drawne,And with extreames abuse my company:And then to hurrie me like whirle-winds rage,Amidst a crue of thy confederates:And clap me vp where none might come at me,Nor I at any, to reueale my wrongs.What madding furie did possesse thy witsOr wherein ist that I offended thee?

Lor. Aduise you better Bel-imperia,For I haue done you no disparagement:Vnlesse by more discretion then deserued,I sought to saue your honour and mine owne.

Bel. Mine honour, why, Lorenzo, wherein ist,That I neglect my reputation so,As you, or any neede to rescue it?

Lor. His highnesse, and my father were resolu'd,To come conferre with old Hieronimo, Concerning certaine matters of estate,That by the Vice-roy was determined.

Bel. And wherein was mine honour toucht in that?

Bal. Haue patience Bel-imperia, heare the rest.

Lor. Me next in sight as messenger they sent,To giue him notice that they were so nigh:Now when I come, consorted with the Prince,And vnexpected in an Arbour there,Found Bel-imperia with Horatio.

Bel. How than?

Lor. Why then remembring that old disgrace,Which you for Don Andrea had indurde,And now were likely longer to susteine,By being found so meanely accompanied.Thought rather (for I knew no readier meane,)To thrust Horatio foorth my fathers way.

Bal. And carrie you obscurely some-where els,Least that his Highnes should haue found you there.

Bel. Euen so my Lord, and you are witnes,That this is true which he entreateth of.You (gentle brother forged this for my sake,And you, my Lord, were made his instrument:A worke of woorth, worthy the nooting too.But what's the cause that you conceald me since?

Lor. Your melancholy, Sister, since the newes,Of your first fauorite Don Andreas death,My fathers old wrath hath exasperate.

Bal. And better wast for you being in disgrace,To absent your selfe, and giue his furie place.

Bel. But why had I no notice of his ire?

Lor. That were to adde more fewell to the fire,Who burnt like Ætna, for Andreas losse.

Bel. Hath not my father then enquirde for me?

Lor. Sister, he hath, and thus excusde I thee.He whispereth in her eare.But Bel-imperia, see the gentle Prince,Looke on thy loue, behold yong Balthazar, Whose passions by thy presence are increast, And in whose melancholy thou maiest see,Thy hate, his loue: thy flight, his following thee.

Bel. Brother, you are become an Oratur,I know not, I, by what experience.Too polliticke for me, past all compare,Since last, I saw you: but content your selfe,The Prince is meditating higher things.

Bal. Tis of thy beautie then that conquers kings,Of those thy tresses Ariaanes twines,Wherewith my libertie thou hast surprisde,Of that thine iuorie front my sorrowes map,Wherein I see no Hauen to rest my hope.

Bel. To loue, and feare, and both at once, my Lord.In my conceite, are things of more importThan womens wits are to be busied with.

Bal. Tis I that loue.

Bel. Whom?

Bal. Bel-imperia.

Bel. But I that feare.

Bal. Whom?

Bel. Bel-imperia.

Lor. Fear your selfe?

Bel. I Brother.

Lor. How?

Bel. As those, that what they loue, are loath, and feare to loose.

Bal. Then Fair, let Balthazar your keeper be.

Bel. Balthazar doth feare as well as we.Est tremulo me tui pauidum iunxere timorem,Exit.Et vanum stolidæ proditionis opus.

Lor. Nay, and you argue things so cunningly,Weele goe continue this discourse at court.

Bal. Led by the load-starre of her heauenly lookes,Wends poore oppressed Balthazar,As ore the mountaines walkes the wanderer,Exeunt.Incertaine to effect his Pilgrimage.

Enter two Portingales, and Hieronimo meets them.

1. By your leaue sir.

Hie. Tis neither as you thinke, nor as you thinke,Nor as you thinke: you'r wide all:These slippers are not mine, they were my sonne Horatioes,My sonne, and what's a sonne? A thing begot within a paire of minutes, there about:A lumpe bred vp in darknesse, and doth serueTo ballace these light creatures we call Women:And at nine moneths ende, creepes forth to light.What is there yet in a sonne?To make a father dote, raue, or runne mad.Being borne, it poutes, cryes, and breeds teeth.What is there yet in a sonne? He must be fed,Be thaught to goe, and speake I, or yet.Why might not a man loue a Calf as well?Or melt in passion ore a frisking Kid,As for a sonne, me thinkes a young Bacon,Or a fine little smooth Horse-coltShould mooue a man, as much as doth a sonne.For one of these in very little time,Will grow to some good vse; where as a sonne,The more he growes in stature and in yeeres,The more vnsquared, vnbeuelled he appeares,Reccons his parents among the rancke of fooles,Strikes care vpon their heads with his mad ryots,Makes them looke olde, before they meet with age:This is a sonne: And what a losse were this, considered truly.O, but my Horatio, grew out of reach of these Insatiate humours: He loued his louing parents,He was my comfort, and his mother's ioy,The very arme that did holde vp our house,Our hopes were stored vp in him.None but a damned murderer could hate him:He had not seene the backe of nineteene yeere,When his strong arme unhorst the proud Prince Balthazar,And his great minde too full of Honour, Tooke him us to mercy, that ualiant, but ignoble Portingale.Well, heauen is heauen still,And there is Nemesis and Furies,And things called whippes,And they sometimes doe meete with murderers,They do not alwayes scape, that's some comfort.I, I, I, and then time steales on: and steales, and stealesTill violence leapes foroth like thunderWrapt in a ball of fire,And so doth bring confusion to them all.Good leaue haue you: nay, I pray you goe,For Ile leaue you, if you can leaue me, soe.

2Pray you which is the way to my L. the Dukes.

Hie. The next way from me.

1To his house we meane.

Hier. O hard by, tis yon house that ye see.

2You could not tell vs if his sonne were there?

Hier. Who, my Lord, Lorenzo.

1I, sir.

He goes in at one dore, and comes out at another.

Hier. Oh, forbeare, for other talke for vs farre fitter were.But if you be importunate to know,The way to him, and where to finde him out,Then list to me, and ile resolue your doubt.There is a path vpon your left hand side,That leadeth from a guiltie Conscience,Vnto a forrest of distrust and feare,A darkesome place and dangerous to passe,There shall you meet with melancholy thoughts,Whose balefull humours if you but vphold,It will conduct you to despaire and death:Whose rockie cliffes, when you haue once beheld,Within a hugie dale of lasting night,That kindled with the worlds iniquities,Doth cast vp filthy and detested fumes.Not farre from thence where murtherers haue built, A habitation for their cursed soule:There, in a brazen Caldron fixt by Iove,In his fell wrath, vpon a sulpher flame:Your selues shall finde Lorenzo bathing him,In boyling lead and blood of innocents.

1Ha, ha, ha.

Hier. Ha, ha, ha: why ha, ha, ha. Forwell good ha, ha, ha. Exit.

2Doubtlesse this man is passing lunaticke,Or imperfection of his age doth make him dote.Exeunt.Come, lets away, to seeke my Lord the Duke.

Enter Hieronimo with a poynard in one hand, and a rope in the other.

Hiero. Now sir, perhaps, I come and see the king,The king sees me, and faine would heare my sute.Why is not this a strange, and seld seene thing,That standers by, with toyes should strike me mute.Goe to, I see their shifts and say no more.Hieronimo, tis time for thee to trudge,Downe by the dale that flowes with purple gore,Standeth a firie Tower: there sits a judge,Vpon a seat of steele and molten brasse:And twixt his teeth he holdes a firebrand,That leads vnto the lake where hell doth stand.Away Hieronimo, to him begon:Heele do thee iustice for Horatios death.Turne downe this path, thou shalt be with him straight,Or this, and then thou needst not take thy breath.This way, or that way: soft and faire, not so,For if I hang or kill my selfe, lets knowWho will reuenge Horatios murder then?No, no, fie, no: pardon me, Ile none of that.He flings away the dagger and halter.This way Ile take, and this way comes the King.He takes them vp againe.And heere Ile haue a fling at him that's flat.And Balthazar, Ile be with thee to bring. And thee, Lorenzo, heere's the King, nay stay,And heere, I heere: there goes the hare away.

Enter King, Embassadour, Castile, and Lorenzo.

King. Now shew Embassadour what our Vice-roy saith,Hath he receiu'd the Articles we sent?

Hier. Iustice, O iustice to Hieronimo.

Lor. Backe, seest thou not the King is busie?

Hier. O, is he so?

King. Who is he that interrupts our busines?

Hier. Not I: Hieronimo be ware; goe by, goe by.

Embas. Renowned King, he hath receiued and readThy kingly proffers, and thy promist league:And as a man extreamely ouer-ioy'd,To heare his sonne so princelie entertain'd,Whose death he had so solemnly bewail'd,This for thy further satisfaction,And Kinglie loue, he kindly lets thee know:First, for the marriage of his princelie sonne,With Bel-imperia thy beloued Neece,The newes are more delightfull to his soule,Than Myrrh or Incense to the offended heauens.In person therefore will he come himselfe,To see the marriage rites solemnized,And in the presence of the court of Spaine,To knit a sure inextricable band,Of Kingly loue, and euerlasting league,Betwixt the Crownes of Spaine and Portingale.There will he giue his crowne to Balthazar,And make a Queene of Bel-imperia.

King. Brother, how like you this our Vice-royes loue?

Cast. No doubt, my Lord, it is an argumentOf honourable care to keepe his friend,And wondrous zeale to Balthazar his sonne:Nor am I least indebted to his Grace,That bends his likeing to my daughter thus.

Emb. Now last (dread Lord) heere hath his Highnes sent,Although he send not that his sonne returne, His ransome due to Don Horatio.

Hie. Horatio, who calls Horatio?

King. And well remembred, thanke his Maiestie:Heere see it giuen to Horatio.

Hiero. Iustice, O iustice, iustice gentle King.

King. Who is that? Hieronimo.

Hiero. Iustice, O iustice: O my sonne, my sonne,My sonne, whom naught can ransome or redeeme.

Lor. Hieronimo, you are not well aduisde.

Hiero. Away Lorenzo, hinder me no more,For thou hast made me bankrupt of my blisse:Giue me my sonne, you shall not ransome him.Away, Ile rip the bowels of the earth, He diggeth with his Dagger.And ferrie ouer to th'Elizian plaines,And bring my sonne to shew his deadly woundes.Stand from about me, Ile make a Pickaxe of my Poniard,And heere surrender vp my marshalship;For I'll go marshal vp the Feends in hell,To be auenged on you all, for this.

King. What meanes this outrage? will none of you restraine his furie.

Hiero. Nay soft and faire you shall not need to striue,Exit.Needs must he go that the diuels driue.

King. What accident hath hapt to Hieronimo?I haue not seene him to demeane him so.

Lor. My gratious Lord, he is with extreame pride,Conceiued of young Horatio his Sonne,And couetous of hauing to himselfe,The ransome of the young Prince Balthazar,Distract, and in a manner lunaticke.

King. Beleeue me Nephew we are sorie fort,This is the loue that Fathers beare their Sonnes:But gentle brother, go giue to him this gold,The Princes ransome, let him haue his due,For what he hath Horatio shall not want,Happely, Hieronimo hath need thereof.