Heere breake we off our sundrie languages, And thus conclude I in our vulgare tung: Happely you think--but bootles are your thoughts-- That this is fabulously counterfeit, And that we doo as all trageians doo,-- To die to-day, for fashioning our scene, The death of Aiax, or some Romaine peer, And, in a minute starting vp againe, Reuiue to please tomorrows audience.
No, princes; know I am Hieronimo, The hopeles father of a haples sonne, Whose tung is tun'd to tell his latest tale, Not to excuse grosse errors in the play.
I see your lookes vrge instance of these words: Beholde the reason vrging me to this!
Showes his dead sonne.
See heere my shew; look on this spectacle!
Heere lay my hope, and heere my hope hath end; Heere lay my hart, and heere my hart was slaine; Heere lay my treasure, heere my treasure lost; Heere lay my blisse, and heere my blisse bereft.
But hope, hart, treasure, ioy and blisse,-- All fled, faild, died, yea, all decaide with this.
From froth these wounds came breath that gaue me life; They murdred me that made these fatall markes.
The cause was loue whence grew this mortall hate: The hate, Lorenzo and yong Balthazar; The loue, my sonne to Bel-imperia.
But night, the couerer of accursed crimes, With pitchie silence husht these traitors harmes, And lent them leaue--for they had sorted leasure-- To take aduantage in my garden plot Vpon my sonne, my deere Horatio.
There mercilesse they butcherd vp my boy, In black, darke night, to pale, dim, cruell death!
He shrikes; I heard--and yet, me thinks, I heare-- His dismall out-cry eccho in the aire; With soonest speed I hasted to the noise, Where, hanging on a tree, I found my sonne Through-girt with wounds and slaughtred, as you see.
And greeued I, think you, at this spectacle?
Speak, Portuguise, whose losse resembles mine!
If thou canst weep vpon thy Balthazar, Tis like I wailde for my Horatio.
And you, my l[ord], whose reconciled sonne Marcht in a net and thought himself vnseene, And rated me for a brainsicke lunacie, With "God amend that mad Hieronimo!"-- How can you brook our plaies catastrophe?
And heere beholde this bloudie hand-kercher, Which at Horatios death weeping dipt Within the riuer of his bleeding wounds!
It as propitious, see, I haue reserued, And neuer hath it left my bloody hart, Soliciting remembrance of my vow With these, O these accursed murderers!
Which now perform'd, my hart is satisfied.
And to this end the bashaw I became, That might reuenge me on Lorenzos life, Who therefore was appointed to the part And was to represent the knight of Rhodes, That I might kill him more conueniently.
So, vice-roy, was this Balthazar thy sonne-- That Soliman which Bel-imperia In person of Perseda murdered,-- So[le]lie appointed to that tragicke part, That she might slay him that offended her.
Poore Bel-imperia mist her part in this: For, though the story saith she should haue died, Yet I, of kindenes and care for her, Did otherwise determine of her end.
But loue of him whome they did hate too much Did vrge her resolution to be such.
And princes, now beholde Hieronimo, Author and actor in this tragedie, Bearing his latest fortune in his fist; And will as resolute conclude his parte As any of the actors gone before.
And, gentles, thus I end my play!
Vrge no more words, I haue no more to say.
He runs to hang himselfe.
KING. O hearken, vice-roy; holde Hieronimo!
Brother, my newphew and they sonne are slaine!
VICE. We are betraide! my Balthazar is slaine!
Breake ope the doores; runne saue Hieronimo!
Hieronimo, doe but enforme the king of these euents; Vpon mine honour, thou shalt haue no harme!
HIERO. Vice-roy, I will not trust thee with my life, Which I this day haue offered to my sonne: Accursed wretch, why staiest thou him that was resolued to die?
KING. Speak, traitor! damned, bloudy murderer, speak!-- For, now I haue thee, I wil make thee speak!
Why hast thou done this vndeseruing deed?
VICE. Why hast thou murdered my Balthazar?
CAS. Why hast thou butchered both my children thus?
HIERO. O good words! As deare to me was Horatio As yours, or yours, my l[ord], to you.
My guitles sonne was by Lorenzo slaine; And by Lorenzo and that Balthazar Am I at last reuenged thorowly,-- Vpon whole soules may Heauens be yet auenged With far greater far then these afflictions!
CAS. But who were thy confederates in this?
VICE. That was thy daughter Bel-imperia; For by her hand my Balthazar was slaine,-- I saw her stab him.
KING. Why speakest thou not?
HIERO. What lesser libertie can kings affoord Then harmles silence? That afford it me!
Sufficeth I may not nor I will not tell thee.
KING. Fetch forth the tortures! Traitor as thou art, Ile make thee tell!
HIERO. Indeed?
Thou maiest torment me as his wretched sonne Hath done in murdring my Horatio; But neuer shalt thou force me to reueale The thing which I haue vowed inviolate.
And therefore, in despight of all thy threats, Pleasde with their deaths, and easde with their reuenge, First take my tung, and afterwards my hart!
He bites out his tongue.
KING. O monstrous resolution of a wretch!
See, Vice-Roy, he hath bitten foorth his tung Rather than reueale what we requirde.
CAS. Yet can he write.
KING. And if in this he satisfie vs not, We will deuise the 'xtreamest kinde of death That euer was inuented for a wretch.
Then he makes signes for a knife to mend his pen.
CAS. O, he would haue a knife to mend his pen.
VICE. Here; and aduise thee that thou write the troth,-- Look to my brother! saue Hieronimo!
He with a knife stabs the DUKE and himself.
KING. What age hath euer heard such monstrous deeds?
My brother and the whole succeeding hope That Spaine expected after my dicease.
Go beare his body hence, that we may mourne The losse of our beloued brothers death, That he may be entom'd, what-ere befall.
I am the next, the neerest, last of all.
VICE. And thou, Don Pedro, do the like for vs: Take vp our haples sonne vntimely slaine; Set me vp with him, and he with wofull me, Vpon the maine-mast of a ship vnmand, And let the winde and tide [hale] me along To Sillas barking and vntamed gulfe Or to the lothsome poole of Archeron, To weepe my want for my sweet Balthazar.
Spaine hath no refuge for a Portingale!
The trumpets sound a dead march, the KING OF SPAINE mourning after his brothers body, and the KING OF PORTINGALE bearing the body of his sonne.
[CHORUS.]
Enter GHOAST and REUENGE.
GHOAST. I; now my hopes haue end in their effects, When blood and sorrow finnish my desires: Horatio murdered in his Fathers bower, Vilde Serberine by Pedrigano slaine, False Pedrigano hang'd by quaint deuice, Faire Isabella by her-selfe misdone, Prince Balthazar by Bel-imepria stabd, The Duke of Castile an his wicked sonne Both done to death by olde Hieronimo, My Bel-imperia falne as Dido fell, And good Hieronimo slaine by himselfe!
I, these were spectacles to please my soule.
Now will I beg at louely Proserpine That, by the vertue of her princely doome, I may consort my freends in pleasing sort, And on my foes work iust and sharpe reuenge.