The Spanish Tragedie Containing the lamentable end of Don Horatio, and Bel-imperia : with the pittifull death of olde Hieronimo |
 | The Spanish Tragedie |  |
Aye me, Heronimo sweet husband speake.
Hier.
He supt with vs to night, frolicke and mery,
And said he would goe visit Balthazar
At the Dukes Palace: there the Prince doth lodge.
He had no custome to stay out so late,
He may be in his chamber, some go see. Rodorigo, Ho.
Enter Pedro, and Iaques.
Isa.
Aye me, he raues, sweet Heronimo.
True, all Spaine takes note of it,
Besides he is so generally beloued,
His Maiestie the other day did grace him
With waiting on his cup: these be fauours
Which doe assure me cannot be short liued.
Isa.
Sweet Hieronimo.
Hiero.
I wonder how this fellow got his clothes:
Syrha, sirha, Ile know the trueth of all:
Iaques, runne to the Duke of Castiles presently,
And bid my sonne Horatio to come home.
I, and his mother haue had strange dreames to night.
Doe ye heare me sir?
Iaques.
I, sir.
Hiero.
Well sir, begon. Pedro, come hither knowest thou
who this is.
Ped.
Too well, sir.
Hiero.
Too well, who? who is at? Peace, Isabella: Nay
blush not man.
Ped.
It is my Lord, Horatio.
Hier.
Ha, ha, Saint Iames, but this doth make me laugh,
That there are more deluded then my selfe.
Ped.
Deluded?
Hier.
I, I would haue sworne my selfe within this houre,
That this had beene my sonne Horatio,
His garments are so like: Ha, are they not great perswasions,
Isa.
O would to God it were not so.
Hier.
Were not, Isabella, doest thou dreame it is?
Can thy soft bosome intertaine a thought,
That such a blacke deede of mischiefe should be done,
On one so poore and spotles as our sonne?
Away, I am ashamed.
Isa.
Deare Hieronimo, cast a more serious eye vpon thy griefe
Weake apprehension giues but weake beleife.
Hier.
It was a man sure that was hanged vp here,
A youth, as I remember, I cut him downe:
If it should prooue my sonne now after all,
Say you, say you, light: lend me a Taper,
Let me looke againe.
O God, confusion, mischiefe, torment, death and hell,
That now is stiffe with horror, kill me quickely:
Be gracious to me thou infectiue night,
And drop this deede of murder downe on me,
Gird in my wast of griefe with thy large darkenesse,
And let me not suruiue, to see the light
May put me in the minde I had a sonne.
Isa.
O, sweet Horatio, O, my dearest sonne.
Hiero.
How strangly had I lost my way to griefe.
| The Spanish Tragedie | |