The Spanish Tragedie Containing the lamentable end of Don Horatio, and Bel-imperia : with the pittifull death of olde Hieronimo |
The Spanish Tragedie | ||
Iaq.
I wonder Pedro, why our Maister thus
At midnight sendes vs with our Torches light,
When man and bird and beast are all at rest,
Saue those that watch for rape and bloody murder?
Pea.
O Iaques, know thou that our Maisters minde
Is much distraught since his Horatio dyed,
And now his aged yeeres should sleepe in rest,
His hart in quiet, like a desperat man,
Growes lunaticke and childish for his Sonne:
Sometimes as he doth at his table sit
He speakes as if Horatio stood by him,
Then starting in a rage, falles on the earth,
Cryes out Horatio, Where is my Horatio?
So that with extreame griefe and cutting sorrow,
There is not left in him one ynch of man:
See where lie comes.
Enter Hieronimo.
Hiero.
I prie through euery creuie of each wall,
Looke on each tree, and search through euery brake,
Beat at the bushes, stampe our grandam earth,
Diue in the water, and stare vp to heauen,
How now, Who's there, sprits, sprits?
Ped.
We are your seruants that attend you sir.
Hie.
What make you with your torches in the darke.
Ped.
You bid vs light them, and attend you here.
Hier.
No, no, you are deceiu'd, not I, you are deceiu'd,
Was I so mad to bid you light your torches now,
Light me your torches at the mid of noone,
When as the Sun-God rides in all his glorie:
Light me your torches then.
Ped.
Then we burne day light.
Hie.
Let it be burnt, night is a murderous slut,
That would not haue her treasons to be seene,
And yonder pale faced Hee-cat there, the Moone,
Doth giue consent to that is done in darkensse,
And all those Starres that gaze vpon her face,
Are aggots on her sleeue pins on her traine,
And those that should be powerfull and diuine,
Doe sleepe in darkenes when they most should shine.
Ped.
Prouoke them not faire sir, with tempting words,
The heauens are gracious, and your miseries and sorow,
Makes you speake you know not what.
Hie.
Villaine, thou liest, and thou doest nought
But tell me I am mad, thou liest, I am not mad.
I know thee to be Pedro, and he Jaques,
Ile prooue it to thee, and were I mad, how could I?
Where was she that same night when my Hor. was murdred?
She should haue shone: Search thou the booke,
Had the Moone shone, in my boyes face (there was a kind of grace
That I know) nay, I doe know, had the murderer seene him,
His weapon would haue fall'n and cut the earth,
Had he been framed of naught but blood and death.
Alacke when mischiefe doth it knowes not what,
What shall we say to mischiefe?
Enter Jsabella.
Isa.
Deare Hieronimo, come in a doores.
O, seeke not meanes so to encrease thy sorrow.
Indeed, Isabella we doe nothing heere,
I doe not cry, aske Pedro and aske Iaques,
Not I indeed, we are very merrie, very merrie.
Isa.
How, be merrie heere, be merrie heere.
Is not this the place, and this the very tree,
Where my Horatio hied, where he was murdered?
Hier.
Was, doe not say what: let her weepe it out.
This was the tree, I set it of a kiernnell,
And when our hot Spaine could not let it grow
But that the infant and the humaine sap
Began to wither, duly twice a morning,
Would I be sprinkling it with fountaine water.
At last it grewe, and grewe, and bore and bore,
Till at the length it grew a gallowes, and did beare our sonne.
It bore thy fruit and mine: O wicked, wicked plant.
One knockes within at the doore.
See who knocke there.
Pedro.
It is a painter sir.
Hie.
Bid him come in, and paint some comfort,
For surely there's none liues but painted comfort.
Let him come in, one knowes not what may chance,
Gods will, that I should set this tree,
But euen so masters, vngratefull seruants reare from nought,
And then they hate them that did bring them vp.
Enter the Painter.
Pain.
God blesse you sir.
Hie.
Wherefore, why, thou scornefull villaine.
How, where, or by what meanes should I be blest,
Isa.
What wouldst thou haue good fellow.
Pain.
Iustice, Madame.
Hie.
O ambitious begger, wouldest thou haue that
That liues not in the world,
Why all the vndelued mynes cannot buy
An ounce of iustice, tis a iewel so inestimable:
I tell thee, God hath engrossed all iustice in his hands,
And there is none, but what comes from him.
Pai.
O then I see that God must right me for my murdred sonne
How, was thy sonne murdered?
Pain.
I, sir, no man did hold a sonne so deere.
Hie.
What not as thine? that's a lie,
As massie as the earth I had a sonne,
Whose least vnuallued haire did waigh
A thousand of thy sonnes and he was murdered.
Pain.
Alas, sir, I had no more but he.
Hie.
Nor I, nor I: but this same one of mine,
Was worth a legion: but all is one.
Pedro, Iaques, goe in a doores, Isabella goe,
And this good fellow heere and I,
Will range this hidious orchard vp and downe,
Like to two Lyons reaued of their yong.
Goe in a doores, I say.
Exeunt.
The Painter and he sits downe.
Come let's talke wisely now:
Was thy sonne murdered?
Pain.
I, sir.
Hier.
So was mine.
How doo'st take it: art thou not sometimes mad?
Is there no trickes that comes before thine eies?
Pain.
O Lord, yes sir.
Hie.
Art a Painter? canst paint me a teare, or a wound,
A groane, or a sigh? canst paint me such a tree as this?
Paint.
Sir, I am sure you haue heard of my painting, my name's Bazardo.
Hie.
Bazardo, afore-god, an excellent fellow. Look you sir,
Doe you see, I'de haue you paint me my Gallirie
In your oile colours matted, and draw me fiue
Yeeres youger then I am. Doe ye see sir, let fiue
Yeeres goe, let them goe like the Marshall of Spaine.
My wife Isabella standing by me,
With a speaking looke to my sonne Horatio.
Which should entend to this, or some such like purpose:
God blesse thee, my sweet sonne and my hand leaning vpon his head: thus sir, doe you see may it be done?
Pain.
Very well sir.
Nay, I pray marke me, sir. Then sir, would I haue you paint me this tree, this very tree.
Canst paint a dolefull crie?
Pain.
Seemingly, sir.
Hier.
Nay, it should crie: but all is one.
Well sir, paint me a youth, run thorow and thorow with villaines swords, hanging vpon this tree.
Canst thou draw a murderer?
Painter.
Ile warrant you sir,
I haue the patterne of the most notorious willaines that euer liued in all Spaine.
Hie.
O, let them be worse, worse: stretch thine Arte,
And let their beardes be of Iudæs his owne collour,
And let their eie-browes iuttie ouerrin any case obserue that.
Then sir, after some violent noyse,
Bring mee foorth in my shirt, and my gowne vnder myne arme, with my torch in my hand, and my sword reared vp thus: and with these wordes.
What noyse is this? Who call's Hieronimo?
May it be done?
Painter.
Yea, sir.
Well sir, then bring mee foorth, bring mee thorow allie and allye, still with a distracted countenance going along, and let my haire heaue vp my night-cap.
Let the clowdes scowle, make the Moone darke, the Starres extinct, the Windes blowing, the Belles towling, the Owle shriking, the Toades croking, the Minutes iering, and the Clocke striking twelue.
And then at last, sir, starting, behold a man hanging: And tottering, and tottering as you know the winde will weaue a man, and I with a trise to cut him downe.
And looking vpon him by the aduantage of my torch, finde it to be my sonne Horatio.
There you may a passion, there you may shew a passion.
Drawe mee like old Priam of Troy,
Crying, the house is a fire, the house is a fire
As the torch ouer my head. Make me curse,
Make me well againe, make me curse hell,
Inuocate heauen, and in the ende, leaue me
In a traunce, and so foorth.
Pain.
And is this the end.
Hie.
O no, there is no end: the end is death and madnesse,
As I am neuer better then when I am mad,
Then methinkes I am a braue fellow,
Then I doe 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
Teare and drage him vp and downe.
He beates the Painter in, then comes out againe with a Booke in his hand.
The Spanish Tragedie | ||