The Spanish Tragedie Containing the lamentable end of Don Horatio, and Bel-imperia : with the pittifull death of olde Hieronimo |
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 | The Spanish Tragedie |  |
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The 1602 edition of The Spanish Tragedy reprints the text of the 1592 edition with the addition of the five following passages. Each passage is here linked to the appropriate point in the first edition
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.
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The following passage replaces two lines from the 1592 edition, from “Oh no my Lord, I dare not, it must not be.” to “I humbly thank your Lordship.”
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.
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.
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 darkenesse, and doth serue
To ballace these light creatures we call Women:
And at nine moneths ende, creepes foorth 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 Calfe 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-colt
Should 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 vnsquard, 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 mothers 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 vnhorst the proud Prince Balthazar,
And his great minde too full of Honour,
Well, heauen is heauen still,
And there is Nemesis and Furies,
And things called whippes,
And they sometimes doe meete with murderers,
They doe not alwayes scape, that's some comfort.
I, I, I, and then time steales on: and steales, and steales
Till violence leapes foroth like thunder
Wrapt in a ball of fire,
And so doth bring confusion to them all.
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.
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The following passage replaces twenty three lines from the edition, from “O good words, as deare to me was my Horatio,” to “First take my tung, and afterwards my hart.”
But are you sure they are dead?
Cast.
I, slaue, too sure.
Hier.
What and yours too?
Vic.
I, all are dead, not one of them suruiue.
Hier.
Nay, then I care not, come, and we shall be friends,
Let vs lay our heades together,
See here's a goodly nowse will hold them all.
Uice.
O damned Deuill, how secure he is.
Hier.
Secure, why doest thou wonder at it.
I tell thee Vice-roy, this day I haue seene reueng'd,
And in that sight am growne a prowder Monarch,
Then euer fate vnder the Crowne of Spaine:
Had I as many lyues as there be Starres,
As many Heauens to go to, as those liues,
Ide giue them all, I and my soule to boote,
But I would see thee ride in this red poole.
Cast.
Speake, Who were thy confederates in this?
Uic.
That was thy daughter Bel-imperia,
For by her hand my Balthazar was slaine:
Hie.
O good words: as deare to me was my Horatio,
As yours, or yours, or yours my L to you.
My giltlesse sonne was by Lorenzo slaine,
And by Lorenzo, and that Balthazar,
Am I at last reuenged thorowly.
Vpon whose soules may heauens be yet reuenged,
With greater farre then these afflictions.
Me thinkes since I grew inward with reuenge,
I cannot looke with scorne enough on death.
King.
What doest thou mocke vs slaue, bring torturs forth.
Hie.
Doe, doe, doe, and meane time Ile torture you
You had a sonne (as I take it) and your sonne,
Should ha'e beene married to your daughter: ha, wast not so?
You had a sonne too, he was my Lieges Nephew.
He was proude and politicke, had he liued,
He might a come to weare the crowne of Spaine,
I thinke twas so: twas I that killed him,
Looke you this same hand, twas it that stab'd
His heart, Doe you see this hand?
For one Horatio, if you euer knew him
A youth, one that they hanged vp in his fathers garden:
One that did force your valiant sonne to yeelde,
While your more valiant sonne did take him prisoner:
Vis.
Be deafe my sences, I can heare no more.
King.
Fall heauen, and couer vs with thy sad ruines,
Cast.
Rowle all the world within thy pitchy cloud.
Hie.
Now doe I applaud what I haue acted.
Nunck mers cadæ manus.
Now to expresse the rupture of my part,
First take my tongue, and afterward my heart.
He bites out his tongue.
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