The Spanish Tragedy Part 18

III CIT. And here is my lease.

They give him papers.

HIERO. But wherefore stands yon silly man so mute, With mournful eyes and hands to heav'n uprear'd?

Come hither, father; let me know thy cause.

SENEX, [DON BAZULTO]. O worthy sir, my cause but slightly known May move the hearts of warlike Myrmidons, And melt the Corsic rocks with ruthful tears!

HIERO. Say, father; tell me what's thy suit!

BAZULTO. No, sir, could my woes Give way unto my most distressful words, Then should I not in paper, as you see, With ink bewray what blood began in me.

HIERO. What's here? "The Humble Supplication Of Don Bazulto for his Murder'd Son."

BAZULTO. Aye, sir.

HIERO. No, sir, it was my murder'd son!

Oh, my son, my son! oh, my son Horatio!

But mine or thine, Bazulto, be content; Here, take my handkerchief and wipe thine eyes, Whiles wretched I in thy mishaps may see The lively portrait of my dying self.

He draweth out a b.l.o.o.d.y napkin.

O, no; not this! Horatio, this was thine!

And when I dy'd it in thy dearest blood, This was a token twixt thy soul and me That of thy death revenged I should be.

But here: take this, and this! what? my purse?

Aye, this and that and all of them are thine; For all as one are our extremities.

I CIT. Oh, see the kindness of Hieronimo!

II CIT. This gentleness shows him a gentleman.

HIERO. See, see, oh, see thy shame, Hieronimo!

See here a loving father to his son: Behold the sorrows and the sad laments That he deliv'reth for his son's decease.

If love's effect so strives in lesser things, If love enforce such moods in meaner wits, If love express such power in poor estates, Hieronimo, as when a raging sea, Toss'd with the wind and tide, o'er-turneth then The upper-billows course of waves to keep, Whilst lesser waters labour in the deep, Then sham'st thou not, Hieronimo, to neglect The swift revenge of thy Horatio?

Though on this earth justice will not be found, I'll down to h.e.l.l and in this pa.s.sion Knock at the dismal gates of Pluto's court, Getting by force, as once Alcides did, A troupe of furies and tormenting hags, To torture Don Lorenzo and the rest.

Yet, lest the triple-headed porter should Deny my pa.s.sage to the slimy strand, The Thracian poet thou shalt counterfeit; Come on, old father, be my Orpheus; And, if thou canst no notes upon the harp, Then sound the burden of thy sore heart's grief Till we do gain that Proserpine may grant Revenge on them that murdered my son.

Then will I rent and tear them thus and thus, Shiv'ring their limbs in pieces with my teeth!

Tears the papers.

I CIT. Oh, sir, my declaration!

Exit HIERONIMO and they after.

II CIT. Save my bond!

Enter HIERONIMO.

II CIT. Save my bond!

III CIT. Alas my lease, it cost me Ten pound, and you, my lord, have torn the same!

HIERO. That can not be, I gave it never a wound; Show me one drop of blood fall from the same!

How is it possible I should slay it then?

Tush, no! Run after, catch me if you can!

Exeunt all but DON BAZULTO.

BAZULTO remains till HIERONIMO enters again, who, staring him in the face, speaks:

And art thou come, Horatio, from the depth, To ask for justice in this upper earth?

To tell thy father thou art unreveng'd?

To wring more tears from Isabella's eyes, Whose lights are dimm'd with over-long laments?

Go back, my son, complain to Eacus; For here's no justice. Gentle boy, begone; For justice is exiled from the earth.

Hieronimo will bear thee company.

Thy mother cries on righteous Radamant For just revenge against the murderers.

BAZULTO. Alas, my lord, whence springs this troubled speech?

HIERO. But let me look on my Horatio: Sweet boy, how art thou chang'd in death's black shade!

Had Proserpine no pity on thy youth, But suffer'd thy fair crimson-colour'd spring With wither'd winter to be blasted thus?

Horatio, thou are older than thy father: Ah, ruthless father, that favour thus transforms.

BA. Ah, my good lord, I am not your young son.

HIE. What! not my son? thou then a Fury art Sent from the empty kingdom of black night To summon me to make appearance Before grim Minos and just Radamant, To plague Hieronimo, that is remiss And seeks not vengeance for Horatio's death.

BA. I am a grieved man, and not a ghost, That came for justice for my murder'd son.

HIE. Aye, now I know thee, now thou namest thy son; Thou art the lively image of my grief: Within thy face my sorrows I may see; The eyes are dimm'd with tears, thy cheeks are wan, Thy forehead troubled, and thy mutt'ring lips Murmur sad words abruptly broken off By force of windy sighs thy spirit breathes; And all this sorrow riseth for thy son, And self-same sorrow feel I for my son.

Come in, old man; thou shalt to Isabell.

Lean on my arm; I thee, thou me, shalt stay; And thou and I and she will sing a song, Three parts in one, but all of discords fram'd,-- Talk not of cords!--but let us now be gone,-- For with a cord Horatio was slain.

Exeunt.

[ACT III. SCENE 14.]

[The Spanish court.]

Enter KING OF SPAIN, the DUKE, VICEROY, and LORENZO, BALTHAZAR, DON PEDRO, and BEL-IMPERIA.

KING. Go, brother, 'tis the Duke of Castile's cause; Salute the viceroy in our name.

CASTILE. I go.

VICE. Go forth, Don Pedro, for thy nephew's sake, And greet the Duke of Castile.