The Spanish Tragedy Part 7

HOR. The more thou sitt'st within these leafy bowers, The more will Flora deck it with her flowers.

BEL. Aye; but, if Flora spy Horatio here, Her jealous eye will think I sit too near.

HOR. Hark, madame, how the birds record by night, For joy that Bel-imperia sits in sight!

BEL. No; Cupid counterfeits the nightingale, To frame sweet music to Horatio's tale.

HOR. If Cupid sing, then Venus is not far,-- Aye, thou art Venus, or some fairer star!

BEL. If I be Venus, thou must needs be Mars; And where Mars reigneth, there must needs be wars.

HOR. Then thus begin our wars: put forth thy hand, That it may combat with my ruder hand.

BEL. Set forth thy foot to try the push of mine.

HOR. But, first, my looks shall combat against thee.

BEL. Then ward thyself! I dart this kiss at thee.

HOR. Thus I return the dart thou throwest at me!

BEL. Nay then, to gain the glory of the field, My twining arms shall yoke and make thee yield.

HOR. Nay then, my arms are large and strong withal: Thus elms by vines are compa.s.s'd till they fall.

BEL. O, let me go, for in my troubled eyes Now may'st thou read that life in pa.s.sion dies!

HOR. O, stay a-while, and I will die with thee; So shalt thou yield, and yet have conquer'd me.

BEL. Who's there? Pedringano? We are betray'd!

Enter LORENZO, BALTHAZAR, SERBERINE, PEDRINGANO, disguised.

LOR. My lord, away with her! take her aside!

O sir, forbear, your valour is already tried.

Quickly dispatch, my masters.

They hang him in the arbor.

HOR. What, will you murder me?

LOR. Aye; thus! and thus! these are the fruits of love!

They stab him.

BEL. O, save his life, and let me die for him!

O, save him, brother! save him, Balthazar!

I lov'd Horatio, but he lov'd not me.

BAL. But Balthazar loves Bel-imperia.

LOR. Although his life were still ambitious, proud, Yet is he at the highest now he is dead.

BEL. Murder! murder! help! Hieronimo, help!

LOR. Come, stop her mouth! away with her!

Exeunt.

Enter HIERONIMO in his shirt, &c.

HIERO. What outcries pluck me from my naked bed, And chill my throbbing heart with trembling fear, Which never danger yet could daunt before?

Who calls Hieronimo? speak; hear I am!

I did not slumber; therefore 'twas no dream.

No, no; it was some woman cried for help.

And here within this garden did she cry, And in this garden must I rescue her.

But stay! what murderous spectacle is this?

A man hang'd up, and all the murderers gone!

And in the bower, to lay the guilt on me!

This place was made for pleasure not for death.

He cuts him down.

Those garments that he wears I oft have seen,-- Alas! it is Horatio, my sweet son!

O, no; but he that whilome was my son!

O, was it thou that call'dst me from my bed?

O, speak, if any spark of life remain!

I am thy father. Who hath slain my son?

What savage monster, not of human kind, Hath here been glutted with thy harmless blood, And left thy b.l.o.o.d.y corpse dishonour'd here, For me amidst these dark and dreadful shades To drown thee with an ocean of my tears?

O heav'ns, why made you night, to cover sin?

By day this deed of darkness had not been.

O earth, why didst thou not in time devour The vile profaner of this sacred bower?

O poor Horatio, what hadst thou misdone To leese thy life ere life was new begun?

O wicked butcher, whatsoe'er thou wert, How could thou strangle virtue and desert?

Ay me, most wretched! that have lost my joy In leesing my Horatio, my sweet boy!

Enter ISABELL.

ISA. My husband's absence makes my heart to throb.

Hieronimo!

HIERO. Here, Isabella. Help me to lament; For sighs are stopp'd, and all my tears are spent.

ISA. What world of grief--my son Horatio!

O where's the author of this endless woe?

HIERO. To know the author were some ease of grief, For in revenge my heart would find relief.