Gorb. O Eubulus, oh draw this sword of ours,
And pierce this heart with speed. O hateful light,
O loathsome life, O sweet and welcome death.
Dear Eubulus, work this we thee beseech.
Eub. Patient your grace, perhaps he liveth yet,
With wound receiv'd but not of certain death.
Gorb. O let us then repair unto the place,
And see if that Porrex live, or thus be slain.
Marc. Alas he liveth not, it is too true,
That with these eyes, of him a peerless prince,
Son to a king, and in the flower of youth,
Even with a twink* a senseless stock I saw.
Arost. O damned deed!
Marc. But hear his ruthful end.
The noble prince, pierced with the sudden wounds,
Out of his wretched slumber hastily start,†
Whose strength now failing, streight he overthrew,
When in the fall his eyes ev'n now unclosed,
Beheld the queen, and cried to her for help;
We then, alas, the ladies which that time
Did there attend, seeing that heinous deed
And hearing him oft call the wretched name
Of mother, and to cry to her for aid,
Whose direful hand gave him the mortal wound,
Pitying alas (for nought else could we do)
His rueful end, ran to the woful bed,
Despoiled streight his breast, and all we might
Wiped in vain with napkins next at hand
The sudden streams of blood, that flushed fast
Out of the gaping wound: O what a look,
O what a ruthful stedfast eye methought
He fixt upon my face, which to my death
Will never part from me,-wherewith abraid‡
A deep-fetch'd sigh he gave, and therewithall
Clasping his hands, to heaven he cast his sight;
And streight, pale death pressing within his face,
* Twinkling of the eye.
Awaked; raised up.
The flying ghost his mortal corps forsook.
Arost. Never did age bring forth so vile a fact.
Marc. O hard and cruel hap that thus assign'd
Unto so worthy wight so wretched end:
But most hard cruel heart that could consent,
To lend the hateful destinies that hand,
By which, alas, so heinous crime was wrought ;-
O queen of adamant, O marble breast,
If not the favor of his comely face
If not his princely chear and countenance,
His valiant active arms, his manly breast,
If not his fair and seemly personage ;
His noble limbs, in such proportion cast
As would have rapt a silly woman's thought;
If this might not have mov'd the bloody heart,
And that most cruel hand the wretched weapon
Even to let fall, and kist him in the face,
With tears, for ruth to reave such one by death;
Should nature yet consent to slay her son?
O mother, thou to murder thus thy child!
Even Jove with justice must with light'ning flames
From heaven send down some strange revenge on thee.
Ah noble prince, how oft have I beheld
Thee mounted on thy fierce and trampling steed,
Shining in armor bright before the tilt,
And with thy mistress' sleeve tied on thy helm,
There charge thy staff, to please thy lady's eye,
That bow'd the head piece of thy friendly foe!
How oft in arms on horse to bend the mace,
How oft in arms on foot to break the sword,
Which never now these eyes may see again.
Arost. Madam, alas, in vain these plaints are shed. Rather with me depart, and help to assuage The thoughtful griefs, that in the aged king Must needs by nature grow, by death of this His only son, whom he did hold so dear.
Marc. What wight is that which saw that I did see, And could refrain to wail with plaint and tears?
Not I, alas, that heart is not in me;
But let us go, for I am griev'd anew,
To call to mind the wretched father's wo.
Chorus of aged men. When greedy lust in royal seat to reign Hath reft all care of gods and eke of men ; And cruel heart, wrath, treason, and disdain, Within th' ambitious breast are lodged, then Behold how mischief wide herself displays, And with the brother's hand the brother slays.
When blood thus shed doth stain this heaven's face,
Crying to Jove for vengeance of the deed,
The mighty God even moveth from his place
With wrath to wreak; then sends he forth with speed
The dreadful Furies, daughters of the night,
With serpents girt, carrying the whip of ire,
With hair of stinging snakes, and shining bright
With flames and blood, and with a brand of fire:
These, for revenge of wretched murder done,
Doth cause the mother kill her only son.
Blood asketh blood, and death must death requit ;
Jove by his just and everlasting doom
Justly hath ever so requited it.
This times before record and times to come
Shall find it true, and so doth present proof
Present before our eyes for our behoof.
O happy wight that suffers not the snare
Of murderous mind to tangle him in blood:
And happy he that can in time beware
By others' harms, and turn it to his good:
But wo to him that fearing not to offend,
Doth serve his lust, and will not see the end.
[The style of this old play is stiff and cumbersome, like the dresses of its times. There may be flesh and blood underneath, but we cannot get at it. Sir Philip Sydney has praised it for its morality. One of its authors might easily furnish that. Norton was an associate to Hopkins, Sternhold, and Robert Wisdom, in the Singing Psalms. I am willing to believe that Lord Buckhurst supplied the more vital parts. The chief beauty in the extract is of a secret nature. Marcella obscurely intimates that the murdered prince Porrex and she had been lovers.]
THE SPANISH TRAGEDY; OR HIERONIMO IS MAD AGAIN. A TRAGEDY BY THOMAS KYD.
Horatio, the son of Hieronimo, is murdered while he is sitting with his mistress Belimperia by night in an arbor in his father's garden. The murderers (Balthazar, his rival, and Lorenzo, the brother of Belimperia) hang his body on a tree. Hieronimo is awakened by the cries of Belimperia, and coming out into his garden, discovers by the light of a torch, that the murdered man is his son. Upon this he goes distracted.
Hier. My son! and what's a son?
A thing begot within a pair of minutes, there about:
A lump bred up in darkness, and doth serve
To balance those light creatures we call women ;
And at the nine months' end creeps forth to light.
What is there yet in a son,
To make a father doat, rave, or run mad?
Being born, it pouts, cries, and breeds teeth.
What is there yet in a son?
He must be fed, be taught to go, and speak.
Ay, or yet? why might not a man love a calf as well?
Or melt in passion o'er a frisking kid, as for a son ?
Methinks a young bacon,
Or a fine little smooth horse colt,
Should move a man as much as doth a son;
For one of these, in very little time,
Will grow to some good use; whereas a son
The more he grows in stature and in years,
The more unsquar'd, unlevell'd he appears;
Reckons his parents among the rank of fools,
Strikes cares upon their heads with his mad riots,
Makes them look old before they meet with age;
This is a son; and what a loss is this, considered truly!
Oh, but my Horatio grew out of reach of those
Insatiate humors: he lov'd his loving parents :
He was my comfort, and his mother's joy,
The very arm that did hold up our house-
Our hopes were stored up in him,
None but a damned murderer could hate him.
He had not seen the back of nineteen years,
When his strong arm unhors'd the proud prince Balthazar;
And his great mind, too full of honor, took
To mercy that valiant but ignoble Portuguese.
Well heaven is heaven still!
And there is Nemesis, and furies,
And things call'd whips,
And they sometimes do meet with murderers:
They do not always 'scape, that's some comfort,
Ay, ay, ay, and then time steals on, and steals, and steals,
Till violence leaps forth, like thunder
Wrapt in a ball of fire,
And so doth bring confusion to them all.
JAQUES and PEDRO, Servants.
Jaq. I wonder, Pedro, why our master thus
At midnight sends us with our torches light,
When man and bird and beast are all at rest,
Save those that watch for rape and bloody murder.
Ped. O Jaques, know thou that our master's mind
Is much distract since his Horatio died:
And, now his aged years should sleep in rest,
His heart in quiet, like a desperate man
Grows lunatic and childish for his son:
Sometimes as he doth at his table sit,
He speaks as if Horatio stood by him.
Then starting in a rage, falls on the earth,
Cries out Horatio, where is my Horatio?
So that with extreme grief, and cutting sorrow,
There is not left in him one inch of man:
See here he comes.
Hier. I pry thro' every crevice of each wall,
Look at each tree, and search thro' every brake,
Beat on the bushes, stamp our grandame earth,
Dive in the water, and stare up to heaven;
Yet cannot I behold my son Horatio.
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