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.

HIERONIMO enters.

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.

[Exit.

How now, who's there, sprights, sprights?

Ped. We are your servants that attend you, sir
Hier. What make you with your torches in the dark?
Ped. You bid us light them, and attend you here.
Hier. No, no, you are deceiv'd, not I, you are deceiv'd:
Was I so mad to bid you light your torches now?
Light me your torches at the mid of noon,
When as the sun god rides in all his glory;
Light me your torches then.

Ped. Then we burn day light.

Hier. Let it be burnt; night is a murd'rous slut,
That would not have her treasons to be seen:
And yonder pale fac'd Hecate there, the moon,
Doth give consent to that is done in darkness.
And all those stars that gaze upon her face,
Are aglets* on her sleeve, pins on her train :
And those that should be powerful and divine,
Do sleep in darkness when they most should shine.
Ped. Provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting words,
The heavens are gracious; and your miseries
And sorrow make you speak you know not what.

Hier. Villain, thou lyest, and thou doest nought
But tell me I am mad: thou lyest, I am not mad:
I know thee to be Pedro, and he Jaques.

I'll prove

it to thee; and were I mad, how could I? Where was she the same night, when my Horatio was murder'd? She should have shone : search thou the book:

Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there was a kind of grace,
That I know, nay, I do know had the murd❜rer seen him,

His weapon would have fallen, and cut the earth,
Had he been fram'd of nought but blood and death;
Alack, when mischief doth it knows not what,

What shall we say to mischief?

ISABELLA, his wife, enters.

Isa. Dear Hieronimo, come in a doors, O seek not means to increase thy sorrow. *Tags of points.

Hier. Indeed, Isabella, we do nothing here; I do not cry, ask Pedro and Jaques :

Not I indeed, we are very merry, very merry.

Isa. How? be merry here, be merry here?
Is not this the place, and this the very tree,
Where my Horatio died, where he was murder'd ?
Hier. Was, do not say what: let her weep it out.
This was the tree, I set it of a kernel;

And when our hot Spain could not let it grow,
But that the infant and the human sap
Began to wither, duly twice a morning
Would I be sprinkling it with fountain water:
At last it grew and grew, and bore and bore:
Till at length it grew a gallows, and did bear our son.
It bore thy fruit and mine. O wicked, wicked plant.
See who knocks there.

Ped. It is a painter, sir.

[One knocks within at the door.

Hier. Bid him come in, and paint some comfort,
For surely there's none lives but painted comfort.
Let him come in, one knows not what may chance.
God's will that I should set this tree! but even so
Masters ungrateful servants rear from nought,
And then they hate them that did bring them up.

Hier. Wherefore? why, thou scornful villain? How, where, or by what means should I be blest? Isa. What wouldst thou have, good fellow? Pain. Justice, madam.

Hier. O ambitious beggar, wouldst thou have that That lives not in the world?

Why, all the undelved mines cannot buy

An ounce of justice, 'tis a jewel so inestimable.

I tell thee, God hath engross'd all justice in his hands,
And there is none but what comes from him.

Pain. O then I see that God must right me for

son.

Hier. How, was thy son murder'd?

Pain. Ay, sir, no man did hold a son so dear.
Hier. What, not as thine? that's a lie,
As massy as the earth: I had a son,
Whose least unvalued hair did weigh

A thousand of thy sons, and he was murder'd.
Pain. Alas, sir, I had no more but he.

Hier. Nor I, nor I; but this same one of mine
Was worth a legion. But all is one.

Pedro, Jaques, go in a doors, Isabella, go,
And this good fellow here, and I,

Will range this hideous orchard up and down,
Like two she lions, 'reaved of their young.

Go in a doors I say.

[Exeunt.

(The Painter and he sit down.)

Come let's talk wisely now.

Was thy son murdered?

Pain. Ay, sir.

Hier. So was mine.

How dost thou take it? art thou not sometime mad?

Is there no tricks that come before thine eyes ?
Pain. O lord, yes, sir.

Hier. Art a painter? canst paint me a tear, a wound?
A groan or a sigh? canst paint me such a tree as this?
Pain. Sir, I am sure you have heard of my painting ;
My name's Bazardo.

Hier. Bazardo! 'fore God an excellent fellow. Look you, sir.

:

Do you see? I'd have you paint me in my gallery, in your oil colors matted, and draw me five years younger than I am do you see, sir? let five years go, let them go,-my wife Isabella standing by me, with a speaking look to my son Horatio, which should intend to this, or some such like purpose; God bless thee, my sweet son; and my hand leaning upon his head thus, sir, do you see? may it be done?

Pain. Very well, sir.

Hier. Nay, I pray mark me, sir.

Then, sir, would I have you paint me this tree, this very tree: Canst paint a doleful cry?

Pain. Seemingly, sir.

Hier. Nay, it should cry; but all is one.

Well, sir, paint me a youth run thro' and thro' with villains' swords hanging upon this tree.

Canst thou draw a murd'rer?

Pain. I'll warrant you, sir; I have the pattern of the most notorious villains that ever lived in all Spain.

Hier. O, let them be worse, worse: stretch thine art,

And let their beards be of Judas's own color,

And let their eye-brows jut over: in any case observe that;
Then, sir, after some violent noise,

Bring me forth in my shirt and my gown under my arm, with
my torch in my hand, and my sword rear'd up thus,—
And with these words; What noise is this? who calls Hieronimo?
May it be done?

Pain. Yea, sir.

Hier. Well, sir, then bring me forth, bring me thro' alley and alley, still with a distracted countenance going along, and let my hair heave up my night-cap.

Let the clouds scowl, make the moon dark, the stars extinct, the winds blowing, the bells tolling, the owls shrieking, the toads croaking, the minutes jarring, and the clock striking twelve.

And then at last, sir, starting, behold a man hanging, and tott'ring, and tott'ring, as you know the wind will wave a man, and I with a trice to cut him down.

And looking upon him by the advantage of my torch, find it to be my son Horatio.

There you may show a passion, there you may show a passion. Draw me like old Priam of Troy, crying, the house is a fire, the house is a fire; and the torch over my head; make me curse, make me rave, make me cry, make me mad, make me well again, make me curse hell, invocate, and in the end leave me in a trance, and so forth.

Pain. And is this the end?

Hier. O no, there is no end: the end is death and madness; And I am never better than when I am mad;