What is there yet in a son, To make a father dote, rave or run mad? 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; Will grow to some good use; whereas a son, The very arm that did hold None but a damned murderer could hate hiin. He had not seen the back of nineteen years, When his strong arm unhorsed the proud prince Bal thazar ; And his great mind, too full of honour, took To mercy that valiant but ignoble Portuguese. 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 Wrapp'd in a ball of fire, And so doth bring confusion to them all. [Exit. JAQUES and PEDRO, servants. Jaq. I wonder, Pedro, why our master thus HIERONIMO enters. Hier. I pry through every crevice of each wall, Ped. We are your servants that attend you, sir. Hier. What make you with your torches in the dark ? Hier. No, no, you are deceived, not I, you are deceived: Ped. Then we burn daylight. Hier. Let it be burnt; night is a murderous slut, 1 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. But tell me I am mad: thou liest, I am not mad: I'll prove it to thee; and were I mad, how could I? 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 murderer seen him, ISABELLA his wife enters. Isa. Dear Hieronimo, come in a-doors; O seek not means to increase thy sorrow. Is not this the place, and this the very tree, And when our hot Spain could not let it grow, 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. (One knocks within at the door.) Ped. It is a painter, sir. Hier. Bid him come in, and paint some comfort, For surely there's none lives but painted comfort. Pain. God bless you, sir. Hier. Wherefore? why, thou scornful villain? How, where, or by what means should I be blest? Hier. O ambitious beggar, wouldst thou have that 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, Pain. O then I see that God must right me for der'd son. Hier. How, was thy son murder'd? Pain. Ay, sir, no man did hold a son so dear. As massy as the earth: I had a son, A thousand of thy sons, and he was murder'd. 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, this hideous orchard up and down, my mur Will range 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 murder'd ? Pain. Ay, sir. Hier. So was mine. How dost thou take it? art thou not sometime mad? Pain. O lord, yes, sir. Hier. Art a painter? canst paint me a tear, a wound? your Hier. Bazardo! 'fore God an excellent fellow. Look you, sir. Do you see? I'd have you paint me in my gallery, in oil colours 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 through and through with villains' swords hanging upon this tree. Canst thou draw a murderer ? 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 eyebrows jut over: in any case observe Then, sir, after some violent noise, Bring me forth in my shirt and my gown under my arm, And with these words; What noise is this? who calls May it be done? Pain. Yea, sir. Hier. Well, sir, then bring me forth, bring me through alley and alley, still with a distracted countenance going along, and let my hair heave up my night-cap. Let the |