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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.


(The Painter and he sit down.) Come let's talk wisely now. Was thy son murderd ?

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 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 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.

up thus,

Hier. 0, let them be worse, worse : stretch thine art, And let their beards be of Judas's own colour, And let their eyebrows 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 And with these words; What noise is this? who calls Hier.

onimo? 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 tottring, as you know the wind will wave à 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 shew a passion, there you may shew 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;
Then methinks I am a brave fellow;
Then I do wonders ; but reason abuseth me;
And there's the torment, there's the hell.
At last, sir, bring me to one of the murderers ;
Were he as strong as Hector,
Thus would I tear and drag him up and down. .

(He beats the Painter in.) [Act iii., Sc. 12a, whole scene.]

These scenes, which are the very salt of the old play (which without them is but a caput mortuum, such another piece of fatness as Locrine), Hawkins, in his republication of this tragedy, has thrust out of the text into the notes; as omitted in the Second Edition (1594], "printed for Ed. Allde, amended of such gross blunders as passed in the first : and thinks them to have been foisted in by the players.-A late discovery at Dulwich College has ascertained that two sundry payments were made to Ben Jonson by the Theatre for furnishing additions to Hieronimo. See last edition of Shakspeare by Reed. There is nothing in the undoubted plays of Jonson which would authorise us to suppose that he could have supplied the scenes in question. I should suspect the agency of some "more potent spirit." Webster might have furnished them. They are full of that wild solemn preternatural cast of grief which bewilders us in the Duchess of Malfy.



Bethsabe, with her maid, bathing. She sings : and David sits

above, viewing her.

The song.

Hot sun, cool fire, temper'd with sweet air,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair:
Shine sun, burn fire, breathe air and ease me;
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me;
Shadow (my sweet nurse) keep me from burning,
Make not my glad cause, cause of mourning.
Let not my beauty's fire
Inflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wandereth lightly.

Bethsabe. Come, gentle Zephyr, trick'd with those perfumes
That erst in Eden sweetned Adam's love,
And stroke my bosom with the silken fan :
This shade (sun-proof) is yet no proof for thee,
Thy body smoother than this waveless spring,

than the substance of the same,
Can creep through that his lances 2 cannot pierce.
Thou and thy sister soft and sacred Air,
Goddess of life, and governess of health,
Keeps every fountain fresh and arbour sweet ;
No brazen gate her passage can repulse,
Nor bushy thicket bar thy subtle breath.
Then deck thee with thy loose delightsome robes,
And on thy wings bring delicate perfumes,
To play the wantons with us through the leaves.

David. What tunes, what words, what looks, what wonders pierce
My soul, incensed with a sudden fire!
What tree, what shade, what spring, what paradise,
Enjoys the beauty of so fair a dame!

"[The play is in fifteen Scenes. See Peele's Works, ed. Bullen, 1888, vol. ii.) a The sun's rays.

Fair Eva, plac'd in perfect happiness,
Lending her praise-notes to the liberal heavens,
Struck with the accents of Arch-angels' tunes,
Wrought not more pleasure to her husband's thoughts,
Than this fair woman's words and notes to mine.
May that sweet plain that bears her pleasant weight,
Be still enameld with discolour'd flowers ;
That precious fount bear sand of purest gold;
And for the pebble, let the silver streams
That pierce earth's bowels to maintain the source,
Play upon rubies, sapphires, chrysolites;
The brim let be embrac'd with golden curls
Of moss that sleeps with sound the waters make
For joy to feed the fount with their recourse;
Let all the grass that beautifies her bower
Bear manna every morn instead of dew;
Or let the dew be sweeter far than that
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,
Or balm which trickled from old Aaron's beard.

Enter CUSAY.
See, Cusay, see the flower of Israel,
The fairest daughter that obeys the king
In all the land the Lord subdued to me.
Fairer than Isaac's lover at the well,
Brighter than inside bark of new-hewn cedar,
Sweeter than flames of fine perfumed myrrh;
And comelier than the silver clouds that dance
On Zephyr's wings before the king of Heaven.

Cusay. Is it not Bethsabe the Hethite's wife
Urias, now at Rabath siege with Joab?

David. Go now and bring her quickly to the King ; Tell her, her graces hath found grace with him.

Cusay. I will, my Lord.

David. Bright Bethsabe shall wash in David's bower
In water mix'd with purest almond flower,
And bathe her beauty in the milk of kids ;
Bright Bethsabe gives earth to my desires,
Verdure to earth, and to that verdure flowers,
To flowers sweet odours, and to odours wings,
That carries pleasures to the hearts of Kings.



"[Two lines omitted.]

"[Twenty-one lines omitted.]

Now comes my Lover tripping like the Roe,
And brings my longings tangled in her hair.
To joy her love I'll build a kingly bower,
Seated in hearing of a hundred streams,
That, for their homage to her sovereign joys,
Shall, as the serpents fold into their nests,
In oblique turnings wind the nimble waves
About the circles of her curious walks,
And with their murmur summon easeful sleep
To lay his golden sceptre on her brows."

[Sc. 1.] There is more of the same stuff, but I suppose the reader has a surfeit; especially as this Canticle of David has never been suspected to contain any pious sense couched underneath it, whatever his son's may. The kingly bower, "seated in hearing of a hundred streams," is the best of it.


The Queen Mother of Spain loves an insolent Moor.?

Queen. Chime out your softest strains of harmony,
And on delicious Music's silken wings
Send ravishing delight to my love's ears ;
That he may be enamour'd of your tunes.

Eleaz. Away, away.

Queen. No, no, says aye; and twice away, says stay.
Come, come, I'll have a kiss; but if you'll strive,
For one denial you shall forfeit five..
Eleaz. Be gone, be gone.

Queen. What means my love ?
Burst all those wires ; burn all those instruments;
For they displease my Moor. Art thou now pleased ?
Or wert thou now disturbid ? I'll wage all Spain
To one sweet kiss, this is some new device
To make me fond and long. O, you men
Have tricks to make poor women die for you.

Eleaz. What, die for me ? Away.
Queen. Away, what way? I prithee, speak more kindly.
Why dost thou frown ? at whom ?

[For other extracts from Peele see pages 437, 440, 453 and 568.]
? Such another as Aaron in Titus Andronicus,
'[Nine and a half lines omitted.)

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