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 arbour 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. HIERONIMO mad. Hier. My son! and what's a son? A thing begot within a pair of minutes, there about: To balance those light creatures we call women; To make a father doat, 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 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 This is a son; and what a loss is this, consider'd truly! Oh, Oh, but my Horatio grew out of reach of those None but a damned murderer could hate him. When his strong arm unhors'd the proud prince Bal- 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 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 And, now his aged years should sleep in rest, [Exit. HIERONIMO HIERONIMO enters. Hier. I pry thro' every crevice of each wall, How now, who's there, sprights, sprights? Ped. We are your servants that attend you, sir. Was I so mad to bid you light your torches now? Ped. Then we burn day light. Hier. Let it be burnt; night is a murd'rous slut, Ped. Provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting words,, 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; ISABELLA his wife, enters. Isa. Dear Hieronimo, come in a doors, Not I indeed, we are very merry, very merry. And when our hot Spain could not let it grow, Till at length it grew a gallows, and did bear our son. Ped. It is a painter, sir. Hier. Bid him come in, and paint some comfort, The Painter enters. Pain. God bless you, sir, Hier. Wherefore? why, thou scornful villain? Hier. O ambitious beggar, wouldst thou have that Why, 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 my murder'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 Pedro, Jaques, go in a doors, Isabella, go, Will range this hideous orchard up and down, Like two she lions reaved of their Go in a doors I say. Come let's talk wisely now. Was thy son murder'd? Pain. Ay, sir. Hier. So was mine. young. 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? 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 lear |