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The mighty God even moveth from his place
Blood asketh blood, and death must death requit:
O happy wight that suffers not the snare
5 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 Sidney 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
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: 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, consider'd truly!
Oh, but my Horatio grew out of reach of those
Ped. O Jaques, know thou that our master's mind
Ped. Then we burn day light.
Ped. Provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting words,
Hier. Villain thou lyest, and thou doest nought
prove it to thee; and were I mad, how could I? Where was she the same night, when my Horatio was
weapon would have fallen, and cut the earth,
ISABELLA his wife, enters.
Hier. Indeed Isabella we do nothing here;
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. (One knocks within at the door.)
Ped. It is a painter, sir.
Hier. Bid him come in, and paint some comfort,
The Painter enters.
Hier. Wherefore? why, thou scornful villain?
Isa. What wouldst thou have, good fellow?
Hier. O ambitious beggar, wouldst thou have that