 
Bell'-Imperia. Is this the love thou bear'st Horatio? Is this the kindness that thou counterfeit'st? Are these the fruits of thine incessant tears? Hieronimo, are these thy passions, Thy protestations and thy deep laments, That thou wert wont to weary men withal? O unkind father! O deceitful world! With what excuses canst thou show thyself, With what dishonour and the hate of men Thus to neglect the loss and life Whom both my letters and thine own belief Assures thee to be causeless slaughtered? Hieronimo, for shame, Hieronimo, Be not a history to after-times Of such ingratitude unto thy son: Unhappy mothers of such children then, But monstrous fathers to forget so soon The death of those, whom they with care and cost Have tender'd so, thus careless should be lost. Myself, a stranger in respect of thee, So lov'd his life, as still I wish their deaths. Nor shall his death be unreveng'd by me, Although I bear it out for fashion's For here I swear, in sight of heaven and earth, Shouldst thou neglect the love thou shouldst retain, And give it over, and devise no more, Myself should send their hateful souls to hell, That wrought his downfal with extremest death. Hieronimo. But may it be, that Bell'-Imperia Vows such revenge as she hath deign'd to say? Why then I see, that heav'n applies our drift, And all the saints do sit soliciting For vengeance on those cursed murderers. Madam, 'tis true, and now I find it so: I found a letter, written in your name, And in that letter, how Horatio died. Pardon, O, pardon, Bell'-Imperia, Nor think I thoughtless think upon a mean To let his death be unreveng'd at full: And here I vow, so you but give consent, And will conceal my resolution, I will ere long determine of their deaths, That causeless thus have murdered my son. Bell'-Imperia. Hieronimo, I will consent, conceal, And aught, that Join with thee to revenge Horatio's death. Hieronimo. On, Let me entreat you, grace my practices: For why the plot's already in mine head. Here they are—
Balthazar. How now, Hieronimo? what, courting Bell'-Imperia? Hieronimo. Ay, my lord, such courting as, I promise you, She hath my heart; but you, my lord, have hers. Lorenzo. But now, Hieronimo, or never we are to entreat your help. Hieronimo. My help? why, my good lords, assure yourselves of me; For you have given me cause: ay, by my faith Balthazar. It pleas'd you at th' entertainment of th' ambassador, To grace the king so much as with a show: Now, were your study so well-furnished, As for the passing of the first night's sport, To entertain my father with the like, Or any suchlike pleasing motion, Assure yourself it would content them well. Hieronimo. Is this all? Lorenzo. Ay, this is all. Hieronimo. Lorenzo. Hieronimo. Marry, my good lord, thus: And yet, methinks, you are too quick with us. It was my chance to write a tragedy, See here, my lords, [Shows them a book. Which (long forgot) I found this other day: Now would your lordships favour me so much As but to grace me with your acting it, I mean, each one of you to play a part, Assure you it will prove most passing strange, And wondrous pleasurable Balthazar. What, would you have us play a tragedy? Hieronimo. Why, Nero thought it no disparagement, And kings and emperors have ta'en delight, To make experience of their wits in plays. Lorenzo. Nay, be not angry, good Hieronimo; The prince but asked a question. Balthazar. In faith, Hieronimo, and you be In earnest, I'll make one. Lorenzo. And I another. Hieronimo. Now, my good lord, could you entreat Your sister Bell'-Imperia to make one, For what's a play without a woman in't? Bell'-Imperia. Little entreaty shall serve me, Hieronimo; For I must needs be employed in your play. Hieronimo. Why, this is well: I tell you, lordings, It was determined to have been acted By gentlemen and scholars too; Such as could tell what to speak. Balthazar. And now it shall be play'd Such as can tell how to speak; If, as it is our country manner, You will but let us know the argument. Hieronimo. That shall I roundly. The chronicles of Spain Record this written of a knight of He was betroth'd, and wedded at the length, To one Perseda, an Italian dame, Whose beauty ravish'd all that her beheld; Especially the soul of Solyman, Who at the marriage was the chiefest guest. By sundry means sought Solyman to win Perseda's love, and could not gain the same: Then 'gan he break his passions to a friend— One of his bashaws, whom he held full dear; Her had this bashaw long solicited, And saw she was not otherwise to be won, Whom presently by treachery he slew: She, stirr'd with an exceeding hate therefore, As cause of this slew Solyman: And, to escape the bashaw's tyranny, Did stab herself: and this Lorenzo. Ay, sir! Bell'-Imperia. But say, Hieronimo, what then became of him, That was the bashaw? Hieronimo. Marry, thus; moved with remorse of his misdeeds, Ran to a mountain-top, and hung Balthazar. But which of us is to perform that part? Hieronimo. O, that will I, my lords; make no doubt of it: I'll play the murderer, I warrant you; For I already have conceited that. Balthazar. And what shall I? Hieronimo. Great Solyman, the Lorenzo. And I? Hieronimo. Erastus, the knight of Rhodes. Bell'-Imperia. And I? Hieronimo. Perseda, chaste and resolute.— And here, my lords, are several abstracts drawn, For each of you to note your parts, And act it, as occasion's offered you, You must provide a Turkish cap, A black mustachio and a falchion. [Gives a paper to Balthazar. You with a cross, like to [Gives another to Lorenzo. And, madam, you must attire yourself. [Gives Bell'-Imperia another. Balthazar. Hieronimo, methinks a comedy were better. Hieronimo. A comedy! fie! comedies are fit for common wits: But to present a kingly troop withal, Give me a stately-written tragedy; Tragoedia cothurnata, fitting kings, Containing matter, and not common things. My lords, all this must be perform'd, As fitting for the first night's revelling. The Italian tragedians were so sharp of wit, That in one hour's meditation They would perform any thing in action. Lorenzo. And well it may; for I have seen the like In Paris 'mongst the French tragedians. Hieronimo. In Paris? mass, and well-remembered! There's one thing more that rests for us to do. Balthazar. What's that, Hieronimo? forget not anything. Hieronimo. Each one of us must act his part In unknown languages, That it may breed the As you, my lord, in Latin: I in Greek: You in Italian,—and for because I know That Bell'-Imperia hath practised the French, In courtly French shall all her phrases be. Bell'-Imperia. You mean to try my cunning then, Hieronimo? Balthazar. But this will be a mere confusion, And hardly shall we all be understood. Hieronimo. It must be so; for the conclusion Shall prove the invention, and all was good: And I myself in an oration, And with a strange and wondrous show besides, That I will have there behind a curtain, Assure yourself, shall make the matter known: And all shall be concluded in one scene, For there's no pleasure ta'en in tediousness. Balthazar. How like you this? Lorenzo. Why thus, my lord, we must resolve To soothe his humours up. [Aside. Balthazar. On, Hieronimo. You'll ply this gear? Lorenzo. I warrant you. [Exeunt all but Hieronimo. Hieronimo. Why Wrought by the heav'ns in this confusion. And if the world like not this tragedy, Hard is the hap of old Hieronimo. [Exit.
Isabella. Tell me no more: O monstrous homicides! Since neither piety nor pity moves The king to justice or compassion, I will revenge myself upon this place, Where thus they murder'd Down with these branches and these loathsome boughs Of this unfortunate and fatal pine: Down with them, Isabella: rent them up; And burn the roots from whence the rest is sprung. I will not leave a root, a stalk, a tree, A bough, a branch, a blossom, nor a leaf, No, not an herb within this garden-plot. Accursed complot of my misery! Fruitless for ever may this garden be, Barren the earth, and blissless Imagines not to keep it unmanur'd! An eastern wind commix'd with noisome airs Shall blast the plants and the young saplings: The earth with serpents shall be pestered, And passengers, for fear to be infect, Shall stand aloof; and (looking at it) tell, There murder'd died the son of Isabel. Ay, here he died, and here I him embrace. See, where his ghost solicits with his wounds, Revenge on her that should revenge his death. Hieronimo, make haste to see thy son; For sorrow and despair hath cited me, To hear Horatio plead with Rhadamant: Make haste, Hieronimo; or hold accus'd Thy negligence in pursuit of their deaths, Ha, nay, thou dost delay their deaths, Forgiv'st the murd'rers of thy noble son, And none but I bestir me—to no end. And as I curse this tree from further fruit, So shall my womb be cursed for his sake; And with this weapon will I wound the breast, The hapless breast, that gave Horatio suck. [She stabs herself.
Castile. How now, Hieronimo, where's your That you take all this pain? Hieronimo. O sir, it is for the author's credit, To look that all things may go well: But, good my lord, let me entreat your grace, To give the king the copy of the play: This is the argument of what we show. Castile. I will, Hieronimo. Hieronimo. One thing more, my good Castile. What's that? Hieronimo. Let me entreat your grace That when the train are You would vouchsafe to throw me down the key. Castile. I will, Hieronimo. [Exit Cast. Hieronimo. What, are you ready, Balthazar? Bring a chair and a cushion for the king.
Well done, Balthazar, hang up the title: Our scene is Rhodes: what, is your beard on? Balthazar. Half on; the other is in my hand. Hieronimo. Despatch for shame, are you so long? [Exit Bal. Bethink thyself, Hieronimo, Recall thy wits, recount thy former wrongs Thou hast receiv'd by murder of thy son. And lastly, [but] not least, how Isabel, All woe-begone for him, hath slain herself. Behoves thee there, Hieronimo, to be reveng'd: The plot is laid of dire revenge; On, For nothing wants but acting of revenge. [Exit.
King. Now, Viceroy, shall we see the tragedy Of Solyman, the Turkish Emperor, Perform'd of pleasure by your My nephew, Don Lorenzo, and my niece? Viceroy. Who? Bell'-Imperia? King. Ay, and Hieronimo our marshal, At whose request they deign These be our pastimes in the court of Spain. Here, brother, you shall be the bookkeeper, This is the argument of that they show. [Gives him a book. Gentlemen, this play of Hieronimo, in sundry languages, was thought good to be set down in English more largely, for the easier understanding to every public reader.
Balthazar. Bashaw, that Rhodes is ours yield heav'ns the honour, And holy Mahomet our sacred prophet! And be thou grac'd with every excellence, That Solyman can give, or thou desire. But thy desert in conquering Rhodes is less, Than in reserving this fair Christian Perseda, blissful lamp of excellence, Whose eyes compel, like powerful adamant, The warlike heart of Solyman to wait. King. See, Viceroy, that is Balthazar your son, That represents the emperor Solyman: How well he acts his amorous passion! [Aside. Viceroy. Ay, Bell'-Imperia hath taught him that. [Aside. Castile. That's because his mind runs all on Bell'-Imperia. Hieronimo. Whatever joy earth yields, betide Balthazar. Earth yields no joy without Perseda's love. Hieronimo. Let then Balthazar. She shall not wait on me, but I on her, Drawn by the influence of her lights, I yield: But let my friend the Rhodian knight come forth, Erastus, dearer than my life to me, That he may see Perseda my belov'd.
King. Here comes Lorenzo. Look upon the plot, And tell me, brother, what part plays he? Bell'-Imperia. Ah, my Erastus, welcome to Perseda. Lorenzo. Thrice happy is Erastus, that thou liv'st: Rhodes' loss is nothing to Erastus' joy; Sith his Perseda lives, his life survives. Balthazar. Ah, bashaw, here is love between Erastus And fair Perseda, sovereign of my soul. Hieronimo. Remove Erastus, mighty Solyman, And then Perseda will be quickly won. Balthazar. Erastus is my friend; and, while he lives, Perseda never will remove her love. Hieronimo. Let not Erastus live to grieve great Solyman. Balthazar. Dear is Erastus in our princely eye. Hieronimo. But if he be your rival, let him die. Balthazar. Why, let him die; so love commandeth me: Yet grieve I that Erastus should so die. Hieronimo. Erastus, Solyman saluteth thee, And lets thee wit by me his highness' will, Which is, thou shouldst be thus employed. [Stabs him. Bell'-Imperia. Ay me, Erastus! See, Solyman, Erastus slain! Balthazar. Yet liveth Solyman to comfort thee: Fair queen of beauty, let not favour die, But with a gracious eye behold his grief, That with Perseda's beauty is increas'd, Bell'-Imperia. Tyrant, desist soliciting vain suits; Relentless are mine ears to thy laments, As thy butcher is pitiless and base, Which seiz'd on my Erastus, harmless knight: Yet by thy pow'r thou thinkest to command; And to thy power Perseda doth obey: But, were she able, thus she would revenge Thy treacheries on thee, ignoble prince: [Stabs him. And on herself she would be thus reveng'd. [Stabs herself. King. Well said, old marshal, this was bravely done. Hieronimo. But Bell'-Imperia plays Perseda well. Viceroy. Were this in earnest, Bell'-Imperia, You would be better to my son than so. King. But now what follows for Hieronimo. Marry, this follows for Hieronimo: Here break we off our sundry languages, And thus conclude I in our vulgar tongue. Happily you think (but bootless are That this is fabulously counterfeit; And that we do as all tragedians do, To die to-day for fashioning our scene And in a minute starting up again, Revive to please to-morrow's audience: No, princes; know I am Hieronimo, The hopeless father of a hapless son, Whose tongue is tun'd Not to excuse gross errors in the play. I see, your looks urge instance of these words; Behold the reason urging me to this: [He shows his dead son. See here my show, look on this spectacle; Here lay my hope, and here my hope hath end: Here lay my heart, and here my heart was slain: Here lay my treasure, here my treasure lost: Here lay my bliss, and here my bliss bereft: But hope, heart, treasure, joy, and bliss, All fled, fail'd, died: yea, all decay'd with this. From forth these wounds came breath that gave me life; They murder'd me, that made these fatal marks: The cause was love, whence grew this mortal hate; The hate, Lorenzo and young Balthazar; The love, my son to Bell'-Imperia: But night, the coverer of accursed crimes, With pitchy silence hush'd these traitors' And lent them leave, for they had sorted To take advantage in my garden-plot Upon my son, my dear Horatio: There merciless they butcher'd up my boy, In black dark night, to pale dim cruel death. He shrieks, I heard; and yet (methinks) I hear His dismal outcry echo in the air: With soonest speed I hasted to the noise; Where hanging on a tree I found my son, Through girt with wounds, and slaughter'd as you see: And griev'd I, think you, at this spectacle? If thou canst weep upon thy Balthazar, 'Tis like I wail'd And you, my lord, whose reconciled son March'd in a net, and thought himself unseen, And rated me for brainsick lunacy, With How can you brook our play's catastrophe? And here behold this bloody handkerchief, Which at Horatio's death I, weeping, dipp'd Within the river of his bleeding wounds: It as propitious, see, I have reserved, And never hath it left my bloody Soliciting remembrance of my vow With these, O, these accursed murderers. Which now perform'd my heart is satisfi'd. And to this end the bashaw I became, That might revenge me on Lorenzo's life; Who therefore was appointed to the part, And was to represent the Knight of Rhodes, That I might kill him more conveniently:— So, Viceroy, was this Balthazar thy son, That Solyman, which Bell'-Imperia, In person of Perseda, murdered, Solely appointed to that tragic part, That she might slay him that offended her. Poor Bell'-Imperia miss'd her part in this; For though the story say'th, she should have died, Yet I of kindness, and of care to her, Did otherwise determine of her end; But love of him, whom they did hate too Did urge her resolution to be such.— And, princes, now behold Hieronimo, Author and actor in this tragedy, Bearing his latest fortune in his fist; And will as resolute conclude his part, As any of the actors gone before. And, gentles, Urge no more words: I have no more to say. [He runs to hang himself. King. O, hearken, Viceroy. Hold, Hieronimo! Viceroy. Hieronimo. Viceroy, I will not trust thee with my life, Which I this day have offered to my son. Accursed wretch, why stay'st Resolv'd to die? King. Speak, traitor! damned bloody murderer, speak! For now I have thee, I will make thee speak. Why hast thou done this undeserving deed? Viceroy. Why hast thou murdered my Balthazar? Castile. Why hast thou butcher'd both my children thus? Hieronimo. But are you sure that they are dead? Castile. Ay, slain too sure. Hieronimo. What, and yours too? Viceroy. Ay, all are dead; not one of them survive. Hieronimo. Nay, then I care not; come, and we shall be friends: Let us lay our heads together. See, here's a goodly noose will hold them all. Viceroy. O damned devil, how secure Hieronimo. Secure? why dost thou wonder at it? I tell thee, Viceroy, this day I have seen revenge, And in that fight am grown a prouder monarch, Than ever sat under the crown of Spain. Had I as many lives as there be stars, As many heavens to go to as those lives, I'd give them all, ay, and my soul to boot, But I would see thee ride in this red pool. Castile. Speak, who were thy confederates in this? Viceroy. That was thy daughter, Bell'-Imperia; For by her hand my Balthazar was slain: I saw her stab him. Hieronimo. O good words! as dear to me was my Horatio, As yours, or yours, or yours, my lord, to you. My guiltless son was by Lorenzo slain, And by Lorenzo and that Balthazar Am I at last revenged thoroughly; With greater far than these afflictions. Methinks, since I grew inward I cannot look with scorn enough on death. King. What, dost thou Hieronimo. Do, do, do; and meantime I'll torture you. You had a son, as I take it; and your son Should have been married to your daughter: ha, was't not so? You had a son too, he was my liege's nephew: He was proud and politic: had he liv'd, He might ha' come to wear the crown of Spain: I think 'twas so; 'twas I that killed him, Look you, this same hand was it that stabb'd His heart—do you see this hand?— For one Horatio, if you ever knew him? A youth—one that they hang'd up in his father's garden: One that did force your valiant son to yield, While your valiant son did take him prisoner. Viceroy. Be deaf, my senses; I can hear no more. King. Fall, heaven, and cover us with thy sad ruins.
Roll all the world within thy pitchy cloud. Hieronimo. Now do I applaud what I have acted. Nunc mors; [nunc] cÆde, manus. King. Why speakest thou not? Hieronimo. What lesser liberty can kings afford Than harmless silence? then, afford it me: Sufficeth, I may not, nor I will not tell thee. King. Fetch forth the tortures. Traitor as thou art, I'll make thee tell. Hieronimo. Indeed, thou may'st torment me, as his wretched son Hath done in murd'ring my Horatio; But never shalt thou force me to reveal The thing which I have vow'd inviolate: Pleas'd with their deaths, and eas'd with their revenge, First take my tongue, and afterwards my heart. [He bites out his tongue. King. O monstrous resolution of a wretch! See, Viceroy, he hath bitten forth his tongue, Rather than to reveal what we requir'd. Castile. Yet can he write. King. And if in this he satisfy us not, We will devise th' extremest kind of death [He makes signs for a knife to mend his pen. Castile. O, he would have a knife to mend his pen. Viceroy. Here; and advise thee, that thou write the troth. Look to my brother, save Hieronimo. [He with the knife stabs the duke and himself. King.
What age hath ever heard such monstrous deeds? My brother, and the whole succeeding hope That Go bear his body hence, that we may mourn The loss of our beloved brother's death, That he may be entomb'd whate'er befall: I am the next, the nearest—last of all. Viceroy. And thou, Don Pedro, do the like for us: Take up our hapless son, untimely slain; Set me with him, and he with woeful me, Upon the main-mast of a ship unmann'd, And let the wind and tide hale me along To Scylla's barking and untamed gulph; Or to the loathsome pool of Acheron, To weep my want for [Exeunt. [The trumpets sound a dead march; the King Of Spain mourning after his brother's body, and the King of Portingal bearing the body of his son.
Ghost. Ay, now my hopes have end in their effects, When blood and sorrow finish my desires: Horatio murder'd in his father's bower; Vild Serberine by Pedringano slain; False Pedringano hang'd by quaint device; Fair Isabella by herself misdone; Prince Balthazar by Bell'-Imperia stabb'd; The Duke of Castile and his wicked son Both done to death by old Hieronimo. My Bell'-Imperia fall'n, as Dido fell: And good Hieronimo slain by himself. Ay, these were spectacles to please my soul. Now will I beg at lovely Proserpine That, by the virtue of her princely doom, I may comfort my friends in pleasing sort, And on my foes work just and sharp revenge. I'll lead my friend Horatio through those fields, Where never-dying wars are still inur'd: I'll lead fair Isabella to that train Where pity weeps, but never feeleth pain: I'll lead my Bell'-Imperia to those joys, That vestal virgins and fair queens possess: I'll lead Hieronimo where Orpheus plays, Adding sweet pleasure to eternal days. But say, Revenge, (for thou must help, or none) Against the rest how shall my hate be shown? Revenge. Ghost. Then, sweet Revenge, do this at my request: Let me be judge, and doom them to unrest. Let loose poor Tityus from the vulture's gripe, And let Don Cyprian supply his room; Place Don Lorenzo on Ixion's wheel, And let the lover's endless pains surcease; Juno forgets old wrath, and grants him ease; Hang Balthazar about Chimera's neck, And let him there bewail his bloody love, Repining at our joys that are above: Let Serberine go roll the fatal stone, And take from Sisiphus his endless moan: False Pedringano, for his treachery, Let him be dragg'd through boiling Acheron, And there live, dying still in endless flames, Blaspheming Gods and all their holy names. Revenge. Then haste we down to meet thy friends and foes; To place thy friends in ease, the rest in woes: For here, though death hath I'll there begin their endless tragedy. [Exeunt. FOOTNOTES:"From this dishonour and the hate of men."] "Myself was once a studient, and indeed Fed with the selfsame humour he is now: Dreaming on nought but idle poetry, That fruitless and unprofitable art, Good unto none, but least unto the professors." "Well done, Balthazar, hang up the tilt"—instead of "hang up the title." He thus lost a material passage, to show that of old a board was hung up on the stage with the title and scene of the piece— "Hang up the title; Our scene is Rhodes." So also in "Wily Beguil'd" 1606— "Prologue. How now, my honest rogue, what play shall we have here to-night? Player. Sir, you may look upon the title. Prologue. What, 'Spectrum' once again?" The title of "Spectrum" is afterwards removed by the sleight of hand of a juggler, and "Wily Beguil'd" substituted for it.—Collier. "My lord, most sure on't; for 'twas spoke by one, That is most inward with the duke's son's lust." "Nay, then let us go sleepe, when bugs and feares Shall kill our courages with their fancies worke." Again, in Churchyard's "Challenge," p. 180— "And in their place some fearful bugges, As blacke as any pitche, With bellies big and swagging dugges, More loathsome then a witch." And in the same author's "Worthiness of Wales," p. 16, edit. 1776— "A kind of sound, that makes a hurling noyse, To feare young babes with brute of bugges and toyes." |
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