[A street.]

Enter two PORTINGALES, and HIERONIMO
meets them.

I PORT. By your leaue, sir.

HIER. Tis neither as you thinke, nor as you thinke,
Nor as you thinke, you'r wide all:
These slippers are not mine, they were my sonne Horatios.
My sonne? And what's a sonne? A thing begot
Within a paire of minutes, there-about;
A lump bred up in darknesse, and doth serue
To ballance those light creatures we call women,
And at nine monethes end creepes foorth to light.
What is there yet in a sonne to make a father
Dote, rave or runne mad? Being born, it pouts,
Cries, and breeds teeth. What is there yet in a sonne?
He must be fed, be taught to goe and speake.
I, and yet? Why might not a man love
A calfe as well, or melt in passion over
A frisking kid, as for a sonne? Me thinkes
A young bacon or a fine smooth little horse-colt
Should moove a man as much as doth a son;
For one of these in very little time
Will grow to some good use, whereas a sonne,
The more he growes in stature and in yeeres,
The more unsquar'd, unlevelled he appeares,
Reckons his parents among the ranke of fooles,
Strikes cares upon their heads with his mad ryots,
Makes them looke old before they meet with age.—
This is a son! And what a losse were this,
Considered truely! Oh, but my Horatio
Grew out of reach of those insatiate humours:
He lovd his loving parents, he was my comfort
And his mothers joy, the very arme that did
Hold up our house, our hopes were stored up in him.
None but a damned murderer could hate him!
He had not seene the backe
Of nineteene yeere, when his strong arme unhorst
The proud prince Balthazar; and his great minde,
Too full of honour tooke him unto mercy,
That valient but ignoble Portingale.
Well! Heaven is Heaven still! And there's Nemesis, and Furies,
And things called whippes, and they sometimes doe meet
With murderers! They doe not alwayes scape,—
That is some comfort! I, I, I; and then
Time steales on, and steales and steales, till violence
Leapes foorth like thunder wrapt in a ball of fire,
And so doth bring confusion to them all.

Good leaue haue you; nay, I pray you goe,
For Ile leaue you, if you can leaue me so.

II PORT. Pray you, which is the next way to my l[ord]
the dukes?

HIERO. The next way from me.

I PORT. To the house, we meane.

HIERO. O hard by; tis yon house that you see.

II PORT. You could not tell vs if his sonne were there?

HIERO. Who? my lord Lorenzo?

I PORT. I, sir.

He goeth in at one doore and comes out at another.

HIERO. Oh, forbeare,
For other talke for vs far fitter were!
But, if you be importunate to know
The way to him and where to finde him out,
Then list to me, and Ile resolue your doubt:
There is a path vpon your left hand side
That leadeth from a guiltie conscience
Vnto a forrest of distrust and feare,—
A darksome place and dangerous to passe,—
There shall you meet with melancholy thoughts
Whose balefull humours if you but [behold],
It will conduct you to dispaire and death:
Whose rockie cliffes when you haue once behelde,
Within a hugie dale of lasting night,
That, kindled with worlds of iniquities,
Doth cast vp filthy and detested fumes,—
Not far from thence where murderers haue built
A habitation for their cursed soules,
There, in a brazen caldron fixed by Iove
In his fell wrath vpon a sulpher flame,
Your-selues shall finde Lorenzo bathing him
In boyling lead and blood of innocents.

I PORT. Ha, ha, ha!

HIERO. Ha, ha, ha! why, ha, ha, ha! Farewell, good ha,
ha, ha!

Exit.

II PORT. Doubtles this man is passing lunaticke,
Or imperfection of his age doth make him dote.
Come, lets away to seek my lord the duke.

[Exeunt.]