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Stab him.

And on herselfe she would be thus reuengd.

Stab herselfe.

KING.

Well said, old marshall! this was brauely done!

HIERO.

But Bel-imperia plauies Perseda well.

VICE.

Were this in earnest, Bel-imperia,

You would be better to my sonne then so.

KING.

But now what followes for Hieronimo?

HIERO.

Marrie, this followes for Hieronimo!

Heere breake we off our sundrie languages,

And thus conclude I in our vulgare tung:

Happely you think—but bootles are your thoughts—

That this is fabulously counterfeit,

And that we doo as all trageians doo,—

To die to-day, for fashioning our scene,

The death of Aiax, or some Romaine peer,

And, in a minute starting vp againe,

Reuiue to please tomorrows audience.

No, princes; know I am Hieronimo,

The hopeles father of a haples sonne,

Whose tung is tun'd to tell his latest tale,

Not to excuse grosse errors in the play.

I see your lookes vrge instance of these words:

Beholde the reason vrging me to this!

Showes his dead sonne.

See heere my shew; look on this spectacle!

Heere lay my hope, and heere my hope hath end;

Heere lay my hart, and heere my hart was slaine;

Heere lay my treasure, heere my treasure lost;

Heere lay my blisse, and heere my blisse bereft.

But hope, hart, treasure, ioy and blisse,—

All fled, faild, died, yea, all decaide with this.

From froth these wounds came breath that gaue me life;

They murdred me that made these fatall markes.

The cause was loue whence grew this mortall hate:

The hate, Lorenzo and yong Balthazar;

The loue, my sonne to Bel-imperia.

But night, the couerer of accursed crimes,

With pitchie silence husht these traitors harmes,

And lent them leaue—for they had sorted leasure—

To take aduantage in my garden plot

Vpon my sonne, my deere Horatio.

There mercilesse they butcherd vp my boy,

In black, darke night, to pale, dim, cruell death!

He shrikes; I heard—and yet, me thinks, I heare—

His dismall out-cry eccho in the aire;

With soonest speed I hasted to the noise,

Where, hanging on a tree, I found my sonne

Through-girt with wounds and slaughtred, as you see.

And greeued I, think you, at this spectacle?

Speak, Portuguise, whose losse resembles mine!

If thou canst weep vpon thy Balthazar,

Tis like I wailde for my Horatio.

And you, my l[ord], whose reconciled sonne

Marcht in a net and thought himself vnseene,

And rated me for a brainsicke lunacie,

With "God amend that mad Hieronimo!"—

How can you brook our plaies catastrophe?

And heere beholde this bloudie hand-kercher,

Which at Horatios death weeping dipt

Within the riuer of his bleeding wounds!

It as propitious, see, I haue reserued,

And neuer hath it left my bloody hart,

Soliciting remembrance of my vow

With these, O these accursed murderers!

Which now perform'd, my hart is satisfied.

And to this end the bashaw I became,

That might reuenge me on Lorenzos life,

Who therefore was appointed to the part

And was to represent the knight of Rhodes,

That I might kill him more conueniently.

So, vice-roy, was this Balthazar thy sonne—

That Soliman which Bel-imperia

In person of Perseda murdered,—

So[le]lie appointed to that tragicke part,

That she might slay him that offended her.

Poore Bel-imperia mist her part in this:

For, though the story saith she should haue died,

Yet I, of kindenes and care for her,

Did otherwise determine of her end.

But loue of him whome they did hate too much

Did vrge her resolution to be such.

And princes, now beholde Hieronimo,

Author and actor in this tragedie,

Bearing his latest fortune in his fist;

And will as resolute conclude his parte

As any of the actors gone before.

And, gentles, thus I end my play!

Vrge no more words, I haue no more to say.

He runs to hang himselfe.

KING.

O hearken, vice-roy; holde Hieronimo!

Brother, my newphew and they sonne are slaine!

VICE.

We are betraide! my Balthazar is slaine!

Breake ope the doores; runne saue Hieronimo!

Hieronimo, doe but enforme the king of these euents;

Vpon mine honour, thou shalt haue no