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Eub. Patient your grace, perhaps he liveth yet, With wound receiv'd but not of certain death.
Gorb. O let us then repair unto the place,
Marc. Alas he liveth not, it is too true,
Arost. O damned deed !
Marc. But hear his ruthful end. The noble prince, pierced with the sudden wounds, Out of his wretched slumber hastily startt, Whose strength now failing, straight he overthrew, When in the fall his eyes ev'n now unclosed, Beheld the queen, and cried to her for help ; We then, alas, the ladies which that time Did there attend, seeing that heinous deed And hearing him oft call the wretched name Of mother, and to cry to her for aid, Whose direful hand gave him the mortal wound, Pitying alas (for nought else could we do) His rueful end, ran to the woful bed, Despoiled streight his breast, and all we might Wiped in vain with napkins next at hand The sudden streams of blood, that flushed fast Out of the gaping wound : O what a look, O what a ruthful stedfast eye methought He fixt upon my face, which to my death Will never part from me,—wherewith abraidi A deep fetch'd sigh he gave, and therewithall Clasping his hands, to heaven he cast his sight; And streight, pale death pressing within his face, The flying ghost his mortal corps forsook.
Arost. Never did age bring forth so vile a fact.
Marc. O hard and cruel hap that thus assign'd
0 queen of adamant, () marble breast,
Arost. Madam, alas, in vain these plaints are shed.
Marc. What wight is that which saw that I did see, And could refrain to wail with plaint and tears ? Not I, alas, that heart is not in me; But let us go, for I am griev'd anew, To call to mind the wretched father's woe. [Exeunt.
Chorus of aged men. When greedy lust in royal seat Hath reft all care of gods and eke of men ; [to reign And cruel heart, wrath, treason, and disdain, Within th' ambitious breast are lodged, then Behold how mischief wide herself displays, And with the brother's hand the brother slays.
When blood thus shed doth stain this heaven's face,
Crying to Jove for vengeance of the deed,
Blood asketh blood, and death must death requit ;
O happy wight that suffers not the snare
[The style of this old play is stiffand cumbersome, like the dresses of its times. There may be flesh and blood underneath, but we cannot get at it. Sir Philip Sydney 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
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, considered truly! Oh, but my Horatio grew out of reach of those Insatiate humours : he lov'd his loving parents : He was my comfort, and his mother's joy, The very arm that did hold up our houseOur hopes were stored up in him, None but a damned murderer could hate him. He had not seen the back of nineteen years, When his strong arm unhors’d the proud prince BalAnd his great mind, too full of honour, took [thazar ; To mercy that valiant but ignoble Portuguese. Well heaven is heaven still! And there is Nemesis, and furies, And things calld whips, And they sometimes do meet with murderers :
They do not always 'scape, that's some comfort.
JAQUES and Pedro, Servants.
Ped. O Jaques, know thou that our master's mind
Ped. We are your servants that attend you, sir.
Ped. Then we burn day light.