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THE SPANISH TRAGEDY.
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 stiff and 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 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.
HORATIO, the son of HIERONIMO, is murdered while he is sitting
with his mistress BELIMPERJA 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,
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 appear's ; 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 call'd 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.
That would not have her treasons to be seen :
Ped. Provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting words, The heavens are gracious ; and
your miseries And sorrow make you speak you know not what.
Hier. Villain thou lyest, and thou doest nought But tell me I am mad : thou lyest, I am not mad : I know thee to be Pedro, and he Jaques. I'll prove it to thee; and were I mad, how could I ? Where was she the same night, when my Horatio was
murder'd ? She should have shone : search thou the book : Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there was a kind
That I know, nay I do know had the murd'rer seen him,
ISABELLA, his wife, enters.
Hier. Indeed Isabella, we do nothing here;
Isa. How be merry here, be merry here?
it out. This was the tree, set 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 :
* Tags of points.
At last it grew and grew, and bore and bore :
Ped. It is a painter, sir.
Hier. Bid him come in, and paint some comfort, For surely there's none lives but painted comfort. Let him come in, one knows not what may chance. God's will that I should set this tree! but even so Masters ungrateful servants rear from nought, And then they hate them that did bring them up.
The Painter enters. Pain. God bless you, sir.
Hier. Wherefore? why, thou scornful villain ? How, where, or by what means should I be blest ?
Isa. What wouldst thou have, good fellow? Pain. Justice, madam. Hier. O ambitious beggar, wouldst thou have that That lives not in the world ? Why, all the undelved mines cannot buy An ounce of justice, 'tis a jewel so inestimable. I tell thee, God hath engross'd all justice in his hands, And there is none but what comes from him. Pain. O then I see that God must right me for my
Hier. What, not as thine ? that's a lie,
Pain. Alas, sir, I had no more but he.
[Exeunt. [The Painter and he sit down.