Hier. Indeed, Isabella, we do nothing here;
I do not cry, ask Pedro and Jaques :

Not I indeed, we are very merry, very merry.
Isa. How? be merry here, be merry hero 1
Is not this the place, and this the very tree,
Where my Horatio died, where he was murder'd ?
Hier. Was, do not say what: let her weep it out.
This was the tree, I set it 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:
At last it grew and grew, and bore and bore:
Till at length it grew a gallows, and did bear our son.
It bore thy fruit and mine. O wicked, wicked plant.
See who knocks there.

Ped. It is a painter, sir.

[One knocks within at the door.

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 wo
Masters ungrateful servants rear from nought,
And then they hate them that did bring them up.

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 murder'd

son.

Hier. How, was thy son murder'd?

Pain. Ay, sir, no man did hold a son so deai.
Hier. What, not as thine? that's a lie,
As massy as the earth: I had a son,
Whose least unvalued hair did weigh

A thousand of thy sons, and he was murder'd.
Pain. Alas, sir, I had no more but he.

Hier. Nor I, nor I;

Was worth a legion.

but this same one of mine

But all is one.

Pedro, Jaques, go in a doors, Isabella, go,

And this good fellow here, and I,

Will range this hideous orchard up and down,

Like two she lions, 'reaved of their young.

Go in a doors I say.

[Exeunt.

(The Painter and he sit down.)

Come let's talk wisely now.

Was thy son murdered?

Pain. Ay, sir.

Hier. So was mine.

How dost thou take it? art thou not sometirne mad?

Is there no tricks that come before thine eyes?
Pain. O lord, yes, sir.'

Hier. Art a painter? canst paint me a tear, a wound?
A groan or a sigh? canst paint me such a tree as this?
Pain. Sir, I am sure you have heard of my painting;
My name's Bazardo.

Hier. Bazardo! 'fore God an excellent fellow. Look you,

sir.

Do you see? I'd have you paint me in my gallery, in your oil colors matted, and draw me five years younger than I am: do you see, sir? let five years go, let them go,-my wife Isabella standing by me, with a speaking look to my son Horatio, which should intend to this, or some such like purpose; God bless thee, my sweet son ; and my hand leaning upon his head thus, sir, do you see? may it be done }

Pain. Very well, sir.

Hier. Nay, I pray mark me, sir.

Then, sir, would I have you paint me this tree, this very tree: Canst paint a doleful cry?

Pain. Seemingly, sir.

Hier. Nay, it should cry; but all is one.

Well, sir, paint me a youth run thro' and thro' with villains' swords hanging upon this tree.

Canst thou draw a murd'rer?

Pain. I'll warrant you, sir; I have the pattern of the most notorious villains that ever lived in all Spain.

Hier. O, let them be worse, worse: stretch thine art,

And let their beards be of Judas's own color,

And let their eye-brows jut over: in any case observe that;
Then, sir, after some violent noise,

Bring me forth in my shirt and my gown under my arm, with
my torch in my hand, and my sword rear'd up thus,—
And with these words; What noise is this? who calls Hieronimo ?
May it be done?

Pain. Yea, sir.

Hier. Well, sir, then bring me forth, bring me thro' alley and alley, still with a distracted countenance going along, and let my hair heave up my night-cap.

Let the clouds scowl, make the moon dark, the stars extinct, the winds blowing, the bells tolling, the owls shrieking, the toads croaking, the minutes jarring, and the clock striking twelve.

And then at last, sir, starting, behold a man hanging, and tot. t'ring, and tott'ring, as you know the wind will wave a man, and I with a trice to cut him down.

And looking upon him by the advantage of my torch, find it to be my son Horatio.

There you may show a passion, there you may show a passion. Draw me like old Priam of Troy, crying, the house is a fire, the house is a fire; and the torch over my head; make me curse, make me rave, make me cry, make me mad, make me well again, make me curse hell, invocate, and in the end leave me in a trance, and so forth.

Pain. And is this the end?

Hier. O no, there is no end: the end is death and madness; And I am never better than when I am mad;

Then methinks I am a brave fellow;

Then I do wonders; but reason abuseth me;
And there's the torment, there's the hell.

And last, sir, bring me to one of the murderers;
Were he as strong as Hector,

Thus would I tear and drag him up and down.

(He beats the Painter in.)

[These scenes, which are the very salt of the old play (which without them is but a caput mortuum, such another piece of flatness as Locrine), Hawkins, in his republication of this tragedy, has thrust out of the text into the notes: as omitted in the Second Edition, “printed for Ed. Allde, amended of such gross blunders as passed in the first:" and thinks them to have beer foisted in by the players.—A late discovery at Dulwich Col· lege has ascertained that two sundry payments were made to Ben Jonson by the Theatre for furnishing additions to Hieronimo. See last edition of Shakspeare by Reed. There is nothing in the undoubted plays of Jonson which would authorize us to suppose that he could have supplied the scenes in question. I should suspect the agency of some “more potent spirit." Webster might have furnished them. They are full of that wild solemn preternatural cast of grief which bewilders us in the Duchess of Malfy.]

THE LOVE OF KING DAVID AND FAIr bethsabe, WITH THE TRAGEDY OF ABSALOM. BY GEORGE PEELE.

Bethsabe, with her maid, bathing. She sings: and David sits above, viewing her.

The Song.

Hor sun, cool fire, temper'd with sweet air,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair:
Shine sun, burn fire, breathe air and ease me,
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me;
Shadow (my sweet nurse) keep me from burning,
Make not my glad cause, cause of mourning.
Let not my beauty's fire
Enflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wandereth lightly.

Bethsabe. Come gentle Zephyr trick'd with those perfumes That erst in Eden sweetened Adam's love,

And stroke my bosom with the silken fan:
This shade (sun-proof) is yet no proof for thee,
Thy body smoother than this waveless spring,
And purer than the substance of the same,
Can creep through that his* lances cannot pierce.
Thou and thy sister soft and sacred Air,
Goddess of life, and governess of health,
Keeps every fountain fresh and arbor sweet ;
No brazen gate her passage can repulse,
Nor bushy thicket bar thy subtle breath.
Then deck thee with thy loose delightsome robes,
And on thy wings bring delicate perfumes,

To play the wantons with us through the leaves.

David. What tunes, what words, what looks, what wonders

pierce

My soul, incensed with a sudden fire!

What tree, what shade, what spring, what paradise,

Enjoys the beauty of so fair a dame!

Fair Eva, plac'd in perfect happiness,

Lending her praise-notes to the liberal heavens,
Struck with the accents of Arch-angels' tunes,
Wrought not more pleasure to her husband's thoughts,
Than this fair woman's words and notes to mine.
Moy that sweet plain that bears her pleasant weight,
Be still enamell'd with discolor'd flowers;

That precious fount bear sand of purest gold;
And for the pebble, let the silver streams
That pierce earth's bowels to maintain the source,
Play upon rubies, sapphires, chrysolites ;
The brim let be imbrac'd with golden curls

Of moss that sleeps with sound the waters make
For joy to feed the fount with their recourse;
Let all the grass that beautifies her bower
Bear manna every morn instead of dew;
Or let the dew be sweeter far than that

• The sun's rays.