A letter falleth.
What's here? a letter? Tush, it is not so!
A letter for Hieronimo.
[Reads] "For want of ink receive this bloody writ.
Me hath my hapless brother hid from thee.
Revenge thyself on Balthazar and him,
For these were they that murdered thy son.
Hieronimo, revenge Horatio's death,
And better fare then Bel-imperia doth!"—
What means this unexpected miracle?
My son slain by Lorenzo and the prince?
What cause had they Horatio to malign?
Or what might move thee, Bel-imperia,
To accuse thy brother, had he been the mean?
Hieronimo, beware! thou art betray'd,
And to entrap thy life this train is laid.
Advise thee therefore, be not credulous:
This is devised to endanger thee,
That thou, by this, Lorenzo should'st accuse.
And he, for thy dishonour done, should draw
Thy life in question and thy name in hate.
Dear was the life of my beloved son,
And of his death behooves me be aveng'd:
Then hazard not thine own, Hieronimo,
But live t'effect thy resolution!
I therefore will by circumstances try
What I can gather to confirm this writ,
And, harken near the Duke of Castile's house,
Close if I can with Bel-imperia,
To listen more, but nothing to bewray.
Enter PEDRINGANO.
Now, Pedringano!
PED. Now, Hieronimo!
HIERO. Where's thy lady?
PED. I know not; here's my lord.
Enter LORENZO.
LOR. How now, who's this? Hieronimo?
HIERO. My lord.