HIERO. What's here? "The Humble Supplication
Of Don Bazulto for his Murder'd Son."
BAZULTO. Aye, sir.
HIERO. No, sir, it was my murder'd son!
Oh, my son, my son! oh, my son Horatio!
But mine or thine, Bazulto, be content;
Here, take my handkerchief and wipe thine eyes,
Whiles wretched I in thy mishaps may see
The lively portrait of my dying self.
He draweth out a bloody napkin.
O, no; not this! Horatio, this was thine!
And when I dy'd it in thy dearest blood,
This was a token twixt thy soul and me
That of thy death revenged I should be.
But here: take this, and this! what? my purse?
Aye, this and that and all of them are thine;
For all as one are our extremities.
I CIT. Oh, see the kindness of Hieronimo!
II CIT. This gentleness shows him a gentleman.
HIERO. See, see, oh, see thy shame, Hieronimo!
See here a loving father to his son:
Behold the sorrows and the sad laments
That he deliv'reth for his son's decease.
If love's effect so strives in lesser things,
If love enforce such moods in meaner wits,
If love express such power in poor estates,
Hieronimo, as when a raging sea,
Toss'd with the wind and tide, o'er-turneth then
The upper-billows course of waves to keep,
Whilst lesser waters labour in the deep,
Then sham'st thou not, Hieronimo, to neglect
The swift revenge of thy Horatio?
Though on this earth justice will not be found,
I'll down to hell and in this passion
Knock at the dismal gates of Pluto's court,
Getting by force, as once Alcides did,
A troupe of furies and tormenting hags,
To torture Don Lorenzo and the rest.
Yet, lest the triple-headed porter should
Deny my passage to the slimy strand,
The Thracian poet thou shalt counterfeit;
Come on, old father, be my Orpheus;
And, if thou canst no notes upon the harp,
Then sound the burden of thy sore heart's grief
Till we do gain that Proserpine may grant
Revenge on them that murdered my son.
Then will I rent and tear them thus and thus,
Shiv'ring their limbs in pieces with my teeth!
Tears the papers.
I CIT. Oh, sir, my declaration!