HIERO. But let me look on my Horatio:
Sweet boy, how art thou chang'd in death's black shade!
Had Proserpine no pity on thy youth,
But suffer'd thy fair crimson-colour'd spring
With wither'd winter to be blasted thus?
Horatio, thou are older than thy father:
Ah, ruthless father, that favour thus transforms.
BA. Ah, my good lord, I am not your young son.
HIE. What! not my son? thou then a Fury art
Sent from the empty kingdom of black night
To summon me to make appearance
Before grim Minos and just Radamant,
To plague Hieronimo, that is remiss
And seeks not vengeance for Horatio's death.
BA. I am a grieved man, and not a ghost,
That came for justice for my murder'd son.
HIE. Aye, now I know thee, now thou namest thy son;
Thou art the lively image of my grief:
Within thy face my sorrows I may see;
The eyes are dimm'd with tears, thy cheeks are wan,
Thy forehead troubled, and thy mutt'ring lips
Murmur sad words abruptly broken off
By force of windy sighs thy spirit breathes;
And all this sorrow riseth for thy son,
And self-same sorrow feel I for my son.
Come in, old man; thou shalt to Isabell.
Lean on my arm; I thee, thou me, shalt stay;
And thou and I and she will sing a song,
Three parts in one, but all of discords fram'd,—
Talk not of cords!—but let us now be gone,—
For with a cord Horatio was slain.
Exeunt.
[ACT III. SCENE 14.]
[The Spanish court.]
Enter KING OF SPAIN, the DUKE, VICEROY, and
LORENZO, BALTHAZAR, DON PEDRO, and BEL-IMPERIA.
KING. Go, brother, 'tis the Duke of Castile's cause;
Salute the viceroy in our name.