Enter Hieronimo.
Hieronimo.
Where shall I run to breathe abroad my woes,
My woes, whose weight hath wearied the earth?
Or mine exclaims, that have surcharg'd the air
With ceaseless plaints for my deceased son?
The blust'ring winds, conspiring with my words,
At my lament have mov'd the leafless trees,
Disrob'd the meadows of their flower'd green,
Made mountains march with spring-tides[183] of my tears,
And broken through the brazen gates of hell.
Yet still tormented is my tortur'd soul
With broken sighs and restless passions,
That winged mount; and (hovering in the air)
Beat[184] at the windows of the brightest heavens,
Soliciting for justice and revenge:
But they are plac'd in those imperial heights,
Where, countermur'd with walls of diamond,
I find the place impregnable; and they
Resist my woes, and give my words no way.
Enter Hangman with a letter.
Hangman.
O lord, sir: God bless you, sir! the man, sir, Petergad, sir, he that was so full of merry conceits——
Hieronimo.
Hangman.
O lord, sir, he went the wrong way; the fellow had a fair commission to the contrary. Sir, here is his passport; I pray you, sir, we have done him wrong.