Hieronimo.
Let it be burnt; night is a murd'rous slut,
That would not have her treasons to be seen:
And yonder pale-faced Hecate there, the moon,
Doth give consent to that is done in darkness!
And all those stars that gaze upon her face,
Are aglets[224] on her sleeve, pins on her train;
And those that should be powerful and divine,
Do sleep in darkness, when they most should shine.
Pedro.
Provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting words;
The heavens are gracious, and your miseries
And sorrow make you speak, you know not what.
Hieronimo.
Villain, thou li'st, and thou dost nought
But tell me I am mad! thou li'st, I am not mad!
I know thee to be Pedro, and he Jaques.
I'll prove it to thee; and, were I mad, how could I?
Where was she the same night, when my Horatio was murder'd?
She should have shone: search thou the book;
Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there was a kind of grace
That I know—nay, I do know—had the murd'rer seen him,
His weapon would have fallen, and cut the earth,
Had he been fram'd of nought but blood and death:
Alack! when mischief doth it knows not what,
What shall we say to mischief?
Enter Isabella.
Isabella.
Dear Hieronimo, come in a-doors,
O, seek not means so to increase thy sorrow.