Hieronimo.
Indeed, Isabella, we do nothing here;
I do not cry, ask Pedro and Jaques:
Not I, indeed—we are merry, very merry.
Isabella.
How? be merry here, be merry here?
Is not this the place, and this the very tree,
Where my Horatio died, where he was murder'd?
Hieronimo.
Was—do not say what: let her weep it out.
This was the tree; I set it of a kernel:
And when our hot Spain could not let it grow,
But that the infant and the human sap
Began to wither, duly twice a morning
Would I be sprinkling it with fountain-water.
At last it grew and grew, and bore and bore;
Till at the length it grew a gallows, and
Did bear our son: it bore thy fruit and mine:
[One knocks within at the door.
O wicked, wicked plant! See who knocks there.
Pedro.