Well, sir, then bring me forth, bring me through alley and alley, still with a distracted countenance going along, and let my hair heave up my night-cap. Let the clouds scowl, make the moon dark, the stars extinct, the winds blowing, the bells tolling, the owls shrieking, the toads croaking, the minutes jarring, and the clock striking twelve. And then at last, sir, starting, behold a man hanging, and tott'ring and tott'ring, as you know the wind will wave a man, and I with a trice to cut him down. And looking upon him by the advantage of my torch, find it to be my son Horatio.
There you may a passion, there you may show a passion.
Draw me like old Priam of Troy,
Crying, the house is o' fire, the house is o' fire.
As the torch over thy head; make me curse,
Make me rave, make me cry, make me mad,
Make me well again, make me curse hell,
Invocate, and in the end leave me
In a trance—and so forth.
Painter.
And is this the end?
Hieronimo.
O no, there is no end: the end is death and madness;
As I am never better than when I am mad;
Then methinks I am a brave fellow;
Then I do wonders, but reason abuseth me;
And there's the torment, there's the hell:
At the last, sir, bring me to one of the murderers;
Were he as strong as Hector, thus would I
Tear and drag him up and down.
[He beats the Painter in, then comes out again, with a book in his hand.
Vindicta mihi—
Ay, heaven will be reveng'd of every ill;[227]
Nor will they suffer murder unrepaid:
Then stay, Hieronimo, attend their will:
For mortal men may not appoint their time.[228]
Per scelus semper tutum est sceleribus iter.
Strike, and strike home, where wrong is offer'd thee;
For evils unto ills conductors be,
And death's the worst of resolution;
For he that thinks with patience to contend,
To quiet life his life shall easily end.