Hieronimo.
What, not my son? thou then[249] a fury art,
Sent from the empty kingdom of black night
To summon me to make appearance
Before grim Minos and just Rhadamant,
To plague Hieronimo that is remiss,
And seeks not vengeance for Horatio's death.
Bazulto.
I am a grieved man and not a ghost,
That came for justice for my murder'd son.
Hieronimo.
Ay, now I know thee, now thou nam'st thy son:
Thou art the lively image of my grief;
Within thy face my sorrows I may see:
Thy eyes are gumm'd[250] with tears, thy cheeks are wan,
Thy forehead troubled, and thy muttering lips
Murmur sad words abruptly broken off,
By force of windy sighs thy spirit breathes,
And all this sorrow riseth for thy son:
And selfsame sorrow feel I for my son:
Come in, old man, thou shalt to Isabel:
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 chords, but let us now be gone,
For with a cord Horatio was slain. [Exeunt.
Enter King of Spain, the Duke, Viceroy, and Lorenzo, Balthazar, Don Pedro, and Bell'-Imperia.
King.
Go, brother, 'tis the Duke of Castile's cause;
Salute the Viceroy in our name.