Tell me no more: O monstrous homicides!
Since neither piety nor pity moves
The king to justice or compassion,
I will revenge myself upon this place,
Where thus they murder'd[295] my beloved son.
Down with these branches and these loathsome boughs
Of this unfortunate and fatal pine:
Down with them, Isabella: rent them up;
And burn the roots from whence the rest is sprung.
I will not leave a root, a stalk, a tree,
A bough, a branch, a blossom, nor a leaf,
No, not an herb within this garden-plot.
Accursed complot of my misery!
Fruitless for ever may this garden be,
Barren the earth, and blissless[296] whosoever
Imagines not to keep it unmanur'd!
An eastern wind commix'd with noisome airs
Shall blast the plants and the young saplings:
The earth with serpents shall be pestered,
And passengers, for fear to be infect,
Shall stand aloof; and (looking at it) tell,
There murder'd died the son of Isabel.
Ay, here he died, and here I him embrace.
See, where his ghost solicits with his wounds,[297]
Revenge on her that should revenge his death.
Hieronimo, make haste to see thy son;
For sorrow and despair hath cited me,
To hear Horatio plead with Rhadamant:
Make haste, Hieronimo; or hold accus'd[298]
Thy negligence in pursuit of their deaths,
Whose hateful wrath bereav'd him of his breath,—
Ha, nay, thou dost delay their deaths,
Forgiv'st the murd'rers of thy noble son,
And none but I bestir me—to no end.
And as I curse this tree from further fruit,
So shall my womb be cursed for his sake;
And with this weapon will I wound the breast,
The hapless breast, that gave Horatio suck.
[She stabs herself.
Enter Hieronimo: he knocks up the curtain.
Enter the Duke of Castile.
Castile.
How now, Hieronimo, where's your[299] fellows,
That you take all this pain?
Hieronimo.
O sir, it is for the author's credit,
To look that all things may go well:
But, good my lord, let me entreat your grace,
To give the king the copy of the play:
This is the argument of what we show.